Atlanta feels a trickle of blood run along her jawline. Fingers fumble along her temple, finding the skin torn where the gun barrel—or the sights of the gun barrel—bit her. Skank just cackles again.

“For someone who thinks she’s so smart, you’re dumber than dog shit,” Skank says, licking her lips. “You really thought you could pull one over on us? Set some kind of . . . what? Trap?”

“I’m just here for the fight,” Atlanta croaks.

“Mm-hmm. Sure, sure. Just a coincidence that we’re here. Guess you didn’t call Mr. Erickson last night, try to lure him here? Oh, hey, here comes an old friend.”

Around the back of the building walks John Elvis Baumgartner, scalp freshly shorn, arms inked with the scenes and symbols of a Hitler rally. He’s not just smoking a cigarette, he’s practically chewing it. Agitation and anxiety bleed off him—he’s on something other than nicotine, Atlanta thinks. Coke, meth, pills, a combo pack.

He storms up, stopping short of stepping on her. She kicks at his knee, but he dances out of the way.

“Worse than a dog,” he says. “A dumb bitch dog.”

Skank leers. “Somebody needs to put you down like they put down your faggot friend.”

“That your official statement?” Atlanta hisses. “Somebody put him down? You? Him? Who?”

John gives Melanie a look, backhands her shoulder. Skank punches him in the gut, and for a half a second Atlanta thinks she has a shot at getting away because he gives his girlfriend a look like he wants to go toe-to-toe with her—he even half lunges with a fist cocked, then stops.

He gives Atlanta a twitchy look. “Your friend killed himself.”

“Go to hell,” she says. “That what I’m gonna do? Kill myself?”

“You just might,” Skank says.

“Your boss sign off on this? Where is the big man, anyway? Where’s Orly? I saw his Tahoe. I know that sonofabitch is here. Or maybe Mitchell’s planning on showing his face.”

John Elvis rubs his eyes, laughs, claps his hands hard like a crazy toddler. Atlanta feels like she’s watching a monkey rage at the zoo—railing against the bars, attacking the tire swing. Then he seems to pull it back together.

“You really think he’d show up? At an illegal dogfight? After your clumsy-ass attempt to trap him? He knows you ain’t gonna give him that dog. Not on Wayman’s property. Stupid slut. Stupid fucking slut.” He pitches his cigarette into the woods. “I’m gonna go get Petry. He’ll know what to do.”

“Let’s just handle it ourselves,” Skank says. “Drag her in the woods. Shoot her in the head, leave her for dead.”