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This isn’t what I was sent to uncover. The Blue Note crew is supposed to be a threat, not…this.
On the street below, Kain pulls the driver to his feet, blood and fear coating the man as he sways between consciousness and collapse. Petra helps the other girls from the van, offering quiet reassurance as she directs them toward the SUV they parked across the street.
The driver spits blood onto the pavement, his words slurring as he addresses Orien. “You have no idea who you’re messing with. We had guarantees. Someone fed us the route. We were supposed to be protected.”
The last traces of softness leave Orien as he passes the crying girl to Petra with gentle care before turning back to the driver.
“Who?” The driver flinches at the threat woven through the single word. “Who guaranteed your route?”
The driver shakes his head, fresh blood running from his nose. “I don’t know names. Just that we had protection.”
Orien’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Kain.”
Kain finishes tightening the zip tie around the driver’s wrists and raises his head.
“Find out who this mystery guarantor is,” Orien says. His attention returns to the office building. “The last thing we need is another Tony situation, where Omegas are being trafficked off our streets.”
Our streets. The phrase echoes in my head as I take in the scene below. Nothing so grand as a territory. Just their neighborhood to protect.
Ash had tried to tell me what kind of work the Blue Note does when the boys and girls president came in looking for help, but I hadn’t understood. Now I do.
Or, at least, I’m starting to.
This is what Orien does. What the Blue Note stands for.
And I’ve been sent to destroy it.
My hand moves to the microphone case, where the small recording device sits, capturing every word, every moment of what I’m witnessing. Evidence that can be used as leverage to take down these people.
As Orien kneels beside the smallest girl, helping her into the warm SUV, I hit stop.
Hours later, my hands shake with cold as I fit the key into my apartment lock. It takes three tries before it slides home, the tumbler clicking as I turn it.
The door swings open on silent hinges, and I step into the darkness, not bothering with the lights as I cross to the small desk in the corner.
The apartment is as I left it, the bed made, laptop closed on the desk, and kitchen counter wiped clean. Nothing out of place. Nothing personal. The perfect blank slate for Lee Esposito, freelance graphic designer, new to Ashford Heights.
No one would step into this place and think of Levon Vartanian.
I drop into the desk chair, my body heavy with exhaustion. My clothes reek of perfumes and spilled alcohol from the Blue Note, layered with the tang of sweat from the rooftop. I should shower. Should eat. Should do anything except what I’m about to do.
But the mission comes first. Always.
I plug the small recording device into my laptop, watching as the recording transfers to the secure drive. The screen fills with the grainy image of the alley, the van, the terrified girls.
My heart thumps hard when Orien steps into frame.
On the small screen, the controlled violence of his movements is evident.
My stomach tightens, not from disgust, but with recognition. I’ve seen this before. Done it myself, though never with Orien’s casual efficiency.
I minimize the video and open a blank document, my fingers hovering over the keys as I stare at the blinking cursor.
RE: Blue Note Operation - Initial Assessment
The words sit, black and accusing. I backspace, deleting Initial Assessment and replacing it with Surveillance Report.
Better.
