The rain was coming down in sheets now, turning the industrial park into a blurred-out watercolor of rust and charcoal. I stood on the edge of the rooftop, the wind whipping my trench coat around my legs like a dark wing. My blood felt like it was made of liquid nitrogen cold, heavy, and dangerous.
Below me, the decoy truck sat under a flickering streetlight, looking like a five million dollar target. This was the moment of truth. Either my trap was about to snap shut on a snake, or I was about to find out my gut had gone soft.
And after what Stone did at the bar, after realizing he'd turned our chemistry into a crime scene, I couldn't afford to be soft. Every nerve in my body was screaming for retribution.
"You in position, B?" I whispered into the comms, my voice barely a thread against the wind.
"Laced and ready, Reina," Bishop's voice crackled in my ear. He was down there in the dark, tucked between two shipping containers, a shadow among shadows. "The Kings just turned onto the main drag. Two cars. Running dark."
"Let 'em come," I said, my grip tightening on the binoculars. "Let 'em think they're about to be the new owners of the city."
A minute later, the low rumble of engines cut through the sound of the rain. Two dark Chargers rounded the corner, tires kicking up spray as they slid into position, boxing the armored truck in with practiced precision. These weren't just street-corner hustlers; the Kings were moving with a military rhythm tonight. Someone had coached them. Someone had given them the playbook.
I watched through the glass as the doors of the Chargers flew open. Six men, all masked up, tactical vests over their hoodies. They moved fast, a blur of motion and steel. One of them slapped a thermal charge on the back of the truck.
Pop-hiss.
The doors blew outward with a muffled thud, the smoke swallowed instantly by the rain. I held my breath, watching them scramble inside like hungry rats in a grain silo.
I counted to five.
The lead man emerged from the truck, holding a handful of the "cash." Even from the roof, I could see the moment the world fell out from under him. He wasn't holding stacks of hundreds. He was holding reams of shredded New York Post and old grocery circulars.
He threw the paper into the wind, his head snapping back and forth, realizing the silence of the industrial park wasn't empty, it was an audience.
"Now," I said, the word a cold command.
Before he could even shout to his crew, the floodlights I'd rigged to the surrounding warehouses hissed to life, drowning the alley in a blinding, artificial noon. The Kings froze, their shadows stretching long and jagged against the brick.
Then came my crew.
They didn't come in screaming. They emerged from the darkness like ghosts, weapons raised, laser sights painting little red dots on the chests of every man in a mask. It was a masterpiece of tactical superiority. Bishop stepped out from behind the container, his rifle leveled at the lead man's head.
"Drop it," Bishop's voice echoed off the walls. "Or the last thing you hear is the sound of your own skull cracking."
The sound of metal hitting the wet pavement was the sweetest music I'd heard all night. One by one, the Kings dropped to their knees, hands behind their heads. It was over before it even started. No shootout. No mess. Just a clean, professional harvest.
I headed for the roof stairs, my heart thudding a rhythmic victory march. I didn't feel happy. Victory in this business don't feel like a win; it feels like an invoice being paid.
I walked onto the street, my heels clicking sharply against the wet asphalt. My crew parted for me like the Red Sea. I didn't stop until I was standing right in front of the leader. He'd pulled his mask off a kid, maybe twenty-one, with a tattoo of a machete on his neck and eyes that were starting to realize his life expectancy just dropped to zero.
I looked down at him, my expression a mask of ice. I didn't see a person. I saw the man who almost helped kill my brother. I saw the tool Dante Cruz was using to dismantle my life.
"The Sunshine Imports deal was a private conversation," I said, my voice quiet enough that he had to strain to hear it over the rain. "A secret between me and my inner circle. So tell me, how did the Boricua Kings get invited to the party?"
The kid spat on the ground, his chest heaving. "Go to hell, selina. You're done. The city's changing. You're just a relic in a designer suit."
I didn't flinch. I didn't even blink. I just looked at Bishop.
Bishop didn't need to be told. He stepped forward, grabbed the kid by the hair, and shoved the barrel of his pistol into the kid's mouth. The sound of metal clicking against teeth was loud in the silence.
"My Boss asked you a question," Bishop said, his voice as calm as a graveyard at midnight. "And the rain is making her impatient."
The kid's eyes went wide. The bravado evaporated, replaced by the raw, animal stink of fear. He started shaking, a low whimper vibrating in his throat. Bishop pulled the gun out just enough for the kid to speak.
"I… I don't know the name," the kid gasped, a mix of rain and tears running down his face. "The Captain… he got a call. A tip. Someone on the inside."
"Who?" I leaned in, my face inches from his. I wanted to see the truth in his eyes. "Give me a name, and maybe you get to walk out of this alley."
The kid looked around, looking for an exit that wasn't there. He looked at Bishop's cold eyes, then back at me. He knew the deal.
"It was the money counter," the kid whispered, his voice trembling. "The guy who handles the salon racks."
A cold weight settled in my gut. I already knew, but hearing it out loud felt like a physical blow. The confirmation was a sharp, jagged pain in my chest, a grief deeper than any I'd felt since my father died.
Bishop's grip on the kid's hair tightened. "Name him."
The kid swallowed hard, his voice barely audible over the downpour.
"Rico," he growled. "He sang like a canary. Told us everything. The routes, the schedules… the hit on your brother. He's the one who gave up the car."
The world went silent. The rain, the sirens in the distance, the breathing of my men, it all faded into a white noise. Rico. The man who'd seen my brother grow up. The man I'd trusted with the lifeblood of my business. He hadn't just stolen money; he'd helped pull the trigger on Jordan.
I stood up straight, the ice in my veins solidifying into a diamond-hard resolve. I didn't look at the kid. I didn't look at the Kings. I looked at my own hands, wet with rain and the invisible blood of a betrayal I couldn't ignore.
The Selina who wanted to save people, the woman who tried to see the humanity in the "weak links" she died in that alley. All that was left was the Queen.
"Bishop," I said, my voice devoid of all emotion.
"selina?"
"Take the Kings to the basement. I want them processed. But leave the leader for the feds. I want Stone to have a souvenir from tonight."
I turned and started walking toward my car, the trench coat billowing behind me.
"And Rico?" Bishop asked, his voice a low promise of violence.
I stopped with my hand on the car door. I looked back at the alley, at the neon lights reflecting in the puddles, at the ruins of the loyalty I'd tried to build.
"Bring Rico to the warehouse on 4th," I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "And Bishop? Don't be gentle. I want him to understand exactly what happens to snakes in my grass."
I got into the car and closed the door, the silence of the cabin a brief, hollow mercy. I looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My eyes were cold, empty, and terrifyingly clear.
The game was over. The hunt was done.
Now, the execution began.
***
I pulled my phone out and saw a missed call from Jordan. I didn't call him back. I couldn't. Instead, I opened my contacts and deleted Rico's name.
Then, I scrolled to the bottom. To the one contact I'd been avoiding all night.
Marcus Stone.
I typed out a single message and hit send: "You wanted a lead, Detective? Check the industrial park. I left you a gift. But don't think this makes us even. You owe me a soul."