A Bark in the Park
Something in him knew we were on borrowed time.
“Makayla,” Alan said as soon as the call connected. His tone was calm, clipped, but a note beneath it was tight, tense, barely leashed. “We have a problem.”
He listened for a moment, then nodded once. “No, not suspected. Confirmed. A black sedan, dark-tinted windows, low profile. The same style they used in ‘twenty. Rufio caught it before I did.”
My stomach knotted as I tried to piece together what that meant, but Alan kept going.
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