Rain had been falling since noon, the kind that soaked through your clothes before you even realized you were wet. By the time I reached the old warehouse, the entire block felt like it was dissolving into steam and shadows. Perfect weather for going undercover, they said. Invisible weather. Blend-in weather. But the second I stepped inside, thirteen guns clicked at once. Not at the boss. At me. I froze with one boot still half on the threshold, water dripping from my hair onto the concrete floor, forming a tiny halo around my foot—an ironic touch I didn’t appreciate. The place smelled like gasoline, wet rope, and too many cigarettes. Men leaned back in their chairs, playing cards, cleaning weapons, talking about nothing. Until now. Now every pair of eyes was locked on me. My thirteen “senior undercover brothers,” as they jokingly called themselves, were scattered around the room pretending to be thugs, dealers, and hired muscle. But the clean haircuts, the regulation boots, and the way they held their guns all screamed police. Of course the cartel boss noticed. Of course I was blown on day one. I swallowed, slow and careful, like even my throat might accidentally fire a gun. The man sitting on the sofa—Marius Mara—looked up from polishing his antique revolver. He was built like a dockworker, with a face cut from old scars and a calm that made everyone else seem childish by comparison. “You,” he said. “The new one