A tiki bar was situated on the far end of the courtyard, the shutter down and the menu blank.

‘Anything?’ Alan asked, looking around the side of the building. Besides a few more benches, there was nothing but a tarmacked car park. Beyond that, a large, abandoned timber mill stood. A ghostly relic from a bygone era, which was previously the life source of the town.

Lake View had undergone the same gentrification as Dillon over the last few decades, moving away from the timber production that had previously funded most of the residences. Nowadays, the town was filled with quaint eateries, a few bars and a number of independent businesses. Like Dillon, it was a peaceful town. Although not the base of the Riders, as with Marion and the other towns that littered South Carolina, their presence was intense, and Sam wondered when the last time the Tiempo de Salsa even had a customer.

‘No sign of anything.’ Sam pulled away from the window and scouted the other side of the building.

Like Alan, he was greeted to the ghastly sight of the old factory, shielded by the large, metal sheets that comprised its fence. A condemned sign was tacked to the metal, desecrated by countless squiggles of graffiti. The humidity was high, and Sam had left his jacket in Alan’s car, which they’d parked back into town before covering the half mile on foot.

Considering the ghostly surroundings, any hint of their approach would have been seen instantly, and Sam had already witnessed first-hand the punishment they would deal out.

‘Maybe you were wrong?’ Alan suggested, walking back to Sam, his white shirt sticky with sweat.

‘Maybe.’ Sam agreed, looking around for any hint of life. ‘But if you wanted to do some business out of anyone’s line of sight…’

‘This place is fucking perfect.’

Sam chuckled. Whether it was the lack of sleep or the severe reliance on pain killers, both men began laughing. The strangest things could build the strongest bonds, and the two ex-soldiers, from different sides of the law, had found that reason among an escalating drug war.

Nothing in Sam’s life surprised him, but this certainly came close.

Alan’s phone beeped, and he slid his hand around the gun fastened to his hip and slid the device from his pocket. He looked at the screen and shook his head. His teeth clenched.

‘Fuck. You were right.’

‘The shirt?’

Alan nodded, and Sam ran a hand through his hair. The blood that had pumped from Sinclair’s stomach, the fatal wound that Alan had raced headfirst into danger to fix.

All of it was a hoax.

Sinclair wasn’t dead. That much was clear.

But judging by the rage that caused Alan to shake, Sam realised that hit the agent harder than him. His fight had exposed countless police officers or high-ranking officials who broke the law. It usually put them in his crosshairs.