We didn't go back to the apartment.Damien didn't even mention breakfast.
Instead, we drove straight to the docks, where the morning fog hung low over the water like a dirty sheet, muffling sound and hiding the shapes of hulking cargo containers.
The air was heavy with the smell of salt and diesel. Somewhere in the distance, a gull screamed—a sharp, ugly sound that matched the knot forming in my gut.
Damien finally spoke. "The name Hale gave us—Marcos Vega. He runs muscle for the Ortega cartel. Carries himself like he's untouchable."
"Let me guess," I said. "We're here to convince him otherwise?"
Damien's eyes flicked to me. "No. You are."
I turned toward him slowly. "Me?"
"You want in? Then this is where you stop being an observer and start being an asset. He's going to be here, in one of these containers. You'll make him talk. If he doesn't… you'll make sure he can't talk to anyone else ever again."
The words hit like ice water down my spine.I didn't respond. I couldn't.
Damien parked in the shadow of a rusted crane and handed me a pistol. Compact. Matte black. It felt heavier than it should in my hand.
"Don't overthink it," he said. "Fear will eat you alive faster than a bullet."
We moved quickly between stacks of shipping containers, Damien leading the way until we reached a faded red one with its door cracked open. He nodded for me to go in first.
Inside, the light was dim, filtered through the narrow slit of the open door. The air smelled of oil and stale sweat. And there he was—Marcos Vega—sitting on a crate, his hands zip-tied, his head lifting slowly at the sound of footsteps.
His eyes locked on mine. Dark. Cold. Calculating.Even bound, he radiated danger.
"Who the hell are you?" he rasped.
I didn't answer. Damien stayed outside, leaning casually against the container's frame, watching. Waiting.
I took a step closer, the pistol trembling ever so slightly in my grip.
"You've been moving Ortega's product through this port," I said. "I need names. Routes. Drop points."
Marcos laughed, low and humorless. "You think I'm afraid of you, little girl?"
The laugh echoed in the metal box, making my pulse spike.
I glanced toward Damien. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just gave me the smallest nod, as if to say your move.
I swallowed, forcing the barrel of the gun up until it was inches from Marcos's face. "Last chance."
He leaned forward, until the cold steel touched his forehead. His smile didn't falter. "Do it. You won't."
That was the moment something in me broke—or maybe something in me woke up.
I squeezed the trigger.
The sound was deafening in the confined space, and Marcos jerked backward, the crate toppling with him. My ears rang, my vision tunneled, and for a second I couldn't breathe.
Then I realized—I hadn't killed him.
The bullet had torn through his shoulder, spraying the wall with a dark, wet arc. His scream was raw, primal, and it vibrated through my bones.
Blood ran down his arm in a slick river as he writhed, spitting curses.
"Now," Damien's voice cut through the ringing in my ears, calm as ever. "Ask him again."
I did. And this time, Marcos answered. Every word spilling out between gasps of pain.
When it was over, Damien walked in, crouched beside him, and whispered something I couldn't hear. Then he slit the man's throat with the same casualness as if he were cutting a ribbon.
The blood sprayed hot across my boots. I didn't move. Didn't flinch.
Damien stood, wiped the blade on Vega's shirt, and looked at me. "Congratulations. You're in."
We left him there, the fog swallowing the scene as we walked away.
I didn't realize my hands were still shaking until we were back in the SUV, the pistol resting heavy in my lap.
Somewhere inside me, a door had closed. And I knew—it wasn't going to open again.