“You don’t get to make the rules. Not with me. Not after that shit you pulled.”

Paul opened his mouth to speak, then paused, as if second-guessing himself. He sighed—a bit theatrically, Ellie thought—and then he hung his head for a moment, his lips pursed.

“You know what? You’re right,” Paul said. “You’ve got every right to be pissed about what happened in Brentwood. I know they’ve put you under the microscope.”

“Under it? They kicked it up my ass.” Color was creeping up Anton’s neck—a sure sign he was getting ready to explode. “They’ve followed me for months since Brentwood ’cause they thought you and I were working together, had some sort of plan in place. They still think that.”

They, Ellie thought, had to be Frank and the real estate guy, Sebastian Kane.

Paul said, “I take it they’re back to watching you.”

“Day and night. And I’m guessing you have something to do with that.”

“Let’s talk about insurance for a moment.”

“I look like Blue Cross to you?”

“Not the medical kind,” Paul said. “I’m talking the other kind—you know, like a liability policy. A smart man always protects his investments. He hopes he never has to use it, but he knows it’s there if he needs it. It gives him peace of mind in case disaster strikes.”

The anxiety Ellie felt made her want to shift in her seat, take a look behind her. Anton didn’t move. He showed nothing, said nothing.

Paul said, “You’re super pissed off, and I get that. I do. And I wouldn’t blame you if you or your person there in the car wanted to come after me. But I’d advise you not to do that, because I took out a liability policy in the form of a friend who’s handy with a sniper rifle. He’s watching us right now, so let’s everyone keep calm, cool, and collected, okay?”

Ellie felt the skin of her face flex against the bone. She wanted to grab the gearshift, throw it in reverse, and hit the gas, then peel right out of here. It would be the reaction of a normal, sane, and sensible person. But a normal, sensible person wouldn’t have agreed to come here to meet alone with a killer—wouldn’t have agreed to go undercover to glean secrets from a gang of psychopaths.

“Brentwood,” Anton said.

“I asked your boy Tyree if he could hook me up with some of those new stickers you’re using. Said I would pay him, too.”

Paul, Ellie knew, was referring to James Tyree, the surfer-looking kid with the man bun who had packed an Uzi in his canvas bag. Her mind’s eye coughed up the picture of the kid, his limp body splayed on the concrete near the pool, blood everywhere, as Paul said, “Tyree called me that morning. I told him where I was, and he came by to—”

“You go behind my back, use that kid to deliver my sticks to you—and that Uzi. My stickmen don’t go around armed.”