I reach for the newspaper, unfolding it to scan the front page: a double homicide at a dive tattoo shop in Mission District called Black Rabbit. The inset shows two faces—one, a Caucasian ex-Marine named Dylan Royce, whom you could easily identify on the street as such with his bulky size and brush cut; the other, a Willie Nelson wannabe named Ned nearing his sixties, who doesn’t look like he’d be capable of serious risk to anyone. Then again, I’ve watched hundred-pound women produce bombs from beneath their burkas as they charge a U.S. Humvee, ready to blow everyone up. I don’t underestimate anyone anymore.

But this Royce guy . . . “It says he had a Medal of Honor?”

“Yup. An outstanding soldier, which is why we hired him. He went downhill, though. It started with Vicodin. He turned into a real troublemaker after that.” Bentley shakes his head.

What a waste. “And this Ned guy. Why not just pay him off?” While I don’t ever question Bentley, I’m curious about this. Blackmail is shitty, but it’s not an automatic death sentence. At least, not in my book.

“For the same reason we don’t negotiate with terrorists, son.” Bentley’s tone is sharper. He’s always supported a strong stance on that. “Guys like that, who jump on the chance to make money off of horrible things they’re not supposed to know about anyways—they can’t be trusted, even after you pay them off. He’d probably pocket the money and then turn around and bury me by sending a copy of the video in. Or he’d come back for more. The guy had all kinds of unsavory connections. We can’t risk that shit. I’m not having my entire life brought down by some fucking tattoo artist looking to cash in.” He sighs. “So now you know why you’re here. I need you to find that recording.”

“I would definitely have handled this differently.” Namely, I would have had the video in hand before I pulled the trigger. But I also wouldn’t have pulled the trigger without Bentley’s say-so. “Who are these guys you sent in?”

“They’re two guys who worked closely with Royce in Afghanistan. I didn’t want to get anyone else outside this issue involved, and I figured they have a vested interest. One of them, though, is a bit of a loose cannon. Effective as hell at his job overseas, but . . .” He shakes his head, his lips pursed with regret. “I should have waited for you.”

I’m surprised he made that kind of mistake. Bentley’s the kind of guy who has three defense plans spinning before a problem has a chance to rear its ugly head. It’s his job to always have control of whatever situation he finds himself in. It’s how he’s made his fortune. It’s why the CIA taps his shoulder when it needs a problem solved “under the radar.”

He heaves a sigh. “If this video gets into the hands of the media, they’ll blow apart what we’re doing over there. It will cause irreparable damage to Alliance as a whole. And we’ve made so much good progress. So I think you can see why I need you here. It’s delicate. And it needs to be handled swiftly.”

I nod. Everyone talks, eventually. Everyone except me.

So Bentley needs me to get answers out of a corpse, it would seem. “What exactly am I looking for? A jump drive? A microchip?”

Bentley pops open a cigar box on his desk and pulls out two Bolivars, rolling them between his palms. “VHS tape. This shop owner used an archaic system for his surveillance.”

A fucking dinosaur in the world of recording mediums. “How many copies are there?”

“Just the one now, I believe. We found the video file of the recording on the shop owner Ned Marshall’s phone. Nothing came up on Royce’s phone. I’m guessing he had no clue this was happening.”

One day, I’d love to sit back and watch Bentley’s computer whizzes at work, digging up all this data, seeing what they can find and how fast. But that’s all interesting-to-know information, and I prefer to keep curiosity at bay and work on a need-to-know level. “What’s the official story?” Obviously the cops are going to be crawling all over a double homicide.

“Marshall has been linked to local motorcycle clubs for years, doing all their ink. SFPD assumes it’s either a random robbery or tied to one of this guy’s associations, so they’re sniffing over there. Royce will likely be written off as unfortunate collateral damage.”

“That’s good.” Having to watch my shadow for police always complicates things. “Has anyone searched their houses yet?”

“Royce moved back in with his mother after splitting with his girlfriend recently. He’s still in boxes. We slipped in and lifted his computer, to see if he was shooting his mouth off to anyone else. My guess is he felt the need to unload his resentment with Alliance on someone and figured the old man wouldn’t give two shits about what he had to say. Which means we need to focus on the tattoo artist if we want to find that tape. His house, the shop, anywhere it may be hidden. And you’re the only one I trust to get the job done right.”

My gaze flickers to the silver mark peeking out above his shirt collar, a glimpse of a time when his life was in my hands. Literally. When that bullet pierced Bentley’s artery, I was sure he would be gone in minutes, but I jammed my thumb into it to stem the blood flow anyway, keeping him alive long enough to drag him to safety and medical attention.

That bullet led to his retirement from the navy.

Ned’s house will be my first stop. It’s the most obvious one. “And we know it’s not in the shop?”

“Nothing came up in the police report. You’ll need to check it out, but keep it low-key. That place is too hot now, after what happened.”

I nod. “You said search and recovery, with potential target elimination. You’ve got two dead here. Who’s the third?” “Potential” means it may end up being straight search and recovery. I find the video, I hand it over, I get out. That’s not bad. It was my specialty, once upon a time. Low risk of being shot or stabbed, which is always nice. This means there’s a chance that I could be back to drinking my coffee and watching the cruise ships port in Santorini within days.

“A young woman by the name of Ivy Lee.”

I struggle to keep my expression even, suppressing ugly memories that threaten to rise as he strolls over to hand a cigar to me. I don’t want him to see that the past still affects me. Bentley needs to know that I am fine and that I can do what needs to be done. “Who is she to them?”

“She’s Ned Marshall’s niece and the only family member still in contact with him. They were close—lived together, worked together. Like two peas in a pod. Could have been his daughter.” He snips the end of his cigar off with a cutter. “She was hiding in the shop when the team went in to question and dispatch. She was able to give information to the police. A name and a description of one guy’s accent; a profile sketch of the other one, which the media circulated. Thankfully, there haven’t been any bites. It’s a fairly generic sketch.”

“Did she say anything about a video?”

He shakes his head. “Not a word.”

Which means she could be withholding information that she fears will get her killed.

I feel unease sliding down my back. I’ve been taking assignments from Bentley for almost five years, and all of them have been for middle-aged male targets and guaranteed threats. This will be the first female target, and we don’t even know if she truly is dangerous. I don’t like uncertainty when it comes to my job.