Chapter 19 · Broker's Cut

Ryan found Erica Shea in a bar that didn't exist on any map.

Derek had given him an address three blocks south of the old freight depot, then mumbled something about "ask for the red door" before passing out again. Ryan spent twenty minutes walking past the same crumbling brick wall before he noticed the seam. No handle. No keypad. Just a hairline crack and a faint hum that made his teeth ache.

He pressed his palm flat against the brick. The hum spiked. The wall clicked, and a section swung inward.

Inside, the bar was all low light and old wood, the kind of place that smelled like smoke even though nobody was smoking. A dozen people scattered across booths, all of them looking at their drinks instead of each other. Ryan scanned the room and found her in the back corner.

Erica Shea. Grey-market data broker. Derek's "one more name."

She was younger than he expected. Mid-thirties maybe, dark hair pulled into a messy knot, wire-frame glasses that looked more decorative than functional.