The Jaguar was parked next to Frank’s car—the only two things in there.

They cleared the garage easily.

Sebastian turned to the garage door opener mounted on the wall, punched the button with his fist. He barely heard the motor and gears working, his eardrums ruptured from all the gunshots in such close quarters.

Sebastian got behind the wheel. Faye had barely shut her door when he threw the gearshift in reverse and hit the gas.

The Jaguar launched backward like a rocket. It sped past the brick area in front of the house, the two of them bouncing in their seats. The back tires ran over the edge of the lawn and the car dipped and then tore down the small slope of grass.

Sebastian knew he was heading toward the stone wall securing the perimeter. Don’t crash, he thought, slamming on the brakes. The car skidded and then stopped. Faye bounced back against her seat and then lurched forward, her arm coming up at the last moment to protect her face from smashing against the dashboard.

A shooter came running along the side of the house. Sebastian heard gunfire and saw Paul running out of the garage, loading a fresh clip into his nine. A bullet slammed into the side of the car. The armor plating absorbed it, but it took Sebastian by surprise how powerful the impact was.

A nine-millimeter round didn’t have that kind of kick. But a round from a sniper rifle did.

Guidry is a sniper, Sebastian thought. He must be here, too.

Sebastian imagined his head in Guidry’s target site when he heard another report. Faye Simpson jumped at the sound and the windshield splintered but didn’t shatter because of the bulletproof glass. Sebastian heard another report as he hit the gas again, the tires kicking up dirt and grass and skidding across the lawn. When he got closer to the gate, he righted the car and, turning, heart twisting in his chest, saw Faye Simpson slumped against the door, a softball-sized exit wound in her back, near her shoulder.

CHAPTER 29

REAL ESTATE HAD been Frank’s idea. After being released from prison, Sebastian had moved in with Frank, who already had his real estate license. Frank took him under his wing, and after Sebastian got his license they began working together, selling homes in shitty neighborhoods and pooling their proceeds to save up for a place where they could house their own carriers and then begin making real money in the blood world.

When a mortuary in Northeast LA that specialized in low-cost cremation services came on the market, Frank wanted to jump on it. “Mortuaries and funeral homes—they’re always around us and people don’t like to pay attention to them; they pretend they don’t exist until they’re forced into it,” Frank had told him while eating shitty Chinese food in their even shittier apartment. “We can house a handful of carriers there, use it as our preliminary blood farm. It’s a good starting point, Sebastian—plus, it’ll come in handy down the road. It’s a hell of a lot easier and more convenient to cremate our enemies than it is to bury them.”