Page 1 of For Vengeance

PROLOGUE

Marcus Rodriguez liked the weight of money in his hands.

He sat in the dim light of his apartment, smoke hanging in the air like a second ceiling, methodically counting the stacks of cash spread across his coffee table. Two thousand from Emilio for the oxy. Fifteen hundred from the new kid working the high school on Maple Street. Another three grand from the corner boys.

Not bad for a Tuesday.

The table was littered with the tools of his trade—digital scale, small plastic baggies, pill bottles with the labels scraped off. Marcus had never been one for tidiness. What was the point when you lived in the roughest part of Santiago Heights? Nobody who mattered ever came to visit.

He licked his thumb, continuing to count the bills. The repetitive motion calmed him. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred. Twenty, forty—

Something made his fingers freeze. A sound so faint he almost missed it. The subtle scrape of metal against metal.

Marcus's heart skipped a beat. His ears strained in the silence that followed. Had he imagined it?

No. There it was again. Someone was at his door.

His hand moved toward the gun tucked between the sofa cushions, but before his fingers could close around the grip, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

Marcus blinked, momentarily confused. He'd installed that deadbolt himself. Nobody should have been able to pick it that fast.

A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway light. Average height. Average build. Dressed entirely in black. Nothing remarkable except for the absolute stillness with which they held themselves.

For three heartbeats, neither of them moved.

"Who the hell are you?" Marcus finally managed, his voice sounding thin in the smoky air.

The figure stepped inside and closed the door with a soft click. The movement was smooth and deliberate. Practiced.

That's when Marcus saw the gun.

"Look, man, you can take the money." He gestured to the cash on the table. "Take whatever you want."

"On your knees." The voice was wrong—distorted, mechanical, inhuman—run through some kind of modulator.

A chill spread through Marcus's chest. This wasn't a regular robbery.

He glanced at the gun between the cushions, calculating his chances. The stranger followed his gaze and stepped closer, weapon raised.

"Don't."

Marcus slowly raised his hands, then slid off the sofa onto his knees, pulse thundering in his ears. For the first time in years, real fear coursed through him.

The intruder moved to the coffee table, careful not to disturb the stacks of cash or drug paraphernalia. With a gloved hand, they placed a manila folder on the table's edge.

"What's that?" Marcus's mouth had gone dry.

The intruder said nothing, just flipped open the folder.

Photographs spilled out—Marcus outside Jefferson High. Marcus with Emilio. Marcus in this very apartment cutting product.

"How long have you been watching me?" His voice cracked.

The figure circled behind him. The floor didn't creak under their weight. Had they memorized which boards would give them away?

Marcus felt the cold barrel of the gun press against the back of his head. A whimper escaped his lips before he could stop it.

The intruder placed a blank sheet of paper on the table in front of him and forced a pen into his trembling hand.

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