Finding drug dealers was easy, even though he’d never done it before. Dakota didn’t look like a cop. He was covered in bruises. And he was scrawny enough, desperate-looking enough, to be tweaking. But of course, once he located them in the dingy, run-down parts of the city, it was all about finding Gage.
“Dude, they all look to same to me,” the fifth dealer protested.
“No, not this one. He’s black, and he’s got bright blue eyes. Bleached hair. Braids. And he talks like he’s from the south. New Orleans south. French. How many people around here are like that?” When the guy hesitated, he waved the gun again. “If you know something, I am not the person to f**k with right now.” His patience was wearing thin, and he’d spent the better part of the day threatening drug peddlers. It was a danger
