Chapter 1

The static-laced call from Matthew was a punch to the gut.

"They got me, Gabby. Near the border. It wasn't supposed to go down like this."

His voice, usually so confident, was thin and reedy with fear. I gripped the burner phone, the Arizona heat baking the asphalt around my car.

"What are the terms, Matt? Stick to the protocol."

"No, no, they changed it," he stammered, his panic palpable even through the bad connection. "They want five hundred grand. In person. You have to bring it, Gabby. Just you. El Martillo's men... they're not messing around."

El Martillo. The Hammer. The name sent a cold jolt through me, a ghost from a past I had buried deep.

This was a deviation. A dangerous one. Our plan was for a controlled drop, surveillance teams in place. A solo delivery to a cartel known for dissolving bodies in acid was suicide.

But this was Matthew. My partner. My "boyfriend." The man I' d shared cramped safe houses and whispered secrets with for two years. The loyalty, even the faked parts, felt real in that moment.

"Where, Matt? Tell me where."

He gave me the coordinates to a dusty, abandoned warehouse miles from anywhere.

"Be careful, Gabby. I love you."

The line went dead. I stared at the phone, his last words echoing in the silence. Love. It was part of our cover, a word we used to sell the lie. But hearing it now, laced with his terror, it felt different. It felt like a plea.

I had to go. Protocol be damned.

I followed a modified plan, informing my handler of the change but insisting I go in alone as demanded.

They protested, but I was the lead agent. It was my call. I packed the marked FBI funds into a duffel bag.

Five hundred thousand dollars that felt like a ton of bricks. It was a self-sacrificing effort, a risk that could end my career, or my life. But for Matthew, I would do it.

The warehouse loomed against the setting sun, a skeletal silhouette in the desert. I walked in, the heavy bag slung over my shoulder, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

The air was thick with the smell of dust and rust.

And then I saw him.

Matthew. He was standing in the center of the vast, empty space, completely unharmed. No ropes, no bruises, no sign of a struggle.

Relief washed over me, so potent it made me dizzy. "Matt? You're okay."

He didn't smile. He didn't move toward me.

Instead, a hulking figure stepped out of the shadows. Hector. I recognized him instantly from the case files. El Martillo's right-hand man, his enforcer. A man with a reputation for casual brutality.

Matthew looked from me to Hector, his face a mask of cold ambition. He took the duffel bag from my shoulder and handed it to the enforcer.

"The money's here," Matthew said, his voice steady now, chillingly calm. Then he pointed a finger directly at me. "And here's a bonus for El Martillo. She's a top-tier artist. Now let me go."

The world tilted on its axis. The relief curdled into shock, a bitter, burning acid in my throat.

He sold me out.

He sold me out to save his own skin.