Page 34 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Cyclone

W e reached the alley twenty minutes too late.

The trail was cold. But River spotted a casing half-wedged in a cracked concrete joint, dull brass gleaming in the alley light.

I frowned. “That confirms it. This wasn’t random.”

We split up. I headed to the docks to check with an old contact who ran info on cartel movement, while River tapped into surveillance footage through a guy who owed him favors.

By sundown, a name surfaced: Diego Marquez. Mid-level enforcer. Unstable. Mean as hell.

“He was hired,” I said, leaning on the hood of the truck. “Somebody wanted Blue silenced.”

River shook his head slowly. “Because she’s keeping kids out of gangs. Because she’s making them feel like they matter.”

The streets turned rough the deeper we drove. Old tires burned in barrels. Kids scattered when our headlights hit. And then we saw it—an old tire shop, windows blacked out, a busted security cam dangling by wires.

We approached quiet. I knocked twice in a rhythm I used back in Colombia. The door opened an inch.

“Looking for Diego,” I said.

The kid inside hesitated.

River stepped up, eyes flint-sharp. “He shot a woman. A doctor. If you’re covering for him, you’re choosing the wrong side.”

The kid swallowed hard. “Old motel on Dawson. Room 107.”

We didn’t say thank you. Just turned and walked.