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“You might want back up,” Abe says, his voice tinny through the line. “We can be prepared to intervene if necessary, though it’s better if we maintain distance initially. If the Ivanovs are there and spot us too soon, they may accelerate their plans.”

“Whatever those plans are,” Lena says with a sigh. “We have no idea what to expect. Might just be a dive bar for sailors.”

“But you know better than that,” he surmises.

“Yes. My women’s intuition tells me so. Well, if things go south, we’ll signal to you somehow.”

They discuss logistics for another few minutes before Lena hangs up, turning back to me with an even heavier exhale. “So much for our day of peace.”

I open my arms to her, and she returns willingly to the warmth of the bed, the warmth of us. “We still have hours,” I remind her. “And we’re going to need our strength for tonight.”

Her smile turns mischievous. “Is that your professional assessment, detective?”

“Absolutely,” I say with mock seriousness. “And I think we need to conserve energy by staying right here, in bed.”

Her laughter is swallowed by my kiss, and we lose ourselves in each other once more, making the most of the time we have left before nightfall brings us back to the darkness that waits beyond this room.

The neon signsof Shanghai Red casts a garish glow over the waterfront, reflecting in the oily black water of San Pedro Bay. The place is a sailor’s bar, rough and direct, promising cheap booze and questionable company to men just off ships from across the Pacific.

Lena and I approach cautiously, her arm linked through mine in a casual pose that belies our alertness. She’s dressed simply—dark trousers, white polka-dot blouse, hair pulled back beneath a scarf. I’m in a navy suit, the closest thing to evening wear I had in my go-bag. Already we stand out amongst the rougher patrons roaming the streets.

“Remember,” she murmurs as we near the entrance, “we’re just looking for a good time. Nothing suspicious.”

I nod, adjusting my posture to seem more relaxed, less observant. It’s a skill I honed during the war—the ability to see everything while appearing to notice nothing.

Inside, Shanghai Red is exactly what the exterior promised. Smoke hangs thick beneath the low ceiling, mingling with the scents of beer, sweat, and cheap perfume. Sailors and dockworkers cluster around tables and lean against the long bar, while women with hard eyes and practiced smiles circulate among them.

We make our way to the bar, where I order whiskeys for us both. The bartender, a barrel-chested man with forearms like hams, slides the drinks across without comment. Lena sips hers, her eyes scanning the room with casual efficiency.

“See anything?” I ask, voice pitched just above the noise of the crowd.

She shakes her head slightly. “Not yet. Margaret made it seem like you could get to the Crimson Clover through here, but I don’t see how.”

I let my gaze drift across the room, cataloging exits, studying faces without appearing to. Nothing stands out initially—just the usual crowd you’d expect in a place like this.

Then I notice something. A door at the far end of the bar, partially obscured by a beaded curtain. Every now and then, someone approaches it—never in groups, always alone. They speak briefly to a man stationed beside it, then slip through.

“There,” I murmur to Lena, indicating the door with a subtle nod. “That doesn’t lead to the bathroom or kitchen. People go in but they don’t come out.”

She follows my gaze, understanding immediately. “Good eye. Shall we?”

We finish our drinks and make our way casually toward the door, Lena’s hand resting lightly on my arm. The man guarding it straightens as we approach—tall, broad-shouldered, with the bland, emotionless face of professional muscle.

“Evening,” I say pleasantly. “We’re looking for the clover.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Private club. Members only.”

Lena steps forward slightly, her eyes meeting his. I feel the subtle change in the air as she exerts her compulsion. “We were invited,” she says, her voice taking on that honeyed quality that seems to bypass conscious thought. “By Katya Ivanov.”

The guard’s face remains impassive for a moment, then his eyes glaze slightly. “Of course. Go right in.”

He steps aside, holding the beaded curtain for us. Beyond it, a narrow staircase descends into darkness, lit only by small red lights along the wall.

“Stay alert,” Lena whispers as we start down the stairs. “Something feels off.”

“You don’t say.”

There’s a tension in the air, a heaviness that presses against my senses. The scent of blood reaches me—faint but unmistakable, mixed with perfume and some other chemical odor I can’t identify.