Her survival topped his need to see Sykes put down. Although his brother had been murdered in cold blood, Alan was still a DEA agent, sworn to protect and serve. Alex was an innocent pawn in a dangerous game, one that Alan was beginning to understand. Somehow, Sinclair was involved. The feeling of heartbreak at his death had been superseded by the betrayal of his lie.

Whatever his partner had done, there was no coming back from.

That much was clear in Alan’s mind. The desired outcome was the safe removal of Alex from the situation and Sinclair and Sykes in cuffs. The disbandment of two drug empires that would keep the streets clean and stop the catastrophic spread of addiction.

But Alan had seen the brutality of man during his time serving in the marines. He’d witnessed the cruel, unrelenting growth of the drug trade and the type of people who flourished within it.

There was no best-case scenario.

There would be bloodshed.

And the likelihood was that Alan wouldn’t walk away from it the same as he walked in.

But walking away from it now wasn’t an option, regardless of whether Sam made it back in time.

Alan shuffled quietly against the metal panels, welcoming the cooling shade they afforded. In the distance, he thought he could make out the shape of a man jogging.

Sam?

Alan refocused and edged his way to a gap created by the poor alignment of the condemnation fencing placed around the building. The structure itself stood despite itself, and upon closer inspection, it looked like its foundations were creaking underneath its own acceptance of its fate. The building, covered in a thick layer of dust, wasn’t long for the world and Alan wondered how long it had been on death row. As an eyesore at the end of the beaten track, it wasn’t high on the list of priorities to remove.

The Tiempo de Salsa, a sad relic from a more fruitful time, most likely thriving under a different name during a period of unmitigated success for both businesses.

The reliance on the mill, which had caused it to thrive, eventually killed it.

The bar, too.

Now, it was a ghost, a tired old structure waiting for its fate as it rotted in the sweltering heat.

Peering through the fence, Alan’s eye immediately locked onto the prone body of Wyatt on the ground, his hands and ankles bound, a gag strapped tightly to his face. By the way he winced, Alan could sense Wyatt’s pain. Feeling little sympathy, Alan tried his best to see the rest of the forecourt. He caught a glimpse of a man in a suit, a gun resting in a hand that hung casually by his side.

Another person, just a hand, but the rest of his view was obscured.