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"What do you need me to do?"

The question hit me in the chest. She wasn't asking to come along. Wasn't demanding to be part of the action. She was asking how she could help.

"I need you to stay safe. Stay at the new location with Sophie. Don't answer the door for anyone except me. Keep the burner phone on you."

"Code."

"I know you want to help. I know you hate sitting on the sidelines." I crossed to her and cupped her face. "But if something happens to you while I'm out hunting Eddie, I won't be able to function. I need to know you're safe. Can you give me that?"

Her jaw tightened. Then she nodded.

"Okay. But you come back to me. No heroics, no stupid risks. You come back."

"I will."

Katherine went to Sophie’s room to wake her. We packed quickly. Everything we had fit into the laptop bag and Katherine's and Sophie’s purses. The life of people running from Russian mobsters.

I drove us to a cash-only motel in San Fernando Valley, paid for two rooms for three days upfront with bills from my emergency stash. The clerk didn't blink, didn't ask questions. This was that kind of place.

The room was awful. Stained carpet, questionable bedspread, bathroom that smelled like industrial cleaner trying to hide something worse.

Katherine looked around and laughed. "Well, this is romantic."

"Yeah, I really know how to show a girl a good time."

She turned to me, expression serious. "Code, I don't care about the room. I care about you coming back alive."

I kissed her. Hard and fast and full of everything I couldn't say.

"Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone."

"I know."

"I'll call you every two hours."

"Code, go. Find Eddie before Viktor does."

I left her standing in that shitty motel room and climbed back into my rental car.

Krause's contact lived in Gardena, in a house that looked like every other house on the block. Krause's truck was already in the driveway.

I knocked twice, paused, knocked once. The door opened.

Krause grinned. "Welcome to the gun show."

The living room had been converted into an armory. Rifles, pistols, body armor, tactical gear. Everything you'd need to start a small war.

"Jesus, Krause. You rob a National Guard depot?"

"Buddy of mine runs a private security company. Owes me favors." He handed me a tactical vest with Level III plates. "Bratva boys like to shoot center mass. This'll keep you breathing."

I stripped off my jacket and pulled the vest on over my t-shirt. The plates pressed against my cracked ribs and I couldn't stop the hiss of pain.

"You good?" Krause's eyes narrowed.

"I'll live,” I told him. “What about you? The doc give you anything?”

“Enough to keep me moving. I can share if you want. You sure you can do this?" Krause asked.