Page 2 of Desperate Justice

And it was personal.

Taking scum like Hernandez off the streets would make the city he loved safer for law-abiding citizens.

“Yo, Mr. FBI man, can Yolanda rinse off her hair coloring before she turns from platinum to white?”

Rafe set down the shampoo bottle he’d examined and confronted the one woman he never thought he’d see again.

Dark brown hair spilled past her slender shoulders. She wore a black T-shirt, black jeans, yellow Dr. Marten boots and a scowl. More striking than beautiful, she didn’t put up with any crap.

Allison Lexington. His confidential informant for the Devil’s Patrol case a few months ago. Allison, the nurse and motorcyclist who made his blood heat and frustrated the hell out of him with never following directions. Endangering her life instead of obeying his orders.

He looked at the frightened hairstylist standing by a sink and nodded. The woman began washing her client’s hair.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I didn’t know it was a crime to get my hair styled.” Allison made her way toward him. “You going to shoot me for having a blowout?”

“Rafe, you need to see this.” Agent Juarez called out to him.

Bypassing Allison (why did she have to show up at this hair salon today of all days?) he headed toward the back. Tom had opened a case of shampoo still bearing the shipping label.

“I opened one bottle and got this.”

Tom showed him the white test strip. Rafe’s fury boiled up in a volcanic rush.

One pink line. Positive for fentanyl.

Rafe handed back the strip. Mere granules of dust could prove deadly. “Bag it for evidence and seal off the area.”

In the back room, five cardboard containers were stacked against the wall by shelves of hair and nail products. Rafe squatted down to read the label.

“John Brown,” he read aloud and photographed the label.

John Brown. Might as well call him John Doe.

An agent opened another box. Bags of rainbow-colored circles were inside. The bags were labeled Fun Times Candy. With extreme care, Rafe lifted one out of the box.

The test kit proved it was fentanyl, not candy. He heaved out a breath.

“There’s enough of this here to kill dozens.”

The team began the tedious process of logging everything and carrying it out back to waiting vehicles for transport back to FBI headquarters. Rafe glanced at the clock on the wall and bit back a groan. He hadn’t been able to get a judge to sign off on the warrant until after noon. This was going to be a long day, and an equally long night.

And he had no way to find out John Brown’s identity. But he would. Soon.

So much for making his niece’s quinceañera on time. He sighed. Sofia would understand. She always did. But his Cuban family? Nope.

Everyone in the hair salon had been detained by the local police, who stood guard over them. Absorbed in her phone, Allison hovered near a hair station. Another problem. What the hell was Allison doing here and why this particular hair salon??

* * *

Life wasn’t fair, but she’d never whined about it. Wrong place, wrong time. But one of Diana’s model friends had recommended this hair salon to try out styles before Di’s wedding and Allison agreed to meet her here.

After texting her sis(stay away Diana, feds here) she pocketed her cell. Allison grabbed her motorcycle helmet, waved at the still-stunned women and headed for the exit.

She wasn’t staying here for Rafael’s shakedown.

Barely had she taken three steps when Rafe grabbed her arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”