“Now, look at this guy,” Seth said jokingly, “finally decides to show the fuck up.”
“Easy,” Jake mumbled finding the familiar metal chair against the exposed brick wall of the team’s nondescript compound, “…had to handle some things.”
Calling the place out-of-the-way was the understatement of the year. One couldn’t involuntarily stumble upon the building; you’d definitely have to know exactly how to find it.
In a building owned by the city, the team’s headquarters was situated off a secluded section of Brownsville. There wasn’t much to it; a few chairs, some large desks, a couple of twin beds and a kitchen, but it was huge and it had plenty of space for various forms of state-of-the-art tracking and data equipment.
Jake had become a member of a small elite undercover narcotics unit in Miami. Made up himself, talented rookie Seth Waters, and led by Jason Jenks, their young, New York bred, street-smart lieutenant, their two years together had been far from boring. Between the three of them, they’d been assigned to everything from vice to homicide, and survived in South Florida’s dark criminal world long enough to know that to battle crime, you have to be little more criminal than cop at times. KEEP READING
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