That meant Linda had taken it somewhere private.
Off the books.
Somewhere that made her feel like she was “in control.”
And while they searched, another reality settled like a rock in my gut.
The sting operation was blown.
The suspects had noticed the sudden shift—unmarked vehicles, officers canvassing, quiet urgency. People involved in a ring don’t need to be geniuses. They just need to know when the air changes.
A month of surveillance.
Gone.
Dismantled by an HOA president with bolt cutters and a vendetta against “tactical aesthetics.”
That night, I barely slept.
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