Page 51 of Velvet Betrayal
“It’s invite-only. Darknet, or a burner, or through a guy you meet at the back of a used-tire place and never see again.” He was panting, blood beading at the base of his skull. “Nobody even picks a target anymore, man. You just upload a photo and a price and hope someone’s close enough to take the job. It’s the fucking gig economy. You want a piece of advice? Take the girl and run. You already know this doesn’t end in one piece, not for you, not for anyone in your orbit. They got all the dirt, and they always have.”
“I don’t want your advice. Give me your phone.”
He hesitated, then handed me the phone—burner, scratched screen, blood on the edges. No passcode. No contacts. Just a grid of basic apps and one folder marked “Docs,” holding a single recovered file.
The Crew.
Looked like fantasy football. Blue-hex icon, faux-legit branding. I opened it and scrolled. No GPS, no names—just open contracts. Photos. Locations. Payouts. Anonymous and clean.
Ruby’s face was third from the top. Grainy image from her last press conference, cropped tight at the podium. The contract was scheduled for tomorrow—11 a.m. at Copley Square. Public target, extra for proximity. Bonus if caught on camera.
Fuck…fuck.That was when she was supposed to be sworn in.
I showed him the screen. “This wasn’t the hit.”
“Nope,” he said, grinning through broken lips. “I was early.”
“Trying to jump the line?”
He shrugged, winced. “Clock doesn’t matter if you get the job done. First blood still counts, even if it’s off-books. Makes you look hungry.”
I crouched, voice low. “Text them. Say the job’s burned. Say she’s protected. Say to drop it and go quiet.”
“You serious?”
“You want to limp home, or not?”
He typed it out fast—short, efficient. He didn’t look at me while he sent it.
“You’re gonna regret this,” he said.
“I will not. You work for me now.”
“What?”
“Here’s how it’s going to work,” I said, squatting to meet his bloody stare. As I did, I texted myself from his phone, then added myself as a contact. “You take a job on Ruby, or me, or anyone else I name—you tip me off first. Doesn’t matter if the job’s locked or just a whisper. You get me early, and I’ll pay you double what the Crew posts.”
“You think I’m some kind of snitch?” He tried for disdain, but his eyes kept darting away from mine, and his fingers were trembling.
“There’s nothing left but snitches and ghosts in this city, man. Pick a side and cash out.” I tossed his phone down the alley at his feet, then kicked his thigh—not hard enough to break, just enough to make sure he’d remember. “I’m going to send you a list. You tip me, I keep you alive. You blow it, I finish what I started. Understand?”
He massaged his busted hand and muttered, “You’re fucking crazy.”
“I’m Irish,” I said. “It’s genetic.”
He barked out a bitter laugh.
“My number is in your phone,” I went on. “I expect a check-in every single day. Or I will find you. And I will kill you. Do you understand?”
He nodded, jaw clenched.
Then he limped off, hands jammed in his armpits, disappearing down the far end of the alley…back to his partner and the federal SUV with what I had to assume were fake plates.
Jesus…this city really was going to hell.
I waited until the echo of his footsteps died, then took off after Ruby, heart still slamming in my chest. It was only then I realized how much blood was on my shirt, how my brain was throbbing, how the old wound at my ribs had split open again.
The pain, which I’d been ignoring until now, started to flicker at the edges of my vision, and the cold was threading up through my shoes. But I couldn’t stop, not when Ruby was still out there—still counting on me, whether she’d admit it or not, to cover her blind spot. I wiped my face, pressed my sleeve to the worst of the bleeding, and staggered out of the alley.
