Maia Mesa grew up with her family in Cuba, but that suddenly changed, and she found herself in a position no one wishes to be, without family.
Marcus Burnett, a repentant and good soul takes her as his own daughter, as well his wife Theresa, a new...
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•¤¤¤《《《》》》¤¤¤•
"Bingo." Zway-Lo cheered, his voice full of satisfaction, as he stood next to me, peering through the binoculars at Conrad Howard lying on the ground, bleeding.
The shot had been easy—almost too easy—from where I stood, a perfect vantage point that offered a clear view of my target. In the next second, the old man would be dead, his life snuffed out in the blink of an eye. I barely even hesitated as my finger hovered over the trigger, a quiet sense of satisfaction washing over me at the thought of what was about to happen. The sound of the shot echoed in the stillness, a sharp crack that seemed to split the air in two. The old man crumpled to the ground. It was done. The deed was finished, and there was no going back. I stood there for a moment longer, staring down at the body, feeling a cold satisfaction settle over me.
I've always despised cops. They walk around with their badges like they own the world, corrupt to the core, pretending to serve justice while lining their pockets with blood money. They're all the same—willing to betray one another for the right price. The very thought of it made my blood boil, fueling my anger as I zeroed in on my target. They say criminals are bad people, and we are. We've made our choices, embraced the darkness, and learned to navigate a world where the rules don't apply, where survival often means doing the unthinkable. But those corrupted cops—they're no better than us. They hide behind their badges, pretending to be the guardians of law and order, while in reality, they're as dirty as they come. They smile for the cameras, shake their fucking hands with the mayor, and make speeches about justice, all while cutting deals in the shadows that make our actions look like child's play.
I've seen it firsthand. I've seen the way they turn a blind eye when it suits them, how they cover for each other's sins as long as the money keeps flowing. It's not about justice for them—it's about power, about maintaining their grip on the city, no matter the cost. They kill and lie, and then they have the nerve to call us the scum of the earth. But at least we're honest about who we are. We don't pretend to be something we're not. We don't hide behind a uniform and a shiny badge, pretending to be the heroes while we stab each other in the back.
This man, though, he was different—or so they all said. He wasn't one of ours, but someone else had decided it was time for him to go, and they wanted it to look like we did it. That was the game, wasn't it? Always about misdirection, about making sure someone else took the fall. The higher-ups had given the order, and it was up to me to carry it out, to ensure that this loose end was tied up for good.
I could see it now, the headlines that would follow: "Officer Killed in Suspected Gang Hit." It would be just another statistic, another casualty in the endless war between the so-called protectors of society and those who lived in its shadows. No one would bother to dig deeper, to question why this particular man had been targeted. They'd just chalk it up to another day in the city, another cop who got too close to the wrong people.
