Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
I move up the steps, placing my feet carefully to avoid giving myself away in case someone is still inside. The door frame is cracked where it was kicked in, and the front windows are smashed. Most of the glass is outside, meaning whoever broke them wasn't trying to get in that way. They broke them from the inside just for the hell of it.
Fuckers.
I scan the living room as best I can through the crack in the door but don't see anyone inside. I push the door open with my foot, keeping my gun steady just in case.
The living room is completely trashed. All of Ma Lucia's knick-knacks and shit are on the floor. The tables are flipped over. Someone threw paint all over the furniture, destroying it.
I'm going to fucking murder Kaleo and whichever of his people he sent over here to deliver this little message.
I clear the house quickly, moving from room to room as silently as possible. The entire house is in the same condition as the living room. Everything except Ma Lucia's room, anyway. Seems whoever broke in has a little respect for the dead.
My room is completely trashed. They used whatever paint they had left over to leave me sweet little messages on the walls. None of them are particularly complimentary to law enforcement. Most aren't even spelled correctly.
Once I'm satisfied no one's in the house, I call Roman and ask him to send someone over to take the report. He offers to come himself, but there's no point in dragging him back out for this shit, especially when I already know who's responsible. Curtis motherfucking Kaleo.
I leave the mess where it is so LAPD can take whatever pictures they need, and I jog back outside to check January's place before she gets home.
"Fuck," I mutter when I see her pulling into her driveway. My heart aches at the sight of her, but I suck it up and jog across the yard.
"Stay in the car," I tell her when she looks over at me.
She frowns, her plump lips turning down, and then her gaze falls on the gun in my hand. Fear slides through her expression. "What's going on?" she whispers.
The little quiver in her voice kills me. I desperately want to pull her into my arms and tell her everything is okay, but I can't do that right now.
"Just stay in the car, January," I tell her, waiting for her to nod before I head for her front door.
It's locked, thank God.
"Oh, that stupid motherfucker," I growl when I realize two of her windows are shattered. Looks like someone threw rocks through them. The holes aren't big enough for anyone to have gotten inside, but I unlock the door and go in anyway, checking through each room carefully just to make sure.
Once I've cleared every room, I make my way back to the living room. The large rocks that were thrown through the windows are still on the floor. One knocked a hole in the wall across from the window. There's a piece of paper wrapped around the other. I kneel down beside it and use my gun to flip it over.
Ask him who he killed is scribbled across the paper in the same jagged scrawl as the little love letter on the brick that came through my window a few days ago.
"Son of a bitch," I swear and then rip the note off the rock. My pulse races, rage thumping through me like a drum. It hits so hard that my head aches as my blood pressure skyrockets. I take a deep breath and then another, trying to get myself under control.
"LAPD!" someone outside yells.
I quickly shove the note into my pocket and then rise to my feet. Shoving my gun into my waistband, I stride toward the front door to meet the officer.
"Are you Agent Kincaid?" he asks. The way his blue-eyed gaze rolls over me makes it clear he doesn't believe I'm a fucking cop. It's not the first time someone's looked at me and thought the same thing.
I know I don't fit the image. But when you do what I do, you learn quickly that people talk a lot more freely when you look like they do. Looking like a cop is the quickest way to get a knife in your back, but if it walks like a gangbanger and talks like a gangbanger…well, you get the point. I play the role I cast myself into and it opens the doors I need opened. I don't regret it, but that doesn't mean shit like this doesn't get old.
"That's me," I mutter, reaching for my badge.
He goes for his gun, grasping at his holster like he expects me to start shooting.
"Mind not fucking shooting me while I get my badge out of my pocket?" I bark at him.