The address was for an expansive mall-like parking lot. It didn’t belong to a shopping mall but to an old Toyota manufacturing plant. She’d caught the sign in the front, long since faded by the sun and neglect, a couple letters missing.

“Drive around to the back,” Anton said, yawning.

“I think it’s time you tell me what I’m walking into.”

“You’re not walking into anything. You’re going to stay in the car.” There wasn’t a trace of anxiety in his voice—or on his face, for that matter. He yawned again, his jaw popping. She could see his eyes blinking behind his sunglasses. “And stay frosty, okay? Eyes and ears, eyes and ears—especially on your six. You don’t want anyone to smoke check you.”

It annoyed the shit out of her when he spoke in military slang, as if he had been a real soldier instead of a thug who did blood, shot ’roids into an ass cheek, shopped at Barneys, and had a five-thousand-dollar espresso machine in his condo. The tough-guy talk sounded like it had been plucked from video games and bad movies; still, he did have the ability to back up the tough-guy talk, because Anton was tough—ferociously so. She had seen him in action several times, with her own eyes.

They were in the back of the building now. She saw a bunch of gray-and-brown interconnected buildings, all the street-level windows gone, replaced by wood boards spray-painted with graffiti, like the rest of the plant.

“See that wide-open bay up there?” Anton said, pointing out the windshield. “Park in front of it.”

Ellie had to drive around oil barrels, shopping carts, and more than a few soiled mattresses scattered haphazardly on the ground. “How many people are you meeting?”

“That remains to be seen.” Anton snorted and leaned forward in his seat, scanning the area. “There’s a Glock in my backpack. Keep it handy but not out in the open. Put it in this side compartment here, or under the seat.”

Ellie’s back was slick with sweat.

“You ever fire a gun?” Anton asked.

Ellie Batista had, but not Faye Simpson. “Held a couple but never fired one.”

“You point and pull the trigger—that’s it.” She could feel his gaze on the side of her face. “Relax, will you? This is just for your protection, in case this shit goes sideways. I don’t think it will, but like you Americans say, it’s better to be prepared than to get caught with your dick flapping in the wind—am I right?”

“I don’t even know what this situation is.”

“Stop right here.”

The floor inside the bay was concrete. It was stained by decades of rust and grease. The afternoon sun lit up a good amount of the space directly in front of her, and she saw part of what appeared to be an assembly line, robotic arms of different shapes and sizes frozen in midair and stiff with rust, practically all the paint in there having fallen off. Ellie shoved the gearshift into park and left the engine running.