Guns and Roses

Operation downline

Genevieve – Years Later

The last time I saw Ramon, he was sprawled on our old torn couch, beer in hand, yelling at a soccer game he couldn’t afford to bet on. Mom stood in the kitchen doorway, her face stiff as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I just walked in, picked up my duffel bag, and said, “You either leave him or you lose me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

“I choose you.”

That was the beginning of something new between us- me and my mother. For years I had blamed her for leaving, for the patchwork love she’d offered through quick phone calls and half-hearted visits. But maybe people could change. Maybe she needed me as much as I needed her, now that the world had ripped everything else away.

Three months later, she ended it with Ramon and booked a one-way ticket for herself. To start over in New York. I went with her. I didn’t know what I was looking for in the city that never sleeps. Maybe clarity, maybe peace, maybe just the freedom to forget. But what I found… was purpose.

The academy was hell. The workouts made my lungs burn and my bones ache, but I pushed through. Every morning I told myself: You’re not the girl waiting by the boardwalk anymore. You’re not the girl who cried behind a bathroom door because some boy—some broken boy—couldn’t love you right.

I graduated top of my class.

Six years in the force. Two years chasing thieves and traffickers and domestic monsters hiding behind picket fences. Two years of training my heart to stay detached, my eyes to read lies, and my hands to stay steady under pressure.

And then the case came in.

Willhound.

I hadn’t said the name out loud in years. The syllables burned the back of my throat like old whiskey.

I returned as Detective GenevieveTaylor—badge on my hip, heart iced over.

The town hadn’t changed. Still quiet. Still cracked sidewalks and too many churches. Still filled with memories I didn’t ask for.

I walked down the old boardwalk, heels clicking on worn wood, and looked out over the same restless ocean that once kissed my curls and saw me fall for a boy who smelled like danger, musk and cigarettes.

Saint-Laurent Leo.

God, even thinking his name made me feel stupid.

How many nights had I cried for him?

How many times did I stare at the stars and wonder if he ever missed me? If he ever tried to call? If he ever meant a single thing he said under that damn moonlight?

He never fought for me.

Never showed up when I needed him.

He just faded, like smoke from the fire he started in my chest.

And in his place, I’d built armor. Stone around my heart. I learned to play boys like they were notes in a song I no longer wanted to hear. I smiled, flirted, and left them with broken egos. It wasn’t revenge. It was control. The power I never had with Leo Saint Laurent.

I hated that he still lived somewhere in the back of my mind, like an old bruise I couldn’t stop pressing.

But this time, I wasn’t here for him.

This time, I had a badge and a job to do.

And if our paths crossed again?

He’d see it in my eyes.

That I was no longer his storm.

I had become the thunder.

The call came in at 7:04 PM.

A tip from an old informant: a major drug exchange was going down near the south end of Wilhelm, in the abandoned lot behind Briggs Auto Repair.

By 7:10, I was geared up, seated in the passenger side of the unmarked cruiser, with my partners Jones and Ramirez behind the wheel. My fingers tapped against the grip of my service weapon as we approached the location in silence.

“Taylor,” Jones said, glancing my way. “You lead. We’ll follow.”

I nodded. “Keep your eyes on every corner. They’re not amateurs.”

The air was tight with tension when we rolled up on the lot. Three vehicles were parked crooked, headlights off. Silhouettes moved between them, exchanging something we couldn’t see but we knew exactly what it was. Pills. Powder. Poison for the streets.

I clicked the safety off my gun.

“Police! Hands where I can see them!”

Chaos erupted like a firecracker.

One of the men dropped his bag and ran.

“Ramirez! Secure the scene! Jones, take the left!”

I didn’t wait for backup—I ran.

Boots slamming the asphalt, lungs burning, adrenaline pouring through me like gasoline. The runner bolted into a beat-up Dodge Charger, engine roaring as he skidded away from the lot and hit the open road.

But he didn’t know I was behind him.

Didn’t know I wasn’t the same girl who used to cry behind locker rooms.

Didn’t know I had sirens in my blood now.

I jumped in my car, flipped the lights, and followed. He was fast, but I was trained. I kept low, weaving through the back roads like a shadow, and when he made a hard right toward the cul-de-sac near Jefferson, I made my move.

I floored it. Swung left.

Cut him off.

His car skidded sideways, tires screaming, and came to a dead stop with my cruiser blocking his path.

I was out of the car before he could blink.

Gun raised. Eyes locked.

I stormed toward his window like a soldier, weapon aimed directly at his head. His hands hovered over the steering wheel, steady.

“Step out of the car! Hands in the air!” I barked.

No movement.

“I said hands where I can see them, or I swear to God, I will shoot!”

That was no empty threat.

The world had made me this way. Cold. Focused. Steel in my spine.

And I wasn’t going to lose another life, not to drugs, not to fear, and definitely not to someone too scared to face the weight of his own choices.