Cavanaugh on Duty

Prologue

Something was wrong.

He could feel it in his bones, smell it in the air. The minute Esteban stepped out of the run-down tenement apartment building he’d called home these past three years, he’d sensed it.

Something was off.

He had nothing concrete to base it on, except for a gut instinct. The same gut instinct that had helped him survive out here on the cusp of hell, slowly making his way up the cartel food chain, earning trust by seemingly not giving a damn.

It had been a juggling act all the way. The people within the drug cartel had an honor code without displaying a shred of real honor. Moreover, they expected a man to keep his word while they broke theirs with bone-chilling regularity.

Black was white, and white vacillated between nonexistent and a color he couldn’t begin to describe.

But he had managed to navigate these streets, being one of them while standing apart, and all the while sleeping with one eye open.

Although it had come at a great personal cost, he’d bided his time, waiting for the chance to even a score that would never truly be even.

But this thing he was feeling was different. His nerves twisted and tensed; a chill swept along his spine. Every fiber in his body was on high alert, listening intently even though he didn’t know for what.

And then he knew what he was listening for.

Because he heard it: the high-pitched whine of a bullet as it hurtled from its source.

A bullet with his name on it.

Abruptly, he swung to the right.

The bullet couldn’t.

It missed him.

The same gut instinct told him to keep on running if he wanted to live. Confronted with an actual choice between life and death, he surprised himself by deciding to live a little longer.

So he kept on running.

His job wasn’t finished. He still had people to bring to justice. After that, it didn’t matter what happened to him. He was already dead on the inside anyway.