Page 6 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

The encrypted phone buzzes.

"Races are tomorrow night." Sasha's accent cuts through the quiet. "Sterling Black needs a companion."

"Send details."

"Already done."

Click. Brief and professional, the way all our exchanges are.

The races. Where Alexei's people move product. Where Gideon Lynch, who I now know is Jax's former mentor, runs the show. Where Lynch's former students sometimes appear, especially ones with money to burn.

He might be there.

I pull up Sterling Black's file on another monitor. Arms dealer, collector of beautiful things. The kind of man who brings trophy dates to illegal races while conducting business.

If he still has connections. If the guilt doesn't keep him away. If—

My fingers drum against the desk, a nervous habit I thought I'd trained out of myself years ago. The information about Tommy's accident plays on repeat in my mind. Jax trying to save his friend. Failing. Living with that weight.

Stop. This is about Alexei. Use tomorrow to identify his network.

But I'm already imagining it: Jax seeing me in burgundy silk on Sterling's arm. The way his jaw would clench. The way those blue-green eyes would darken.

You're losing control.

I pour vodka from the freezer, the bottle sweating in my grip. The alcohol burns, but not enough. Nothing burns enough to cauterize whatever he lit inside me.

I need to see him before tomorrow. Need to understand what I'm dealing with. Need to—

Stalk him. That's what you mean. You want to stalk him.

Downtown LA swallows me at noon. I dress forgettably. Black jeans, gray hoodie, sneakers that make no sound. Hair pulled back, no makeup.

Invisible.

The Winchester Foundation art auction is at the Museum of Contemporary Art. I scout the perimeter, identifying entry points, security positions, delivery areas. The loading dock on the side street. That's where they'll stage vehicles.

There's an office building across from the loading dock. Five stories, multiple businesses, including two that show "For Lease" signs in the windows. Third floor, corner unit. Perfect angle.

The building's security is laughable. One guard reading his phone. I wait until he goes for coffee, slip past his desk, take the stairs. The third-floor hallway is empty. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead.

The empty office suite still has furniture—dusty desks, dead plants, a printer with no paper. The corner office has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the loading dock. I can see everything from here.

I pull out my compact binoculars from my bag. Military grade, bought years ago for a job in Beirut. The magnification isperfect. I can see individual faces, read lips if they're facing the right direction.

2:30. I settle into position, back against the wall, binoculars steady.

2:45. Movement below. Security sweep of the area.

2:55. Two black SUVs driving down the block in formation.

2:58. SUVs arrive like a military operation.

The lead SUV parks at an angle that provides cover. The driver's door opens and Cole Tanaka emerges, the Asian man with broad shoulders and defined arms, scarred hands visible even from here. He scans the area with professional thoroughness.

Passenger side—and my breath catches.

Fuck.