principle, it was hard to miss the rise of senseless violence stateside. Shortly after I came home, I spent the night at Kelsey’s place in Tempe. After indulging

in chocolate and wine, we had a very late-night conversation about perspectives.

She started in on me because I, in her words, ‘interrogated’ the security guy at her condo complex. When I explained I was simply ensuring he was doing his job, she shot back that her chances of being hit crossing the street to her office

were higher than someone breaking into her condo and hurting her. “Kels called

me paranoid,” I muttered.

One of his dark brows rose above the rim of his sunglasses. “I hate to break

it to you, Cyn, but I think that’s a hazard of our job.”

“Paranoid photographers are generally called paparazzi.”

“You’re not just a photographer, you’re a soldier.”

I frowned at him. “I’m a civilian.”

A full-fledged smile broke out. “Once a marine…”

“Always a marine.” My lips quirked. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Leave me my thin

illusions.”

Pulling into a dead-end street, Kayden slowed to a stop in front of a low-slung building. “This it?”

Checking the address against the one on my phone, I said, “Yep.”

At one time, it could have served as a small motel, but it now masqueraded

as apartments. There was a disassembled car perched on cinder blocks in the weed choked front yard. Window treatments were predominantly cardboard and

cheap vinyl blinds. Plastic milk crates offered seating on the cracked walkways.

I stood on the weed choked sidewalk, my skin prickling in awareness.

We were being watched.

Time to channel my inner punk and don the armor of attitude. Straightening

my spine, I waited for Kayden to round the car’s hood, then followed him across

the desolate front yard to one of the doors on the end. With my sunglasses firmly

in place, I tried to spot our watchers.

A rapid spat of Spanish fought with canned laughter, while the dull thumps

of someone’s stereo competed for equal airspace. Behind closed doors, a baby cried, and a fairly impressive argument ensued in a brutal mix of Spanish and English. All we needed to make this complete was some pit bull bursting around

the corner, fangs dripping saliva.

Instead, we made it to the door where a dirty, white number eight hung

crookedly, without incident. Kayden knocked. The itch at the back of my neck grew, but I refused to give into the temptation and look around. We waited while

our summons went unanswered.

“Now what?” I muttered.

Kayden shot me a look. “Why don’t you stand over here?”

“Uh?”

“Get over here.” He snagged my arm and placed me between him and the

other doors. Then, he pulled a couple of small metal pieces from his pocket and

bent over the lock.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I couldn’t help myself. “Really, Your

Honor, it wasn’t what it looked like. We just forgot our key.”

Kayden ignored my commentary as he applied the picks. After what seemed

liked forever, he shoved his little tools into a pocket, and then grasped the handle. With a quick twist of his wrist the door opened. With Kayden on one side, and me on the other, we let the door swing wide.

“Tito?” Kayden waited for an answer. When none came, he stepped into the

silent interior.

I stuck close, shoving my sunglasses up. It took a few moments for my eyes

to adjust to the dimness inside. Long enough for the smell to hit me. Sickening

sweet, the nauseating stink of weed couldn’t be missed. Wrinkling my nose, I did

my best to breathe through my mouth. Unfortunately, that just made me cough.

“You good?” Kayden asked.

“Trying to avoid a contact high.”

“Good luck.” He closed the door behind us, shutting us in the hazy gloom.

I mourned the loss of fresh air but understood we didn’t want to encourage