I don't remember asking permission
Frank had been in this game long enough to know when a win wasn’t really a win.
Valdez was gone. The SUV had peeled off into the night, taking whatever secrets he had with him. And now, Frank was left standing in the wreckage of a half-baked raid, his gut telling him that he’d only made things worse.
He needed answers, and there was only one person he knew who might have them.
Karen.
---
Her apartment was on the edge of town, nestled between a laundromat and a dive bar that had long stopped pretending to check IDs. The neon glow from the bar’s sign flickered over the sidewalk as Frank leaned against the brick wall across the street, watching.
The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased since the warehouse. If anything, it had coiled tighter, winding around his spine like a vice. Something about Valdez’s last words, the way he’d smirked even with a gun under his chin, set off every alarm in Frank’s head.
Too late.
Too late for what?
He exhaled sharply, rolling his neck before pushing off the wall and crossing the street.
Karen didn’t answer on the first knock. Or the second. He was halfway through considering breaking the damn door down when it swung open.
She stood in the doorway, barefoot in a tank top and sweatpants, a phone still in her hand. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing in suspicion.
“Jesus, Frank.” She stepped aside, leaving just enough room for him to walk in. “Ever heard of texting?”
He didn’t answer, brushing past her into the small apartment. It smelled like coffee and ink, the scent of late nights spent chasing leads that would get her killed. The place was cluttered, papers stacked on the kitchen table, a laptop glowing with a half-written article.
“You alone?” he asked, glancing toward the bedroom.
Karen scoffed. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Frank turned to her, crossing his arms. “Valdez slipped out tonight. He had a cleaner with him. Meeting got interrupted before I could find out who.”
Karen’s face barely flickered, but he caught the shift—the way her fingers tightened around the phone, the slight pull of her lower lip between her teeth.
She knew something.
“Karen.” His voice dropped lower, the warning clear.
She let out a breath, setting the phone down on the table. “I got a tip earlier. Anonymous source. Said Valdez was moving something bigger than just shipments. That he’s restructuring.”
“Restructuring into what?”
Her hesitation was all the answer he needed.
Frank stepped closer, enough that she had to tilt her head to look up at him. He saw the way her breath hitched, the way the pulse at her throat ticked faster.
She hated that he could read her.
“Talk,” he murmured.
Karen swallowed, but her spine straightened. “Word is, he’s shifting from drugs and weapons to something else. Something that requires wiping out anyone who knows too much.”
Frank felt the weight of that settle in his chest. A full-scale restructuring meant cutting ties, clearing liabilities. It meant bodies.
It meant Karen was in even more danger than before.
He reached out before he could think better of it, fingers brushing against the edge of her wrist. She stilled.
“You need to let this go,” he said, voice low. “Whatever Valdez is planning, you don’t want to be in the middle of it.”
Karen huffed a humorless laugh. “Too late.”
Frank clenched his jaw. “Karen—”
“I already wrote the damn story, Frank.” She pulled away, stepping back just enough to put space between them. “It’s going live in an hour.”
His stomach dropped. “You’re out of your mind.”
“No.” She lifted her chin. “I’m doing my job.”
Frank swore under his breath, running a hand over his face. “You think putting this out there is going to protect you? That Valdez is just going to back off?”
“I think if I don’t put it out, people die.” Her voice was steel now, unwavering. “I think if I sit on this, then Valdez wins.”
He stared at her, frustration warring with something deeper. Something that made his hands itch to grab her by the shoulders, shake some sense into her.
Or maybe just pull her closer.
Karen was the kind of person who burned bright, who threw herself into the fire and never cared who got scorched in the process. And Frank—Frank had spent his whole life trying to put out fires like hers.
“I’m not letting you get yourself killed for a headline,” he ground out.
Karen lifted a brow. “I don’t remember asking for permission.”
They stood there, tension thick enough to choke on.
Then, the sound of tires screeching outside.
Frank moved before he even processed it, grabbing Karen and yanking her down just as the first shot shattered the window.
Glass rained around them as the air filled with the sharp pop of gunfire. Karen gasped, caught between him and the floor, heart hammering against his ribs.
Frank reached for his gun. “Stay down.”
She didn’t argue.
He moved fast, crawling toward the overturned coffee table for cover. Another shot hit the doorframe, splintering wood. Shadows shifted outside—two, maybe three men.
Valdez wasn’t wasting time.
Frank popped up just enough to fire two quick rounds, hitting one of the figures by the car. The other ducked, returning fire. The couch took the hit, stuffing bursting into the air.
Karen grabbed something from the floor—her phone.
“Are you seriously calling someone right now?” Frank hissed.
She ignored him, whispering something into the receiver before shoving it under the couch.
The gunfire stopped. Silence settled, tense and waiting.
Then, the sound of retreating footsteps. Tires peeling off into the night.
Frank didn’t move until he was sure they were gone.
Karen exhaled sharply, rolling onto her back, staring at the ceiling.
“Well,” she panted. “That was subtle.”
Frank sat back on his heels, his pulse still pounding.
“You still think your article’s going to save you?”
She turned her head, meeting his gaze. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Frank swore under his breath, but the truth was, they both already knew the answer.
This wasn’t over. Not even close.