Jayden didn't listen to her superior. She didn't listen to anyone. While I waited, she had been mobilizing every resource she had—not just cops, but elite soldiers, men with automatic rifles, men trained to neutralize threats without hesitation. She wasn't coming to arrest me.
She was coming to bury me.
Half an hour passed.
The door creaked open, and Martin, John, and Larry returned—not with Lorena or Arturo, but with two terrified civilians: a young girl with wide, frightened eyes and a man with a hardened jaw, both looking around in confusion.
"Sir, they are here," Martin announced, his voice empty of emotion.
The man—Benito, Jayden's husband—scanned the room, his voice tight with concern. "Where is Jayden?" His eyes flicked to me, and his expression darkened. "And who the hell are you?"
I stepped forward, my smile easy, my voice smooth as silk. "Hello, sir," I said. "I think you've heard of me by now."
