Chapter 13: High Stakes
The coffee shop on Central was nearly empty at 8:47 AM. Badger sat across from me, nursing a latte he'd ordered ironically. Combo had taken the booth behind us, facing the door—not because I'd told him to, but because he'd learned to watch exits without being asked.
"Alright," I said, keeping my voice low. "We've got something bigger."
Badger's eyebrows went up. "Bigger than the Martinez thing?"
"Much bigger." I slid a napkin across the table with a number written on it. "Torres needs two kilos. Raymond has them. We broker the introduction, we take commission on both ends."
Combo turned slightly in his booth. He wasn't supposed to be listening, but some things needed both of them to understand.
"Two kilos?" Badger's voice cracked. "That's like... that's serious weight, man."
"Which is why the payout is serious." I tapped the napkin. "Four thousand minimum. Maybe forty-five hundred if they negotiate well."
"Who are these guys?"
"Torres runs distribution in Santa Fe. Raymond is a supplier out of El Paso. They've been trying to connect for months, but neither trusts the other enough to meet directly."
"And we're the trust?"
"We're the buffer. The neutrality. They don't know each other, but they know people who know us. Our reputation is the guarantee."
Badger chewed his lip. I could see him calculating—the risk, the reward, the possibility that this was the deal that went wrong. He'd handled smaller transactions without incident, but this was a different league.
"What do you need from me?"
"You handle Torres. Combo handles Raymond. Neither of you knows the other is involved—as far as each principal is concerned, they're dealing with separate operations. I coordinate. The meeting happens at a neutral location, daytime, both parties armed but professional."
"And if it goes sideways?"
"That's why we're careful. That's why there are layers." I leaned forward slightly. "Deal Sense has been running overtime on this one. Both parties are legitimate businessmen. Not cops. Not rippers. Just two people who need what the other has."
Badger nodded slowly. The mention of Deal Sense—my cover term for the instincts I'd developed—seemed to reassure him. He'd seen me call danger before, back when I'd warned him away from a buyer who'd turned out to be under surveillance.
"When?"
"Day after tomorrow. That gives us time to set up the protocols."
The next forty-eight hours were a masterclass in operational security.
Badger made contact with Torres through a chain of intermediaries—a guy who knew a guy who knew someone in Santa Fe. The message was simple: a professional broker could facilitate the meeting Torres had been trying to arrange. Terms were negotiated through three separate phone calls, each one routing through different prepaid cells.
Combo worked the Raymond side with similar care. Raymond was more suspicious—El Paso suppliers had reason to distrust Albuquerque brokers—but the promise of a serious buyer and a clean transaction eventually won out.
I never met either principal. Never spoke to them directly. My voice existed only as instructions relayed through Badger and Combo, who themselves never mentioned my name. To Torres, the broker was "the Facilitator." To Raymond, it was "the Connect." Neither knew they were dealing with the same person.
The meeting location was a warehouse on the south side—empty, scheduled for renovation, with three exits and good sight lines from a parking lot across the street. I'd scouted it twice, mapped every angle, identified the positions where things could go wrong.
The day of the deal, I sat in a coffee shop three blocks away with a prepaid phone in my hand and a laptop showing a traffic cam feed I'd hacked with NZT-enhanced focus. Not perfect surveillance, but enough to see when vehicles arrived.
Torres first. Black SUV, two men inside. They circled the block once—professional caution—before parking near the warehouse entrance.
Raymond ten minutes later. Silver sedan, also two men. They parked on the opposite side, maintaining distance until the meeting began.
My phone buzzed. Badger: torres is in position
Then Combo: raymond ready
I typed the same message to both: proceed
The next twenty minutes were the longest of my life since the ambush in the industrial lot. I watched the distant warehouse, tracking the occasional figure visible through dirty windows, waiting for gunshots or screaming or the flash of police lights.
None of it came.
Badger's text arrived first: clean exit. torres satisfied
Combo thirty seconds later: raymond out. no problems
I closed my eyes. Let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
The dead drop was a gym locker three miles away. I'd rented it under a false name, paid six months in advance. By the time I arrived, the cash was already there—a paper bag tucked behind a pair of unwashed sneakers.
$4,500. My largest single payout.
My hands shook as I counted the bills. Not from fear—the danger was over. From relief. From the knowledge that the system worked. That I could operate at scale without exposing myself to direct risk.
That night, I bought myself a steak.
Not a cheap diner steak, but an actual meal at a proper steakhouse—the kind of place where they brought bread before the entrée and the waiter knew the difference between medium and medium-rare. The kind of place Pete's body had never been welcome.
I sat alone at a corner table, watching the other diners through NZT-sharpened eyes. Couples on dates. Business people closing deals. A family celebrating something—a birthday, maybe, or an anniversary.
Normal people living normal lives.
The steak arrived perfect. I cut into it slowly, savoring each bite. The meat was tender, the seasoning precise, the sides complementary without being overwhelming. For twenty minutes, I wasn't a transmigrator running a criminal brokerage operation while watching my friend spiral toward disaster. I was just a guy eating dinner.
Small pleasures. The kind that reminded you why survival mattered.
When the check came, I left a generous tip. The waitress had been attentive without being intrusive, and good service deserved recognition. Besides, I could afford it now.
$7,400 total. Just over halfway to the target.
I walked back to my motel through quiet streets, the desert night cool against my skin. The Sandias were invisible in the darkness, but I knew they were there—massive and patient, watching over a city that didn't know how much was about to change.
Somewhere out there, Walter White was preparing for his first cook. Jesse was excited about the opportunity of a lifetime. Krazy-8 and Emilio were still breathing, still making plans, still unaware that their deaths were written in a script they couldn't read.
And I was counting cash in a storage locker, racing against a timeline that moved faster than I'd expected.
Seven thousand four hundred dollars. Eight thousand to go.
The finish line was in sight.
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