Those who quit, and those who die
Frank had learned a long time ago that there were two kinds of people in this city—those who knew when to quit, and those who got buried.
Karen wasn’t the quitting type.
That was what got under his skin, what made his instincts scream every time he saw her name on a byline tied to something dangerous. She had that dog-with-a-bone mentality, the kind that didn’t let go even when the jaw started breaking.
And now she was on Valdez’s radar.
Frank had followed her home after their little conversation, making sure she wasn’t tailed. He shouldn’t have stuck around—should’ve let her be. But when the lights in her apartment flicked on, he saw the way she moved, the tension in her shoulders, the weight of whatever information she’d just gotten.
Then came the knock at her door.
He didn’t move from his spot in the alley across the street, didn’t even reach for his gun. Not yet. Instead, he watched. It wasn’t until Ellison walked in and the door shut behind him that Frank exhaled.
She had backup. That was something.
Still, something wasn’t sitting right.
Valdez wasn’t just playing defense—he was preparing for something. A shift. The kind that left bodies in its wake.
Frank had seen enough men like him to know when a storm was coming.
And Karen was standing right in the eye of it.
⸻
The warehouse on 18th and Lexington had been quiet for weeks, but Frank knew better than to trust silence. It was either a sign of caution or a sign of death, and he’d seen enough of both to recognize the difference.
Tonight, it was caution.
He crouched on the rooftop across the way, watching through the scope of his rifle. The docks weren’t far, and the usual flow of Valdez’s operations ran through here—shipments, bodies, and enough dirty cash to keep half the city in his pocket.
Only tonight, the warehouse was different.
More men than usual. More security. A meeting.
Frank adjusted the scope, zooming in on the loading bay. Ramos was there—alive, which meant he hadn’t talked too much. Valdez stood beside him, flanked by two men who didn’t look like the usual muscle.
Frank’s gut twisted. He knew a cleaner when he saw one.
This wasn’t just about tightening security. It was about tying up loose ends.
He scanned the perimeter. A black SUV idled near the side entrance, engine running. Someone important was inside, waiting.
Frank’s jaw tightened. If he had to guess, this wasn’t just business—it was a deal. And deals like this meant something was about to change.
He exhaled slowly, pulling back from the scope.
He had two choices.
One: He could sit back, wait, let things unfold and gather intel.
Or two: He could make a move now, force Valdez’s hand before he got too comfortable.
Frank took one last look at the SUV.
Then he reached for his gun.
⸻
The first shot took out the power.
The warehouse plunged into darkness, and before the echoes of shouts could settle, Frank moved.
The second shot sent one of Valdez’s guards sprawling, a clean hit to the knee. Not a kill shot. Not yet.
Panic erupted. The men scrambled, some reaching for weapons, others ducking for cover. Valdez shouted orders, his voice cutting through the chaos, but Frank was already on the move.
He dropped from the rooftop, landing in the alley with a sharp roll before rising to his feet, gun drawn. A man stumbled out of the warehouse, flashlight swinging wildly. Frank put a bullet in his shoulder before he could fire.
He wasn’t here to clean house. Not yet.
He was here for information.
By the time he stepped into the warehouse, the scene had already shifted. Some of Valdez’s men were down. Others were looking for him in the shadows. The SUV was gone—whoever was inside had bolted the second the lights went out.
That was fine.
Frank was here for Valdez.
He caught a glimpse of the man near the back, retreating toward an office. Ramos was with him, practically dragging him inside.
Frank moved fast, cutting through the chaos, sticking to the blind spots. A guard rounded the corner—Frank took him down with a hard crack of his elbow, then grabbed him before he hit the floor, easing him down quietly.
Valdez was almost out of reach.
Frank didn’t hesitate. He fired once, clipping Ramos in the leg. The man went down with a strangled yell, and Valdez barely had time to turn before Frank was on him.
He shoved him against the wall, gun pressed under his jaw.
Valdez didn’t beg. He didn’t shake.
That was what made him dangerous.
Frank leaned in, voice low. “Who were you meeting?”
Valdez exhaled through his nose, a slow, measured breath. “You think this matters?”
Frank pressed the barrel harder against his skin. “I think you’re about to lose the last man in this city who’s willing to protect you.”
A flicker of something in Valdez’s eyes. Not fear. Calculation.
Then he smirked.
“You’re too late.”
Frank’s stomach clenched.
A sound behind him—footsteps.
He ducked just as the gun went off. The bullet whizzed past, slamming into the wall where his head had been a second before. He spun, firing twice. The attacker crumpled.
But it was enough of a distraction.
Valdez was already moving.
Frank swore, chasing after him as he slipped through the back door, limping but fast. He reached the alley just in time to see another SUV screech around the corner. Valdez threw himself inside, and the tires shrieked as they sped off into the night.
Frank fired two shots after it, but it was already gone.
He stood there, jaw tight, pulse steadying.
Too late, Valdez had said.
Frank didn’t like the sound of that.
He turned, glancing at the warehouse—at the wreckage he’d left, at the bodies on the ground.
Valdez was still breathing.
But that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was who else had been in that SUV.
And why they were running.