The sliding back door slammed open. Ellie turned, saw a shirtless guy step out. He was tall and jacked with muscle, his chest and arms exploding with all kinds of shitty, colorful tattoos, like a box of crayons had vomited on him. The largest and oddest one was on his left shoulder: a gingerbread man with a bloody knife clamped between its sharklike teeth. He was a redhead—skin so pale it didn’t tan, freckles, and blondish red hair that had been shaved into a military-type crew cut.

Despite his intimidating build, Ellie didn’t feel threatened; his hands were empty, and she didn’t see a weapon in his shorts pockets. He was smiling, too, but there was absolutely nothing pleasant about it.

“Something wrong, Officers?” Gingerbread Man asked, his tone casual and relaxed, like he was receiving guests at a party. He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t even give their presence a second thought; he walked away from them, to his right, heading toward a custom-made barbecue island.

Ellie was scanning the island surfaces, looking for a weapon, when Danny said, “Sir, I’m ordering you to stop right where you are and—”

Gingerbread Man lurched forward, had his hand on the grill handle when the kid, who had been staring sullenly at his feet the whole time, reached into the canvas bag beside him.

“Stop! Hands in the air!” Ellie shouted, just as the kid came out with an Uzi, the submachine gun looking way too big in his small hand.

“Down!” Ellie screamed, locked in the Weaver stance, like she’d been trained. Only this wasn’t a training exercise; this was real and this was happening and her career and life were hanging on whatever she did next. “Put the gun down now!”

But the kid wasn’t listening, and Gingerbread Man had flipped open the wide hood of the grill, revealing the AR-15 lying underneath. Two targets, both armed, spread across the area, a civilian and her partner in the middle. No good options.

She fired a warning shot at the kid, the round going high above his head.

“Drop it!” she screamed. “Don’t make me—”

But the words fell on deaf ears. The kid had the gun up and the safety off.

Ellie dropped to the ground, behind a waist-high wall made of blue-gray stone. The first rounds ricocheted off the stone and then more rounds cut across the grass behind her. She was trapped and she knew she had to deal with this; it was happening; it was full-on; she was in a gunfight, her first. She had to put both the kid and Gingerbread Man down. That was her only option. She said a quick prayer, begging God to keep her safe, and when she came up with her weapon, the backyard erupting in a hailstorm of bullets, she saw several rounds tearing into Danny’s chest.

CHAPTER 3

SEBASTIAN NEVER MET with his blood clients. Keeping his identity secret was paramount for his continued success, and besides, he had people for that. Still, he wouldn’t have minded saying a quick hello to the beautiful Italian woman in treatment room number 3, an actress he remembered fondly from his teenage years. Her name was Isabella Flores, and she had starred in a string of critically panned but monstrously successful action movies in which she played a demon hunter named Mistress Knight, who, with an old-fashioned .357 Magnum loaded with special bullets crafted by Lucifer himself, ran around at night collecting souls that had somehow managed to escape from hell. She had starred in the first nine films before committing the one cardinal sin Hollywood could never forgive, under any circumstances: she had gotten old.