The abandoned warehouse on the edge of East LA smelled like rust, old motor oil, and the kind of regret that never quite washes out of concrete.
Alex stepped through the rusted side door at exactly ten p.m., the hour Rico had demanded in the latest burner-text threat. No backup, no wire, no heroics—just him, in a black hoodie pulled low, hands loose at his sides, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap. The overhead fluorescents buzzed and flickered, throwing long shadows that danced across graffiti-covered walls. He knew this place. He'd played pickup games here as a kid, back when the only gangs he feared were the ones on the court. Now the game was blood, and the stakes were his mother's life.
Rico waited in the center of the empty floor, flanked by four of his lieutenants, all wearing fresh ink and colder eyes than Alex remembered.
