1. Logan

CHAPTER 1

LOGAN

I'm settled on a cracked leather stool, the weak light in this dive bar barely enough to make out the label on the bottle in my hand. It's the kind of place that reeks of desperation, stale dreams, and underhanded transactions. The kind of place where the paint peels like sunburnt skin and the jukebox croons forgotten hits from a bygone era. The kind of place people who fall from grace—yours truly included—visit to obtain information from those who won’t do it in broad daylight because they are operating between the lawful and the unlawful.

The bottle sweats in my grip, cold and indifferent to my thoughts and emotions.

A card—cream with embossed gold lettering—feels alien against the lining of my coat. I fish it out and study it—an invitation to a dance with ghosts from my past. Fifteen years. I trace the raised print, a tactile reminder of what I've lost. Class of so and so. A hollow soundless chuckle escapes me.

Most of them probably have their own families now. And are successful. I heard Theo Bennett moved to LA to pursue his acting career. He even scored some TV roles. Miranda is a literature teacher in Henderson. She married Xander Clarke, who was in pro football for a while until his knee injury. He’s a coach now at some university. River Skyes went to Latin America for humanitarian work. And of course, there’s Connie. She’s a mom now, something she always wanted to be. Too bad she’s married to Curtis. But that’s on me. I introduced them.

I wonder what would all these decent people think of their fellow grad becoming a muscle for hire?

The bitterness coils in my gut, a living thing. I was one of them once—a badge, a sense of purpose, until that bust five years ago. Curtis's face flashes before me, his pleading eyes. Asshole.

I shove the memory away.

Anyway, attending makes no sense.

Just as I’m about to ask the bartender for another beer, I see the door swinging open. Frankie Loose Hands makes his entrance. Despite the poor lighting, he spots me immediately and prances over in his characteristically flamboyant way, all street swagger.

I put the card back into hiding and shift my focus to the meeting.

"Logan, my man." Frankie greets me with a toothy grin and drops onto the stool beside me.

"Frankie." My tone is polite, but clipped and wary. People like him are dangerous. He got his name for a reason. "How are you?"

"Can’t complain. You?"

"Same." I don’t want to waste my time on pleasantries and get right down to business. "So, what's the occasion? Why you wanted to see me?"

Frankie wouldn’t have reached out unless he had some good intel lined up. And as much as I don’t like the slimy bastard, his knack for obtaining solid information is invaluable.

His eyes dart around the bar before he leans in. "Heard you might be looking for work again."

"Maybe," I say, noncommittal. There are whispers about Frankie that he’s a snitch playing both sides. But when your options are limited, you don't ask too many questions.

"I know someone’ll snatch you up in a heartbeat. You’re a fucking legend, man," Frankie goes on, waving at the bartender.

"You know, with me, flattery won’t get you far."

"Yeah." Frankie nods.

Two beers appear in front of us. He grabs one and takes a swig.

"Come on. I don’t have all day," I urge him.

"There’s a job that has your name written all over it," he finally spills. "Big fish looking for a personal guard dog. Pays very well."

"Pays very well" piques my interest, but I’m selective. There are gigs I don’t take and people I don’t work for. "Who's the big fish?"

"Someone extremely powerful," Frankie murmurs, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes.

"Who?" I press. This dumb habit of his, pretending he’s acting out some scene in a new Hollywood blockbuster irritates the hell out of me.

"Vlad Solovey," Frankie whispers, the name slithering through the bar like a snake seeking its next target. My hand stills on the bottle, the cold sweat of the glass matching the sudden chill down my spine.

"Solovey?" My voice is steady, but inside, I'm a tightrope walker in a gust of wind. "That's a whole different level of heat, Frankie."

It’s never a boy’s dream to be guarding the criminal elite of the city, especially if all the boy’s ever wanted to do is to serve and protect. Like his father. But life is a funny thing. It never goes the way you want it to go. One split-second decision to protect someone else instead of your own skin, and you’re on the other side of the law, so to speak. And every job chips away at something inside me, but the ends justify the means. Or that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past five years.

Mom's face, gaunt and hopeful, pushes itself into my mind's eye.

"Come on, Logan," Frankie mutters. "Don't be too choosy. The guy's got resources, connections, money to burn. And I mean literally." He grins again. "And he pays like a slot machine on a lucky streak."

"Working for the Russian is like dancing with the devil in a minefield." I set the bottle down, the click of glass on wood punctuating my resolve. "Not interested."

Solovey is the last person I would ever work for, no matter how much he pays. He’s dangerous.

"Hey, don't knock it 'til you try it, yeah? The man's got mad respect in the circles that matter." Frankie's eyes glint, but they're all show, no tell—like the neon lights outside promising dreams that only turn to dust.

"Rumor has it Solovey's tangled up with the cartel," I counter.

"Listen. You don't have to make up your mind right this second, you know? Mull it over a bit, huh?" There’s a pause. "Solovey’s gold could take care of a lot of your... problems." He gulps down his beer, throat bobbing like a buoy at sea. "How about I give you forty-eight hours? Yeah?" Frankie stands, his stool scraping harshly against the floor like a match struck in the dark. "Think about it," he says again before sauntering off and leaving me alone with my thoughts and an unpaid tab for his beer.

The hospital swallows me up as I step inside. A sterile beast with walls the color of old bones. I wade through the fluorescent hum, my boots silent on the linoleum that stretches out like an endless, pallid tongue. The air here is filled with the scent of disinfectant, a futile armor against the undeniable stench of decay and death it can't quite mask.

For each life saved, there’s always a life lost. It’s the way it is and I don’t know which life my family will become today. A dreadful feeling.

I've walked these halls so often I could navigate them blindfolded, but today each step still feels like a march toward an unwinnable war.

I turn the corner and avert my gaze, avoiding looking at the sign that reads Oncology . The denial in me is so strong, I think my behavior is almost childish. But I just can’t deal now, with the inevitability of it all.

I knock gently before I push the door open and enter her ward. I’m a shadow, slipping across the walls, silent and unseen. I don’t want to disturb my mother’s fragile peace.

She’s asleep and I quietly grab a chair and pull it up to her bed.

For a while I just watch her. She’s lost a lot of weight and is a wisp of a woman beneath a mound of bleached sheets. Her chest is rising and falling with the quiet determination of someone fighting a battle only she can see. She's hooked up to machines that beep and breathe almost as if they are an extension of her. And as much as I hate it, I’m grateful we have an opportunity to do this, even without my insurance.

Sometime later, Cecilia McKenna finally opens her eyes and somehow it’s such a relief to see her like this—to see her aware I’m her son, and smiling at me, although weakly.

"Hey, Ma," I say, forcing brightness into my voice, but it feels like shattered glass in my throat.

"Hey, my sweet boy," she whispers.

"How're you holding up?" I pull the chair a little closer, its screech against the floors a blasphemy in the silence.

"Fine, just fine," she insists. "The meds are helping." It's a well-rehearsed lie. I can see the truth etched in the hollows of her cheeks and the translucence of her skin.

"Ma, you don't have to—" I start, but she cuts me off with a faint wave of her hand.

"Let's not talk about me. It’s always the same story. Damn cancer gets me and I fight it off. Granted, every time I beat it, it gets a little piece of me, but I’m okay. Better tell me about your day." Her eyes search mine, seeking a distraction from the white-walled world she's confined within for the time being.

"Same old, Ma," I deflect, knowing my day's dealings are stories too dark for this room. "Just work stuff."

"Anything interesting?" There's a spark of curiosity in her gaze, a remnant of the fierce woman who raised me.

"Nothing worth mentioning," I reply, swallowing the knot of worry lodged in my chest. I can't really tell her about the new job offer, about Vlad Solovey and the path that might lead me further into the abyss. She’s aware of what I do now. But I painted it for her with wide brushstrokes. No unnecessary details. No need to stress her even more.

"Always so secretive," she chides gently, a tired chuckle threading through her words.

"Learned from the best," I quip, earning a smile that lights up her pale face for a moment, a fleeting victory against the lingering gloom.

We talk about nothing and everything—dodging around the elephant in the room, ignoring the IV drip's steady rhythm. As the sun slowly travels toward the horizon, dropping shadows that creep along the floor, the nurse gently reminds me that Mrs. McKenna needs her rest and that I should stop by the doctor’s office before I head out.

My mother’s oncologist's office is nothing like the warmth of my mother's ward. The room is a cold bubble where hope and dread sit side by side. The doctor’s in his chair and is staring at me from across his table. He's got that look on his face, the one I've come to associate with more bad news. His words fall like cold rain, each syllable a droplet chilling my already frigid resolve.

"Logan, we've done what we can surgically," Dr. Patel begins, his voice measured, "but there are still cancerous cells that are concerning. We believe another round of chemotherapy is necessary."

"Another round?" The words splinter in my throat. "I thought... after the surgery, she would be...in the clear."

"Your mother is a fighter," he cuts in, not unkindly. "She's beaten this before. With chemotherapy, her chances improve significantly."

I rub a palm over my face, feeling the grit of weariness in my eyes. "But she's not the same as she was. She’s not young. All these treatments... they're tearing her apart."

"Unfortunately, cancer doesn't relent because we grow older," he replies, his gaze steady. "Chemo is our best option for attacking the remaining cells aggressively."

"Aggressively..." I echo hollowly, staring at a point over his shoulder. Aggression is something I understand—fighting, surviving. But this enemy is a phantom, untouchable, invisible, and I'm just a man with fists that can't protect the one person who matters.

"Remember, Logan," the doctor says gently, "it's ultimately Cecilia's decision whether to undergo treatment or not. We recommend it, but we also respect the patient's wishes."

"Of course." My voice is a rumble from deep within, a boulder rolling down a hill, unstoppable, crushing whatever lies in its path.

"Give it some thought," the doctor suggests, standing up. "Discuss it with her when she's feeling a little better." His gaze locks on mine, serious, and I feel like a little boy again.

"Will do," I mutter, even though inside I'm screaming, begging for a different answer, a miracle cure that doesn't exist.

"Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to attend to," he says, circling the table.

It’s my cue to leave, I realize. "Thank you, doctor," is all I manage to say before exiting the office.

Out in the hallway, I draw a deep breath and think about running away, think about some faraway land where my mother could be healthy and where I can be free. Sadly, it’s all it is—wishful thinking.

Sooner or later, I have to confront real life.

At the billing office, when the girl hands me the surgery bill, the numbers on paper blur into a monstrous figure, as if taunting me. I lean in, squinting, hoping I've read it wrong. But the total doesn't change—it looms, a mountain of debt I can't climb unless I land a good gig ASAP.

I clear my throat, feeling embarrassed. "Can I... set up a payment plan?" My voice is gruff and wobbly.

"Of course, Mr. McKenna. We can do monthly payments of…" the girl behind the counter offers, her voice trailing off as her fingers fly across the keyboard to produce the information she needs to supply. She finally gives me a number.

"That’ll work," I manage, the sentence like gravel in my mouth.

Several minutes later, when all the technicalities are dealt with, I offer my final "thank you" and turn away, feeling the digits branded on the back of my skull, searing through my thoughts.

With each step on the way out, the weight on my shoulders grows heavier, dragging me down. It's not just the bills; it's the upcoming chemo, the suffering, the endless cycle of pain and fading hope.

I need money—more than what any relatively safe job can offer. And there, in the darkest corner of my mind, the offer from Frankie resurfaces, whispering promises of relief. Vlad Solovey. The son of the notorious Russian mafioso, who met his end last year on the VIP terrace of Orion, the latest monolith of steel and glass on the Strip. The name alone is enough to send half of Vegas running scared. But desperation makes strange bedfellows.

It’s your ticket out of this hole, Logan , my gut whispers as I exit the building.

Outside, under the blanket of the Nevada sky, I pull out my phone with a trembling hand. My mother's life, my conscience, the law—all hanging in the balance as I consider diving into the underworld I might never climb out of.

I hesitate on the way to my car, finger hovering over Frankie’s contact like a leaf in the wind. When I approach my Land Rover, a ride I could never allow myself on a cop’s salary, I’ve made up my mind. I climb inside and slam the door a little too hard. Then I crank up the AC, thinking that even this car—that I bought with the payout after my first major gig and when Ma was in remission—could be gone in a heartbeat.

There’s no patience for indecisions or the luxury of conscience. There’s just the need to survive, to protect whatever’s left of my family.

Jaw clenched, I dial Frankie.

"Hey, it’s Logan," I say, voice tight but firm.

"Logan?" The line crackles. There’s a mock surprise in his tone when he resumes talking. "Damn. Didn't expect to hear from ya so soon, man. At least not until tomorrow. You’re the kinda guy who likes to think. Ya know what I mean, right?" He laughs on the line.

"Cut the crap, Frankie." I sink deeper into the cool leather of my seat, feeling utterly exhausted. "I want to check out the job we talked about. For the Russian. Put me in touch with the right person."

A shiver works its way down my spine, but whether it's from the AC or what I'm about to step into, I can't tell.