Page 72 of Loco

The moment passed, but it left a buzz in my chest.

Everything was still good. Everything wasokay. But I couldn’t help thinking—it only took one bang to turn a perfect day into something else entirely.

And the way Roque kept scanning the trees told me I wasn’t the only one who felt that.

Roque

By the time the last car pulled away and the final balloon was deflated, I felt like I’d run a marathon—but in the best way possible.

The party had been a success—arealone.

I’d been wired tight all day, waiting for something to go sideways. After everything we’d dealt with—the threats, the closecalls, the broken glass, and the daycare scare—I couldn’t stop scanning the edges of the yard, watching shadows, and tracking movements. Every laugh from the kids, every bang or cheer, had me twitching just a little, my heart ticking faster than it should.

But in the end, the only real excitement had been that damned bunch of balloons catching in the trees and sounding like a mini firework show. A moment of chaos, sure—but harmless.

And thank God for that.

Kairo had the time of his life. His face was painted, his cheeks were sticky with frosting, and his knees had been scraped from all the racing and rolling in the grass. Kaida had toddled after the older kids like she could keep up, and when she couldn’t, she’d curled up in someone’s lap—usually mine or Sayla’s—and watched with those big, wide eyes like she was soaking in the world.

They were safe and happy, which was all that mattered.

And Sayla, God, the way she looked today. Laughing with her sister, dancing with Kaida for a minute in the shade, the way she bent down to help Kairo with his frosting-smeared cupcake and kissed the top of his head without even thinking twice that’s what life should be about. Them.

If I could, I wanted to give them everything—the kids, Sayla—all of it, the world.

But some part of me always pulled back. Because even now, in the quiet after the day's storm, I couldn’t forget what Iknew.

After Simon Cliffe was arrested, and the adrenaline wore off, I’d seen the truth of what he had planned. What was waiting on the other side of that snatch-and-grab if Brenda from the daycarehadn’t tackled him like a linebacker. There was stuff I’d never unsee—transport plans, holding locations, and “conditioning methods.”

They didn’t care that Kairo was three years old, that Kaida still clutched a stuffed animal to sleep. To them, they were products. Property.

I’d nearly thrown up reading some of it.

So, when Judd floated the idea of flipping Cliffe instead of locking him up, I hated it—and I still did. But he was right. It was a tough call that sat like a rock in my gut, but releasing Cliffe under tight, unblinking surveillance and letting him run back to his people was paying off.

The information he was providing was invaluable. We now had more names, drop points, and code words. And more than that, it connected dots we’d suspected but never been able to prove—crooked cops, real estate coercion, and RandolphfuckingTopper.

They’d been targeting residents who were minorities—intimidating them and pushing them into moving drugs, transporting cash, or just plain leaving town. And once they were gone, their homes—worth hundreds of thousands—were scooped up for pennies on the dollar by shell companies and “developers” with ties to people who were supposed toprotectthem.

It made my blood boil.

Imogen was already working quietly in the background, taking statements from residents and making sure their stories were documented safely and discreetly. So, when we brought thisto the DA, we wouldn’t just have criminal charges. We’d have people and faces.

And when that day came—and it was coming—I’d be able to look Sayla in the eye, look those kids in the eyes, and know I’d done something right.

As if the whole damn thing wasn’t heavy enough already, there was one more name—one more target—we needed to bring down.

Cliffe had never said it directly, he was too careful for that. When we’d asked who was pulling the strings, the one making the real calls, the person you'd go to if you needed someone taken out, he’d skirted around it. He didn’t offer a name, he just said,“There’s only one guy who handles that.”

He wouldn’t speak it out loud, like just saying the name would get him killed. But he agreed he'd go straight to the source when we’d cut him loose, wired up, and watched like a hawk.

And through that wire, we finally got a name. Titian.

Not Titan. No, that would’ve made sense. This guy had gone with the extra vowel like it meant something. Maybe it did, perhaps it didn’t. Maybe he thought it made him sound classy, dangerous, and untouchable. Or maybe he just couldn’t spell.

Whatever the reason, it was the only thing wehadon him.

We ran facial recognition through every system we could access—state, federal, everything. Nothing. It was like he didn’t exist. Even the driver’s license we had a photo of, thanks to Cliffe, was clean—no record, no prior addresses, no flags. Just a grainy image, an ID number, and a name that could’ve been printed on Monopoly money for all it was worth.

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