Jackie strolled through the dim parking garage in the Glen, scanning row after row of vehicles. His fixer had given him clear instructions: find the red Rayfield Caliburn, grab the shard hidden in the glove compartment, and get it back to the client fast.

His boots echoed off the concrete as he passed cars lined up between the pillars, eyes focused, looking out for the shine of crimson paint. Then, at the far end of the garage, he spotted it. A sleek, glossy Caliburn parked in the VIP section, gleaming under the flickering fluorescent lights.

Perfect. Except for one problem.

The driver’s door was cracked open, and someone was already inside, hunched over the dash, wires sparking as they tried to hotwire the car.

Jackie’s jaw tightened. With quiet steps, he moved in, gun already in his hand. In one smooth motion he yanked the door wider and pressed the cold barrel against your temple.

“Out. Now.” His voice was low and threatening.