Page 21 of Tapped

I didn’t lie when I told Evie the DEA and the Miami PD don’t have the manpower to offer protection. We’re both short staffed as it is. I did my duty and informed her about the threat.

Though, I’m not that big of an asshole that I won’t check in on her.

I could do that first thing tomorrow morning.

Or I could just drive by and make sure she was able to arrange security at the last minute.

It’s completely out of my way.

I live in a shit condo as inland as one can get in the city of Miami—nowhere near the doctor’s mansion. Depending on traffic this time of night, it might be two in the morning before I’ll get home.

And when it comes down to it, she’s not my responsibility, even if she does have a shit husband.

“Dammit,” I mutter to no one in my silent car.

I turn right instead of left.

Before I know it, I’m pulling into the same neighborhood I did earlier today when I had to inform a woman that her husband put a hit on her life and her child’s.

That feels like forever ago.

I drive through what looks like the street of dreams that most Americans won’t ever know. Hell, some might not even know to dream this big. When I left earlier today, I did a circle of the neighborhood to get a lay of the land. There’s a helipad in the back lot. My guess is it’s not there in case anyone needs Life Flight. I bet it’s to avoid the gridlock of Miami that the rest of us have to endure.

There’s rich, and then there’s Miami rich.

There are some communities that operate as small cities. They have their own clubs, gyms, golf courses, and even shopping so their residents don’t have to mingle among the regular public. Those are full of high rises and pack as many residences into them as possible.

Don’t get me wrong.

They’re for the rich. They’re a million times better than the forty-year-old condo I bought when I moved back to Florida.

But Sapphire Shores is not that. There are no high rises here. It’s a rare piece of land made up of mansions of every shape and size.

Dr. Litchfield comes from money. The kind of wealth that’s usually only seen on TV. I get she’s a doctor and her husband has been running drugs for the Colombians for a few months, but both of those combined couldn’t start to pay for this.

Jeff Michaels isn’t Pablo. From the intel I’ve gathered so far, he had one goal—to get rid of his family—and needed a side hustle to fund it. He’s in over his head with the cartel and has not one fucking clue what he’s doing. Other runners make triple what they’re paying him. He’s not only running drugs, he’s an idiot and clueless. That was solidified today on the wires when the hierarchy started talking about him.

They have no clue where he is. We’re doing everything we can to keep his arrest under wraps. It’s the only way for me to salvage the rest of my case.

When I turn onto Evita Litchfield’s street, my headlights shine on a Ford parked in front of her house.

It’s lit up from the outside, but every light inside the house is off. The good doctor must feel good enough about her security system and the guy sitting outside to get some rest.

Surveillance is a slow and monotonous job. Minutes drag into hours and hours into days at times. It’s boring as hell.

So when I let off the gas to see what I think I see, I get how it can happen, but I do not get it.

Not for this. Not this scenario, and not for this job.

This is too important.

I hit my brakes and throw my car in park. The fuckwad doesn’t even budge.

He’s sawing logs.

I open the camera on my phone, click a picture of him, and get out. My badge and credentials are pressed to his window as I tap on the glass with the barrel of my gun.

He jumps at the same time he opens his eyes and scrambles for his own weapon that slips to his feet from where it was resting between his legs.

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