DEVLIN

Years of crawling through jungles, dodging bullets, and sniffing out traitors have burned patterns into my brain.

I know those steps. It’s Dave. Short, wiry Hispanic guy, always skulking for Darren like a loyal mutt. Calls himself a private investigator when he’s really just a bloodhound with a paycheck.

He’s the one who sniffed out my casino’s address for my brother, got it burnt, and has Mike on crutches. And now the bastard’s here, thinking he’s invisible.

My fingers ...