Only a gunfight wasn’t going to happen here in his quiet neighborhood, where the slightest odd noise would be reason enough for someone to pick up the phone and call the police. The house was neutral territory—which was exactly why Paul had come here. Paul knew Sebastian would have to behave himself.

But that didn’t mean Sebastian was going to go in unprepared. Always expect the unexpected, he thought, removing the Glock from his shoulder holster. He slid it into his right front pocket as he moved into the backyard.

When Paul’s outstretched hand touched the pool liner, instead of turning around underwater and doing another lap he came up for air. He saw Sebastian looming above him and whipped his head to the side to whisk away the water.

“There you are,” Paul said. “Thought you might swing by here.”

In times of great stress, Sebastian had learned the importance of keeping a lid on his anger—not because it was the right or civil thing to do, as the prison therapist had suggested, but because it was the smart play. Killing Paul out here in the open was off the table—for now. He had to put his anger on hold—for now. Put it on hold, get Paul to Long Beach, and then he would unleash his rage. Take his time.

Savor it.

Paul hoisted himself out of the pool, splashing water on Sebastian’s shoes and pants cuffs. He straightened to his full height as if to remind Sebastian of his size and physical power.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” Paul said, padding away and dripping water as he walked toward the opposite side of the pool.

Sebastian stayed right where he was.

Paul retrieved the towel draped over the back of a chaise longue, Sebastian looking at the ridiculous tattoos covering Paul’s muscular chest, arms, and back—those decorative, brightly colored skulls, set in candy, with flowers and jewels for eyes; a gingerbread man with a mean and ugly face, and jagged teeth biting down on the blade of a bloody machete. Paul had gotten them halfway across the world, in tattoo parlors in Iraq, but as for the significance behind them, what had inspired Paul to turn his body into a nightmarish version of the board game Candy Land, Sebastian had no idea. He had asked Paul about it a couple of times, but Paul never answered, just shrugged.

Paul finished drying off and tossed the towel onto the grass and pulled out one of the chairs arranged around the patio table where the three of them had shared many meals together, as a family.

He’s not my family, Sebastian reminded himself.

Paul crossed his legs. “You talked with Frank, I take it?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. He didn’t want to have this conversation outside, their voices carrying so the neighbors or someone walking by with their dog could hear. He walked over to the table but didn’t sit, glared at Paul from behind his sunglasses.

“Care to explain just what the fuck you’re doing here?”