The Tommorow's Gone

8:50 PM

This was going to be a shot in the dark, Claudine thought, and not the fun kind with tequila. Her skin felt damp, like she’d just run a marathon in a plastic bag. Except the only running she’d done was of the horizontal kind, moments ago, with Drey in this cramped van. Now, the close air felt less like shared warmth and more like the prelude to a disaster movie. 

“There has to be another way, Drey,” she hissed, her voice barely a whisper against the van’s thin walls. Each word felt sharp and dangerous, like shards of glass about to shatter.

Drey just sighed, the sound amplified in the small space. He didn’t even look at her, his gaze fixed on the dim lights of the imposing hotel building. “Baby, we went over this. A million times. This is it.”

In his right hand, nestled as casually as a TV remote, was a Glock pistol. Small, black, and undeniably lethal. Claudine’s eyes kept flicking to it, a morbid fascination warring with sheer panic. “But… getting shot? Seriously? That’s the only way this works?”

Drey finally turned, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Relax, baby. It’s just a scratch. Makes you look like you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Adds to the whole ‘innocent bystander caught in the casino crossfire’ vibe.” He winked, and Claudine wanted to punch him in the face.

“Wrong place, wrong time?” she repeated, her voice rising a fraction. “

“Claudine ..you can do this.. you just—”

“Innocent bystander?” she whisper yelled, the words laced with a venom he didn’t seem to notice. “Drey, we’re about to risk everything behind a hotel that probably costs more than our entire future combined. We’re about to pull off some crazy heist! My whole life has been the wrong place, wrong time! Fuck. My whole existence has been a direct consequence of him.”

Drey reached out, his touch usually a comfort, now felt almost intrusive. “Look at me, Claudine. This is for them. For your parents. You said you had watched him kill them that night. And not just that, he was tasked with wiping off the rest of your family from the face of the earth. Remember! Him and his fucked up father. The Vancouvers ruined your life.”

His thumb tracing a line along her jaw. His touch, now felt unsettling. “Hey, hey. Look at me. This is your shot, Claudine. Your only shot. That prick, the Crossbearer, he’s here for one night only. Gone by sunrise, he’d leave LA and would be back to his world in New york. It’s now or never.”

A gunshot cracked through the night air, a sharp, sudden sound that made Claudine jump. It came from somewhere high up in the hotel, the fifth floor, Drey had said. The casino.

Drey’s eyes widened, a flicker of something that might have been fear crossing his features before he masked it. “Okay, okay, here we go.” He glanced out the back window. A couple of figures in dark suits were shouting near the hotel entrance, their voices muffled. “See? It’s starting. This is our window.”

He turned back to Claudine, his earlier levity gone. “Alright, listen again. Real quick. You go in. Act panicked, like everyone else. Make your way to the fifth floor. Find him. The Crossbearer. Guy’s got a cross, usually gold, big one. People whisper his name like it’s a curse. He’s holed up on the sixth floor, east wing. That’s where the real VIPs sleep.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to ‘find him’?” Claudine asked, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“Intel, baby. My lovely mole came through. The Crossbearer? Big fan of the ladies. Especially the ones who look… vulnerable. You play that card.” Drey reached into her small purse and pulled out a sleek, innocent-looking pen. “This ain’t for writing love letters. Unscrew the top.”

Claudine did, her fingers clumsy. Inside, nestled in the hollow casing, was a small, folded piece of paper containing a white powder. A familiar, sleep-inducing powder.

“Water, juice, whatever he’s drinking,” Drey instructed. “Just a little. Enough to knock him on his ass.”

“Then what?”

“Then you snag his phone. Easy peasy. But the real prize… this.” Drey’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous intensity. “His cross. That ain’t just bling, Claudine. That’s a goddamn USB drive. Holds everything. His dirty secrets, his connections, the whole rotten empire, every illegal deal, everything the feds need to dismantle the entire Vancouver Mafia operation.”

“He wears it all the time right?”

Drey shook his head. “Not usually. Only when things are serious. And trust me, with the fireworks going off in that casino tonight? Things are serious. He’ll be wearing it.”

He leaned in, kissing her hard and fast. “I’ll be across the street, waiting. You get that evidence, we hand it to the feds, and we are gone. For good.”

Claudine looked down at her trembling hands. “Why are you doing this, Drey? All of this… for me?”

He just shrugged, a small, almost shy smile on his face. “Guess I’m just that crazy about you. And I’m a sucker for justice.

Then the image of her younger brother flashed in her mind, his face etched with the same fear that crippled her daily. For almost two decades. They’d been living in the shadows, always looking over their shoulders, ever since…

“Drey,” she said, her voice tight. “Just do it.”

He looked around again, the sounds of shattering glass and more gunshots echoing from the hotel. Panic was spreading. He grabbed the jacket she’d discarded on the seat and shoved it into her mouth.

“Just do it!” she muffled against the fabric, tears welling in her eyes.

“I’ve never even shot a gun before, Claudine! Just… just hold still!” he hissed back, his own face pale.

He fumbled for a small pillow they’d brought, pressing it awkwardly against her right shoulder, just above the collarbone. He closed his eyes, took a shaky breath, and pulled the trigger.

The muffled thump was followed by a searing, white-hot pain that ripped through Claudine. She screamed into the jacket, her body convulsing.

“Focus, baby, focus!” Drey’s voice was frantic as he tried to steady her.

Focus? Her world was a blinding agony. Blood bloomed against the cheap fabric of her top. Regret, sharp and bitter, clawed at her throat. Her 20th birthday. Shot in the back of a van. Brilliant plan.

Drey produced a syringe filled with a clear liquid. “Morphine,” he said quickly, ignoring her wide, terrified eyes. “For the pain. Shut up and hold still.” He jammed the needle into her arm, and a strange warmth began to spread through her veins, dulling the edges of the agony.

She fumbled with the small burner phone tucked into her bra, then reached for the van door handle. As she opened it, she turned to Drey, a thousand questions and fears swirling within her.

“Don’t you dare screw this up, Claudine,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “This is it. Get the cross. Get the phone. Get the fuck out.”

9:15 PM.

Clutching her throbbing shoulder, Claudine stumbled through the relative quiet of the hotel’s back kitchen, the screams and distant gunfire a stark contrast to the clatter of discarded pans and spilled food. Each step in her ridiculous heels sent a jolt of agony through her wounded shoulder and down her leg. “Сука,” she muttered under her breath, the familiar curse a small act of defiance against the pain and the sheer absurdity of her situation.

Everyone else was running for their lives out of this place, and here she was, a woman in a too-short dress and bloodied shoulder, trying to blend in while heading deeper into the chaos.

She located a not so fancy service elevator, the metal doors groaning open like a reluctant beast. As she ascended to the fifth floor, the metallic tang of blood filled her nostrils, a bitter reminder of the “scratch” Drey had so casually inflicted. She had to get to the fifth floor, navigate this ugly chaos, and then somehow reach the sixth-floor east wing where the elusive Crossbearer resided.

The elevator doors shuddered open, revealing a scene ripped straight from a disaster movie. Overturned gambling tables lay scattered like fallen giants, shattered glass glittered under the emergency lights, and the air was thick with the stench of smoke and fear. Amidst the frantic movements of the injured and the terrified, Claudine’s gaze frantically searched. And then she saw him. The Crossbearer. Even in the midst of the chaos, an aura of dark authority clung to him as a knot of hulking guards attempted to shepherd him away from the pandemonium.

Quickly, she ducked.

Just as Claudine was about to risk coming out from her hiding place, two imposing figures in dark suits intercepted her, their faces grim and urgent. “Lady, you need to get downstairs! Now! This whole place is not safe!” one of them barked, his voice rough and impatient.

Panic, both real and feigned, seized Claudine. She needed time, a distraction. Tears welled in her eyes, a performance honed by years of living on the fringes. She let out a choked sob, then another, escalating into a full-blown wail. “My sister! I can’t find my sister!”

She launched into a frantic, tearful description of a completely fabricated sibling – “Big woman! Taller than me… red hair!” – her cries punctuated by sobs and a torrent of panicked Russian. The two guards exchanged bewildered glances, clearly unable to understand her words but were not so interested, and by the time they moved out of her way her target was gone.

Damn it. The throbbing in her shoulder was relentless, and the ridiculous heels were making her movements agonizingly slow and clumsy. She cursed them silently, a venomous promise to burn every pair she ever owned. Scurrying awkwardly, she managed to locate another service elevator tucked away near a dimly lit, deserted bar. Frantically, she jabbed the button for the sixth floor, a silent prayer escaping her lips. If anyone with authority spotted her, she knew she’d be turned back immediately.

Luck, it seemed, was a fickle mistress. The elevator came to a halt on the west wing of the sixth floor. This area, while still bearing the scars of the earlier chaos – overturned furniture, a shattered mirror reflecting her troubled state – was noticeably quieter, the air thick with an unsettling stillness. Fewer people in sight.

Great.

Holding her increasingly painful shoulder, Claudine moved as quickly as she dared, her gaze darting nervously around. The east wing. She just needed to reach the east wing. Each step was a fresh wave of agony. Just a little further, she urged herself, her breath catching in her throat.

She turned down a narrow, dimly lit passage, needing a precious moment to lean against the wall and catch her breath. As she pushed herself off the wall and stepped back into the main corridor, she wasn’t looking. And then she collided with someone. Or rather, his solid, unyielding frame slammed directly into her already screaming shoulder.

A sharp, involuntary cry tore from her lips as she stumbled and fell, the pain exploding in a blinding flash. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she braced for another wave of agony. But then a voice, deep and laced with concern, cut through the haze of pain. “Hey! Hey! I am so sorry! Are you alright? Breathe, just breathe.”

Slowly, cautiously, Claudine forced her eyes open. And there he was. Towering over her, his expression a mixture of apology and something else… something intense. The man she had come here to destroy. The Crossbearer.

Fuck.