The road toward the Los Angeles Harbor District felt like a descent through an isolated circle of hell. The glittering lights of skyscrapers slowly faded in the rearview mirror, replaced by the towering shadows of container cranes that loomed like iron dinosaur skeletons beneath a pale moon. Smooth urban asphalt gave way to cracked concrete that smelled of salt, diesel fuel, and rotting fish. Ray drove his matte black Dodge Charger with the calm of a surgeon performing a delicate operation. Here, among a labyrinth of containers and illegal storage warehouses, a single navigational mistake could mean running into corrupt customs patrols or worse, crossing into the territory of local gangs who enjoyed stripping visiting cars along with their drivers. The navigation system on the dashboard chimed softly, cutting through the cabin’s silence, filled only by a Chopin nocturne. DESTINATION REACHED: WAREHOUSE 4. Ray eased off the accelerator. His headlights washed over a r

Van Nuys Airport slowly disappeared in the rearview mirror, leaving only the fading trail of jet exhaust from a private plane that had just lifted Isabella beyond the reach of American law. Ray did not wait for a thank you. The moment the aircraft door closed, his job was done. The night was still long, and Ray’s wallet was nowhere near full enough to satisfy the appetite of the hospital where Agatha lay. 02:15 a.m. The Car Gow app on Ray’s phone blinked again. Not gold this time, but a deep, pulsing red, the mark of extreme risk. CLIENT: “MARCO THE BUTCHER” (Sinaloa Cartel, LA Branch). LOCATION: Fish Cold Storage Warehouse, San Pedro. DESTINATION: “Dead Man’s Drop” rendezvous point, Long Beach. FARE: $35,000 + Variable Risk Bonus (paid after drop). Ray let out a long breath and rolled his stiff neck until it cracked. He knew who Marco was. The loud, crude type who usually carried more trouble than his fee justified. The rate still felt low for a jo

The morning sun in Los Angeles was never truly clean. Its light was always filtered through a layer of smog, turning blue skies into a dull, metallic gray. For most people, it marked the start of routine, gridlock on the I-405, overpriced lattes, and boring meetings. For Ray, it was the hour when the monsters of the night crawled back under their beds, giving him a brief chance to breathe. Ray turned his Dodge Charger into the parking lot of Mickey’s Diner, a 24-hour restaurant on the outskirts of Culver City whose architecture was frozen in the 1950s. A red neon coffee cup flickered on the roof, its E burned out, leaving the sign to read DIN R. He chose the farthest corner spot. The position gave him a strategic 180-degree view of the entire lot and the diner entrance. Ray shut off the engine. He sat still for ten seconds, letting the V8’s vibrations slowly drain from his body. He studied his reflection in the rearview mirror, now slightly thicker thanks to the ballistic

The crystal chandeliers in the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel cast a warm golden glow, a sharp contrast to the night air outside that had begun to bite. Along the valet lane, Rolls Royces, Bentleys, and Ferraris stood in neat rows, displayed like the expensive toys of Hollywood gods. At the very end of the line, Ray’s matte black Dodge Charger sat motionless, a wolf among pampered poodles. No valet dared approach it. The car radiated a sense of danger that made wealthy people instinctively uneasy. Ray tapped his index finger against the steering wheel, matching the rhythm of the digital clock on the dashboard. 9:00 p.m. The hotel’s glass doors spun open. A man stumbled out. He wore a black tuxedo with the tie loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone, his face flushed from a mix of expensive alcohol and pure panic. This was his client, City Councilman Marcus Hartman. The same man whose face smiled confidently from campaign billboards under the slogan Law and Order

The smell of a hospital is always the same, no matter what time you enter. A cold blend of seventy percent alcohol and despair, masked by synthetic lemon air freshener. To Ray, the scent is more suffocating than diesel exhaust trapped in a traffic-clogged tunnel. 11:45 p.m. Ray walks across the lobby of St. Jude Medical Center. His steps feel heavy. His leather shoes now bear thin scuffs on their toes, remnants of brutal pedal work during the heart delivery in Burbank earlier tonight. Behind the VIP reception desk, Mrs. Amber is still there. She is a corporate vampire who seems never to sleep. Ray drops a thick brown envelope onto the polished mahogany counter. It looks worn, slightly greasy, and smells of leftover adrenaline. Amber glances at the envelope, then peers at Ray over her glasses. “You came back quickly, Mr. Rayner. People with your profile usually need more time to gather liquidity.” “Count it,” Ray says flatly. Amber opens the envelope with tw