Jordan slammed his fist against the steering wheel of his car, a string of colorful curses flowing from his mouth like poetry. Three hours of chasing leads on Roberto Vega, and all he had to show for it was a split knuckle from punching a wall and a growing headache that pounded behind his eyes.
"Son of a motherless goat," he growled, rifling through his glove compartment for painkillers. "Three hours! Three f*****g hours and nothing but dead ends and bullshit!"
The little dive bar he'd just left had been promising—an old drinking spot Roberto used to frequent before his supposed "death." But the bartender claimed he hadn't seen Roberto in years, and Jordan believed him. The fear in the man's eyes had been too genuine to be fake.
Jordan popped two pills dry, grimacing at the bitter tast
