Page 85 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Aponi

T he neon sign buzzed like a dying wasp.

Tag didn’t flinch. He just stood beside me like a damn mountain, silent and steady. His presence made the shadows feel less dangerous. Or maybe just easier to walk into.

I knocked twice. Waited. Then once more.

A slit opened in the door. “We’re closed.”

I leaned in. “Tell Rick that Aponi Hartman’s here. He owes me three favors and I’m cashing in one.”

The slit snapped shut.

Tag raised an eyebrow. “Three favors?”

“I saved his daughter from a trafficking sting. She was sixteen. He hasn’t forgotten.”

The door unlocked with a metallic groan. Inside, the air was stale—burnt coffee, stale weed, and desperation. Rick sat behind bulletproof glass, pale and sweating, like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“You look like hell,” I said.

“You always knew how to charm a man.” He glanced at Tag. “Who's the linebacker?”

“Tag,” I said. “He doesn’t talk much unless he’s pissed off. So don’t piss him off.”

Rick nodded. “Fair enough.”

I dropped the two photos on the counter. “Recognize either of them?”

He looked down. Blinked. Swore under his breath. “The one on the right. She came in here about two weeks ago. Alone. Looked spooked.”

“Did she say anything?”

“She was trying to sell a gold chain. Told me it belonged to her grandma. I didn’t ask questions. Didn’t buy it either. Something felt… off.”

I leaned in. “You got cameras still?”

Rick hesitated. “You know I can’t—”

“I don’t care about rules, Rick. I care about a kid who hasn’t been seen since she walked out of here.”

He stared at me. Then sighed, dragging a monitor closer. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

Tag stood behind me as we watched the grainy black-and-white footage. The girl. Nervous. Checking the door every five seconds. The timestamp blinked 11:42 p.m.

Then… a man walked in.

Tall. Hoodie. Clean shoes. That’s what stood out. The shoes were pristine. Expensive. Wrong for this part of town.

She flinched when she saw him.

He smiled like he’d found his lost pet.

Tag froze the screen. “Print that face.”

“You think he’s the one?” I asked.

Tag didn’t blink. “I think he’s not afraid of being seen. That makes him cocky. And dangerous.”

Rick printed it. Handed it over. “You didn’t get this from me.”

“You’re a ghost,” I said.

As we stepped back into the night, Tag studied the photo in the glow of a streetlight.

“You know what I’m thinking?” he asked.

“That I owe you dinner?”

“That whoever this guy is—he’s done it before.”

I nodded. “And he’ll do it again.”

He looked at me, eyes sharp. “Unless we stop him first.”

And just like that, we were in it.

Not just a case.

A war.