As I pushed open the door of the dimly lit bar, the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses hit me like a wave. My eyes adjusted to the haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, mingling with the faint scent of stale beer. I took a deep breath, pulling the worn leather jacket tighter around me, trying to blend in as just another face in the crowd.

At the far end of the bar, sitting under the dull glow of a flickering neon sign, was Le Soir. He was exactly where my informant said he’d be – nursing a drink, his fingers rhythmically tapping the side of the glass. Even from this distance, I could see his eyes scanning the room with the kind of wariness that came from a life spent looking over his shoulder.

I walked towards the bar, careful not to make eye contact. Just a regular guy grabbing a drink, nothing more. I needed to get closer, catch a snippet of his conversation, figure out if tonight was the night he’d finally slip up. As I sidled up to the barstool two seats down from him, I kept my body turned away, eyes on the row of bottles lining the shelf. But I could feel his presence, like a shadow looming just out of sight.

It was showtime, and I had to play this perfectly. One wrong move, one hint that I wasn’t just another patron, and my cover would be blown. And from what I’d heard about Le Soir, he wasn’t the type to let a cop walk out alive.