Darren Gattling stood by Remy’s bed. He was holding her hand, and he let go when he saw me.

I hadn’t seen Gattling since outside of Tandy’s bar, six days ago, and now he was in street clothes. A light blue sweatshirt and dark jeans clung to his muscular frame.

“I’ll let you two talk,” Gattling said, and turned. Headed out to the hallway.

I stared at Remy. Her face and arms bore a dozen cuts, but she looked better than she had on the roof when I found her, covered in the skin, blood, and intestines of the man once known as Nolan Brauer.

“How long you been up?” I asked. The room smelled of Mercurochrome and bacitracin.

“I dunno,” she said. “Why?”

“I came by a half hour ago, but you were asleep. I got close. Made sure you were breathing.”

“Creeper alert,” Remy said.

I started laughing, and so did Remy. Then she stopped.

“Oh my God, don’t make me laugh, P.T. I think I cracked a rib, and the doctors haven’t figured it out yet.”

I looked Remy over. When I found her atop the Midtown Suites, I quickly put together what had happened.

Brauer and Remy had fought, and she had landed a roundhouse kick in his direction.

He’d stopped the kick with his hand. Which was holding the M24.

Except what Brauer didn’t realize was that Remy had dented the plastic of the rifle just slightly when she made contact.

He aimed the barrel at Remy’s face, ten feet from her, and pulled the trigger. And the gun had backed up on itself. Kinda like Wolf’s friend, who had burned his hand with a 3D-printed gun. Except much, much worse.

“I’m sorry, Rem,” I said. “That I didn’t go to that hotel instead of you.”

“Oh my God.” My partner shook her head. “Of all people—you cannot pull that masculine shit on me, P.T. I’m the one who told you we should go see Wolf. Meet the whole Dungeons & Dragons crew and go after these guys.”

“I was on the top of the aquarium parking garage,” I said. “I haven’t felt that helpless since—” I stopped talking and Remy nodded.

“I know,” she said.

“I saw you kick him and then a minute later—boom.”

“When I came down from that kick,” she said, “I felt something in my leg snap. But I also had a feeling that I’d fucked up that gun.”

“You basically created a grenade,” I said. “You blew him up when he pulled the trigger.”

“Pretty badass, huh?” she said.

“Pretty badass,” I agreed.

“You talk to the Feds?” she asked.

“A bit,” I said. “They have about fifty guys scraping Brauer off that roof. I didn’t think they needed any ‘local help’ with that.”

Remy went quiet then, probably thinking about the life she’d taken.

“C’mere,” she said, and I pulled over a chair. “I’m gonna be laid up for a couple weeks,” she whispered. “Doc said it’s a day here before they transport me home. But at home I’m gonna be out of work. In a boot, first. Then on crutches.”