He came around the corner to where the sinks were and saw that two big guys had Mitch pushed up against a wall. He recognized them right away — Tyrone Peters and Cosmo “the Coz” Lantman. Exactly the type of scumbags who kept decent people sleeping on the street rather than risking a bed in one of these shelters. Mitch’s pockets were turned out, and there were still a few quarters on the tile floor around his feet.

“What seems to be the problem here?” Denny said.

“No problem.” Tyrone didn’t even turn around to look at him. “Now get the fuck out!”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Cosmo eyeballed him now and hunkered on over. His hands looked empty, but he was obviously palming something.

“You want in? All right, you’re in.” He put a thumb and forefinger around Denny’s throat and held up a sickle-shaped blade until it was just under his nose. “Let’s see what you got to contribute —”

Denny’s hand clamped down on the asshole’s wrist in a flash and twisted it almost three-sixty, until Cosmo had to double over to keep the arm from snapping in two. From there, it was nothing to stab the Coz with his own blade, three times fast into the ass, and even that was just a warning. The liver would have been just as easy to hit. Already, Cosmo was down and bleeding all over the floor.

Meanwhile, Mitch had gone ballistic. He got his arms around the much bigger Tyrone’s waist and pile-drove him straight into the opposite wall. Tyrone got off two fast jabs — Mitch’s nose exploded with blood — but the asshole left his own jaw wide open. Mitch saw this and drove the heel of his hand straight up into it, until Tyrone went spinning. Just for good measure, Denny grabbed him on the fly and whipped him around once so his face caught some sink on the way down. A few teeth got left behind, and also a thick red smear on the dirty porcelain.

They retrieved Mitch’s cash and took whatever else Tyrone and Cosmo had on them. Then Denny pulled the thugs back into a couple of stalls.

“Punks don’t know who they’re messing with!” Mitch crowed in the hall. His eyes were practically shining, even with blood running down over his lips and onto his shirt.

“Yeah, well, let’s keep it that way,” Denny said. He’d wanted them to be seen at the shelter tonight, but at this point they’d more than accomplished their mission. “You know what? Grab your stuff. Let’s get you that bottle of Jim Beam.”

Chapter 13

LIKE A LOT of the law enforcement brotherhood, FBI Case Agent Steven Malinowski was divorced. He lived alone — except when his two daughters visited, every other weekend and one month out of the summer — in a decent-on-the-outside, kind-of-pathetic-on-the-inside little ranch in Hyattsville, Maryland.