1: The Best Laid Plans

“Don’t worry; my plans hardly ever f**k up.” Kalili’s voice echoed in the dimly lit bar, a confident proclamation that should have sent shivers down my spine. Instead, I remained rooted in my spot, my natural skepticism overshadowed by the promise of easy money.

I really should’ve known better. After all, Kal’s track record with crazy ideas was as reliable as a politician’s promise during an election year. Yet there I sat, mesmerized, ready to follow her lead. That’s when I should have run, but I didn’t have enough sense. Instead, I gave her a look.

“What? Dakota, how long have we known each other?” Kal’s eyes gleamed with a mischievous twinkle, daring me to doubt her again.

I gave it a few seconds’ thought, tracing the lines of our shared history through the haze of memory. “Um. About five years. Maybe six. Most of it seemed to make some sort of sense at the time. Why?”

“Have I ever gotten you into trouble?” Kal’s question hung in the air like a dare, challenging me to refute her track record.

I paused, weighing the evidence in my mind. “No, I suppose not. Nothing permanent, at least.”

“See? You should trust me now.” Kal’s grin widened, her confidence unshakeable in the face of my lingering doubts.

I sighed, resigning myself to the inevitable. “Tell me how this is going to work again.”

“It’s simple, really,” Kal began, leaning in closer as if divulging the secrets of the universe. “We hit the location, grab the emeralds, and make a clean getaway. Piece of cake.”

I raised an eyebrow skeptically. “And what about the security guards, the alarms, the inevitable police presence?”

Kal waved away my concerns with a dismissive flick of her hand. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got it all figured out. Trust me, Dakota. This is foolproof.”

Famous last words, as they say. But at that moment, surrounded by the familiar scent of stale beer and the distant hum of the city outside, I allowed myself to believe her. After all, what could go wrong?

Normally, Kal would have found me holed up in my humble abode, a fourth-floor walkup in East Flatbush that could barely be called an apartment. It was a cramped space, with a bedroom masquerading as a sanctuary, a living room that begrudgingly shared its space with a makeshift kitchenette, and a window that offered a less-than-scenic view of the Holy Cross cemetery. But despite its shortcomings, it was mine, a refuge from the chaos of the outside world, albeit a rather dingy one.

My parole officer, bless his bureaucratic soul, knew exactly where to find me, but had long since given up on his fruitless attempts at surprise visits. As far as he was concerned, I was another cog in the wheel of society, a model reformed citizen working at a nondescript restaurant and bar nestled in the heart of the Little Caribbean. To reinforce this illusion, I occasionally pulled a shift behind the bar, often enough to keep up appearances and ensure that my coworkers didn’t forget my face.

It was a delicate balancing act that had served me well over the years. On that particular Tuesday night, fate had other plans in store for me, as evidenced by the arrival of Kal, the harbinger of chaos, in the most unlikely of places. Kal’s presence was like a splash of color in the monochrome monotony of my existence, a reminder that life was anything but predictable. As she danced to the beat of her own drum, oblivious to the curious glances of the other patrons, I couldn’t help but be drawn into her orbit again.

I should’ve known better, of course. But then again, where’s the fun in playing it safe? So, with a resigned shrug and a silent prayer to whatever deity watched over fools like me, I braced myself for whatever madness Kal had cooked up this time. After all, what’s life without a little adventure?

She’d sauntered into the bar. a whirlwind of red hair and reckless abandon, her grin wide enough to give a sane woman pause. Alas, sanity had never been my strong suit, so I greeted her with a matching grin, a silent acknowledgment of the trouble that inevitably followed in her wake. I’d just finished making a pair of margaritas for two of the few customers I recognized, Rebel and Sarah, when she dropped onto a stool with the grace of a fallen angel, her fiery mane of hair a stark contrast against the muted backdrop of the bar. “Emerald,” she declared, her voice carrying a hint of excitement.

“Not your usual poison,” I remarked, my hand already reaching for the familiar, if underused, bottle of Bushmills. If Kal wanted an Emerald cocktail, she’d get it, no questions asked.

But then she clarified, and my hand froze mid-reach. “No, I mean emerald,” she said, and I knew exactly what she meant.

I hesitated, tempted, my fingers hovering uncertainly over the bottle, before sanity asserted itself. “No.”

“It’s just sittin’ there, I swear it,” she insisted, her hand over her heart in a mock gesture of sincerity. “Scout’s honor.”

I couldn’t help but scoff. “You were never a scout.”

Kal raised an eyebrow, unfazed by my skepticism. “No, but the little f**ks don’t lie.”

“You do,” I countered, my tone laced with a hint of exasperation.

Feigning offense, she plastered a look of mock horror on her face. “Moi?”

“Yeah, you,” I confirmed, shaking my head in resignation. “Not interested, Kal. After our last narrow escape, I’m about ready to hang it up for good.”

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