Page 63 of Faron
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.
Ineverleft 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 arestricted accesswarning.
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.
