Nixx
Reno thought he was smart. That was the first problem. The second problem was that smart men usually got cocky, and cocky men got predictable eventually.
I sat inside a rusted-out plumbing van three blocks from the Hell’s Fire warehouse district with a pair of binoculars resting against my knee and an untouched gas station coffee going cold beside me. Midnight had already crawled past, dragging North Town into that strange dead stretch where the bars started emptying and the real criminals came out to work.
Most people thought tracking meant chasing footprints through the woods. Movies loved that s**t. Real tracking was patience. Recognizing patterns. Tiny repetitions people didn’t realize they were making.
Reno had been skimming product from the Daggers for almost four months bef
