The call came on a Friday night at eleven.
Darius was at the body shop, alone, doing what he did every night: walking the perimeter, checking the locks, sitting in the office with the lights off, listening to the street. The phone buzzed on the desk. Not the burner he used for the crew. Not the one for Jake. The third phone. The one Tito had given him. The one that rang once a month and never with good news.
"Darius King," Tito said. His voice was different. Not the careful, measured voice of a man who gave information for free. This was urgent. Fast. The voice of a man who was scared.
"Talk."
"Rodriguez knows about you. She knows someone's building in the northwest. She doesn't know your name yet, but she knows the body shop. She knows Hialeah Gardens. She sent people tonight. Two men. They're driving west on 68th right now. They'll be there in twenty minutes."
Darius stood. The chair scraped the floor. The ripple Jake had warned him about had arrived at his door.
