Page 66 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Aponi

I didn’t go straight home.

Something about Earl’s warning had dug in beneath my skin and refused to let go. The black Charger. The photo. My photo.

It didn’t feel random.

And it didn’t feel like a gang member with a grudge.

This was cleaner. Quieter. More patient.

Stalker vibes. Professional vibes.

I drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other curled around the grip of my sidearm resting in my lap.

Just in case. The city blurred past my window—neon signs, flickering streetlamps, the occasional pair of headlights trailing too long in my rearview mirror.

I changed lanes twice. Took a longer route.

No tail.

Not tonight.

My apartment building was five stories of cracked stucco and chain-link fences, tucked between a liquor store and a boarded-up dental clinic. The elevator hadn’t worked in two months, but the deadbolt was solid, and I always checked the stairwell mirror before going up.

I paused at my front door. The welcome mat was crooked.

I never left it crooked.

I drew my weapon.

Silent. Controlled. Thumbed off the safety and nudged the door open with my foot.

The lights were still off. Nothing looked disturbed—but I moved room to room with my back to the wall, clearing corners like muscle memory.

Kitchen.

Living room.

Bedroom.

Closet.

Empty.

I exhaled and locked the door behind me, double-checking it this time. Then I opened the top drawer of my nightstand and found the spare magazine right where I’d left it.

So why couldn’t I shake the feeling I’d already made a mistake?

I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, scrolling through department alerts. No recent threats. No new gang retaliation lists. I even searched my own name. Nothing flagged.

Still. Earl didn’t lie. And a guy in a blacked-out Charger showing photos wasn’t just looking for an autograph.

I opened a burner database we used for off-grid leads and typed in the partial plate: 6VJ .

Only three matches in Los Angeles. Two were registered to real estate agents. The third…

“Unlisted.”

Registered out of Temecula. No name. No address. Just a shell company and a P.O. box.

I clicked the link to run it through a federal crosscheck—only to get slapped with a restricted access warning.

I stared at the screen.

This wasn’t just a criminal. This was someone with reach. Someone who didn’t want to be found.

A knock at my door made me jump.

Three knocks. Light. Polite. Not a neighbor pattern.

I grabbed my gun again and crept toward the peephole.

No one was there.

But taped to the door was a slip of paper.

I peeled it off with gloved fingers.

Black ink. Bold letters. All uppercase.

YOU’RE NOT AS INVISIBLE AS YOU THINK.