Chapter Fourteen
No one looked twice at Matt after he entered.
That was the measure of it.
The club absorbed him the way it absorbed everyone who lived in its margins—staff, members, the nameless movement between them. At most, he got a polite nod, a half glance, a moment of acknowledgment that evaporated as quickly as it arrived.
He moved easily. Unremarkable.
Posture relaxed. Expression neutral.
He took a seat at the bar with a clear line of sight across the room. The WTO was already there.
Matt ordered a beer and paid in cash—just enough of a tip to seem casual, not enough to make the bartender remember his face or rush back too quickly. The glass arrived cold, condensation pooling on the counter. Matt didn’t touch it again.
An hour passed. The same beer still sat beside him, sweating quietly in the dim light.
The Turkish man was on his third glass of wine. Matt had counted. The man talked too loudly, laughed too freely, perfectly at home inside the insulation that money provided. His gestures were broad, confident. He liked being seen.
Matt watched in silence.
The WTO checked his phone. Once. Twice. Drifted in and out of conversation with the ease of someone who’d never had to measure his words or his company. He belonged here—in the way people belonged to places that convinced them they were untouchable.
Matt waited.
Eventually, the man stood. He excused himself with a lazy wave of a hand and turned down the hallway that led toward the restrooms.
Matt let a few seconds stretch. Then he followed.
The hallway was quiet, carpet muffling his steps. The music softened to a distant pulse. Footsteps echoed briefly ahead, then disappeared as the man pushed through the men’s room door.
Matt waited three full seconds.
Then he went in.
The room was empty except for the WTO at a urinal, shoulders loose, attention elsewhere. The faint hum of ventilation masked the sound of Matt’s approach. He moved without hesitation, one quiet step at a time, already reaching into his waistband.
The pistol came free cleanly. No hesitation. No noise.
One step.
Then another.
The shot barely made a sound. Just a muted exhale of air.
The man stiffened, breath catching in surprise rather than pain. His body sagged instantly, knees buckling under his weight. Matt caught him before he fell, guiding him with practiced precision into the nearest stall.
He lowered him onto the toilet, adjusting the posture so it looked natural. Head forward. Arms relaxed. He closed the door, locked it, and stepped back once to study his work.
To anyone who found him later, it would look like he’d had too much to drink.
Normal behavior in a place like this.
Matt washed his hands. Dried them. Checked the mirror once—expression flat, nothing out of place. Then he walked out.
The club absorbed him again without a word. Conversation flowed. Music rose. No one looked twice.
Outside, the night received him the same way—silent, indifferent, vast.
He crossed the parking lot, got into his car, and started the engine. The road opened ahead, dark and smooth. He didn’t rush. He never did.
A small, fleeting smile crossed his face—not satisfaction, but balance restored.
A wrong corrected. A scale leveled.
Two blocks away, he picked up his phone. The glow of the screen washed pale light across his face. He pressed a single contact.
Carissa answered on the first ring.
“It’s done,” Matt said.
The line went quiet.