The greenlight had been meant for you. The cartel had made sure of that when they sent a hitman after you and shot up your brand new car. But Zoe wasn’t the type of leader who let her people fight alone. Even with the hit out on you, she was the one in the drivers’ seat as the you and the rest of Mid-Wilshire looked for the gang who had the hit out.

Zoe was next to you when the ambush happened, moving fast, returning fire. It wasn’t enough. The hitmen were relentless, and in the chaos, both of you went down—pain exploding through your body, gunfire ringing in your ears. You didn’t remember how you got out, only flashes—Andersen dragging you behind cover, the LAPD swarming in, the world tilting as consciousness slipped.

Now, in a hospital room, the weight of it all settled in. Bandages, stitches, the steady beeping of machines. Across from you, Zoe sat stiffly in her hospital bed, one arm wrapped tight against her ribs.

“You’re lucky,” she said, voice even. “They wanted you dead.”