Page 161 of Surfer's Paradise

He was watching the door.

The windows.

The sketchy alley entrance with the loose hinge and busted latch.

The guy across the street who hadn’t stopped staring since they arrived. Older man, late 50s, maybe.

Isaac’s jaw clenched. He shifted his weight and adjusted his stance—clear view of the exits, back to the wall. SEAL instincts. Habit. The way his pulse never really slowed in places like this.

He could see the center’s staff—a few worn-looking adults, tired but warm. Volunteers. The kind of people who’d been through it too. This wasn’t just a paycheck for them.

But that guy outside?

Nah. He didn’t belong.

He was lurking.

Leaning against the fence line. Smoking something. Twitchy fingers. Twitchier eyes. Hadn’t moved in thirty minutes. His gaze kept wandering back to the windows, back to Rosie.

Isaac rolled his shoulders. His ribs ached. Didn’t matter.

He could feel the pressure building behind his sternum.

Because this wasn’t just a community center anymore. This was her project. Her turf.

And no one—no tweaker, no creep, no half-assed danger-wannabe—was going to ruin this.

He didn’t know how to explain what was happening in his chest.

All he knew was this:

Rosie was changing lives.

And he was ready to hurt someone to make sure nothing fucked that up.

He straightened as the presentation wrapped up. The Q&A started. People leaned forward to talk to her, to shake her hand, to ask how they could help.

She smiled—warm, easy, professional.

She didn’t glance back at him.

But Isaac never took his eyes off her.

And he saw it—just out the window.

That same guy, now shifting closer to the building.

Still watching.

Isaac slipped through the side door, letting it close quietly behind him. The second he stepped out, the buzz of fluorescent lights was replaced by the hot stink of asphalt and piss baking under the late sun.

The alley was narrow. Uneven. A chain-link fence sagged near the far edge. Dumpsters lined the wall. Flies hovered around something rotting. Welcome to East L.A., he thought, breathing slow.

And there he was.

The guy was a few feet off the building now, pretending to lean against the brick like he belonged there. One foot twitching.Scratchy grey beard. Deep lines under his eyes. Muscles like someone who once lifted in the yard but hadn’t touched a weight in a decade. Thin, wiry, a little twitchy. His eyes flicked toward Isaac the second he stepped closer.

“Where you going, bud?” Isaac asked calmly.

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