Vengeance has a scent, and it smells like Blakely.

* * *

Rust claws up a gun-metal gray warehouse set along the East River. Lights from the prison on Rikers Island glow in hazy blooms of yellow and orange against a midnight-blue sky. The earthy aroma of fresh rain and acrid mildew mix with the night air to ground me in the moment.

It’s quiet here on the edge of the city, denoting a sense of solitude, even though a herd of people gather in front of the meat packing warehouse.

Before we arrived, Blakely and I waited near the number 2, growing impatient when Ericson still hadn’t received a text for the fight location. It finally came through fifty minutes ago. According to Blakely, these fights change location, never happening in the same place twice in a row.

We took the train to The Bronx, then a cab dropped us off one street over. She wanted to get a look at the place from a distance, watch people as they arrive. We stand across the street now as Blakely eyes the cut bouncer standing guard at the entrance to our destination.

Tickets for the fight are sold in advance through covert channels—channels we don’t have access to. “What’s the plan to get inside?” I ask.

She scans the crowd, then nods to a guy wearing a puffer jacket standing in the back of the forming line. “Let’s talk to him.” She sets off, but abruptly stops and holds up her hand. “Wait.”

She faces me and places her hands on my chest. She’s a few inches shorter than me, even in heels, and that distinct fragrance that is all her envelops me. A distraction I try to overcome as she moves her palms down my body.

“You change your mind quick,” I say, affecting a smug tone.

Then I realize she’s patting me down. I try to step away, but she drops down and hikes up the cuff of my jeans. With deft reflexes, she snatches the holster off my ankle. As she gets to her feet, she unsheathes the hunting knife. “Christ. Who are you, Rambo?”

I tense at her chiding remark. “I thought we might need protection.”

She arches an accusatory eyebrow. “I am the protection,” she says. “Besides, you can’t take weapons into a place like this. They search you. And when that meaty bouncer over there finds this knife, he’ll toss you out…very painfully.”

“Duly noted.” I watch her discard my knife in a trash bin with a sharp stab of pain to my gut. “How did you know I was carrying?”

“Carrying?” Her full lips twist into a sardonic smile. “You’ve been walking odd tonight, favoring one leg. And you kept looking down at your ankle on the ride here.” She shrugs, like this skill is nothing at all.