The leather seats of the Mercedes creaked as Hanrot shifted his weight, phone pressed to his ear.
It was the expensive kind of creak—the sound of quality materials breaking in, not breaking down. Everything Hanrot owned made expensive sounds. His shoes on marble floors. His watch when he checked it. Even his silences cost money.
Outside the tinted windows, the New York skyline was bleeding out. Orange and purple spreading across the glass and steel like a wound that couldn't decide whether to heal or get worse. Rush hour traffic crawled below, brake lights painting the streets red.
Hanrot didn't notice. He was too busy thinking about his daughter.
"She lands at six-thirty," he said into the phone, and there it was—that edge in his voice. The one that only appeared when he talked about Norah. Not anger, exactly. Something closer to fear, though Hanrot would rather eat glass than admit he was afraid of anything. "Terminal Four. Don't be late, Coy."
On the other end of the line, somewhere in Manhattan traffic, Coy kept his voice neutral. Professional. The voice of a man who'd learned a long time ago that showing emotion to men like Hanrot was the same as showing your throat to a predator.
"I'll be there."
"And Coy?" Hanrot paused. The pause stretched. Long enough that Coy could hear the sounds of the city through Hanrot's window—distant sirens, car horns, someone shouting in a language he didn't recognize. "She doesn't know about... the arrangements. As far as Norah's concerned, you're just her driver. Keep it that way until I tell her myself."
Right. Just the driver.
Coy's jaw tightened. He caught the movement in his rearview mirror, forced himself to relax. Old habit. Never let them see when they've gotten to you.
"Understood."
"Good." Another pause. Shorter this time. "She's been away too long. London made her soft, or maybe harder—I can't tell anymore."
There was something in Hanrot's voice now. Something that almost sounded like regret. Almost. But men like Hanrot didn't do regret. They did business. They did transactions. They did whatever it took to stay on top.
"Either way, she's my daughter," Hanrot continued. "Nothing happens to her. Clear?"
"Crystal."
The line went dead.
No goodbye. No thank you. Just the flat silence of a disconnected call and the expectation that Coy would do exactly what he was told because that's what he was paid for.
Coy tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. It landed on a folded newspaper—today's Post, front page screaming about some gang shooting in Brooklyn. He should probably read it. Know which territories were hot right now. Which crews were making moves.
Later.
He checked his watch instead: 6:15 PM.
The numbers glowed back at him, expensive and precise. The watch was a gift from Hanrot. Not exactly a gift—more like a tool. Like the phone. Like the car. Like Coy himself.
Traffic from Manhattan to JFK would be hell at this hour. Bumper to bumper, taxi drivers cutting each other off, delivery trucks double-parked, tourists wandering into crosswalks without looking. The usual chaos of a city that never figured out how to slow down.
But Coy would make it. He always did. That's why Hanrot kept him around.
He put the car in gear and merged into traffic.
Twenty-three minutes later—he'd checked his watch twice—Coy was standing in Terminal Four at JFK, scanning the arrivals hall like he was looking for a threat instead of a twenty-something rich girl who'd spent too long in London.
The terminal was packed. Always was at this hour. Streams of passengers reuniting with loved ones, exhausted business travelers climbing into town cars, families arguing about which bag was whose. Everyone moving with purpose, even when that purpose was just to get the hell out of the airport.
Overhead, the departure board flickered and updated. Flight 407 from Heathrow: LANDED.
Coy's eyes tracked the crowd. Looking for her. Hanrot had sent him a photo—one of those candid shots that looked staged, like someone had carefully arranged her hair and lighting while pretending it was spontaneous. Dark hair. Sharp features. Expensive clothes. The kind of pretty that knew it was pretty and weaponized it.
No sign of her.
He checked his phone: 6:45 PM.
Fifteen minutes late. Not her flight—her. The flight had landed on time, which meant she'd already cleared customs, collected her bags, and decided not to wait where she was supposed to wait.
Of course she hadn't waited.
Coy pulled up the contact Hanrot had sent him. Just a number. No name. No photo. Just ten digits and the implicit instruction to make this work.
He hit dial.
It rang once. Twice.
"You're late."
Her voice hit him like a slap—clipped, bored, with that particular kind of annoyance only people who'd never worried about money seemed to perfect. The accent was American but polished, rounded at the edges by years somewhere else. London, probably. Somewhere that taught you how to sound superior without actually raising your voice.
Coy exhaled through his nose. Slow. Controlled. The way they'd taught him in the Marines before everything went to shit.
"I'm at Terminal Four," he said, keeping his voice level. "Your flight—"
"I landed an hour ago." She said it like it was his fault. Like he'd personally delayed her flight. "I'm at Brew & Bitter on Lexington. You know it?"
Of course she didn't wait. Of course she'd already left the airport, gotten a ride into Manhattan, and found the most aggressively trendy coffee shop in walking distance.
"I'll be there in twenty," Coy said.
"Make it fifteen."
She hung up.
Coy stood there for three seconds, phone still pressed to his ear, listening to the dial tone.
Then he laughed. Short. Sharp. The kind of laugh that wasn't really about humor.
This was going to be a disaster.