Two of Bojing’s men were stationed at the DNR security booth on Belle Isle. I could tell they were his men because frankly I’d never seen DNR officers that massive. Not to mention they were wearing bulletproof vests beneath DNR-emblem-embroidered shirts stretched to bursting. It was like looking at white versions of the Compton twins—they looked equally dumb, equally dangerous. Both men were equipped with 9mm handguns and hunting knives stowed in black sheaths.

“Colder than a congressman’s pecker, eh, guys?” I said to the blond slab of guard-dog meat as I descended from the SUV. I raised my hands slowly and laced my fingers behind my head. He said nothing. Rather, he cut his eyes to his buzz-cut brunette partner. An indication he hadn’t understood a word I’d said.

Buzz Cut translated what I’d said into French for Blondie.

Not a laugh or smile between them, confirming my long-standing belief that psychopaths laugh or smile only when blood is spilled. That, or I’m not as funny as I like to think I am in any language.

“My name is—”

“We know who you are,” Buzz Cut said, taking out a Ruger SR-9 from a shoulder rig and holding it casually at his side. He nodded to Blondie, who kept me in the sights of his own Ruger pistol while Buzz Cut methodically inspected the SUV from stem to stern.

When Buzz Cut reached the back window of the SUV, he peered at the tarp that covered all of Tomás’s munitions.

“Holy shit!”

My cue . . .

I swung low and to the back of the Blondie guard near me, extracted his knife and buried it to the hilt in his left eye. I knelt behind Blondie’s collapsing body, using him as a shield. Buzz Cut fired twice from behind the SUV, both shots thumping into Blondie’s bulletproof vest. Blondie was trembling, slowly losing contact with motor skills because of the knife buried in his brain. I grabbed his Ruger pistol and waited for Buzz Cut to fire. He did, which meant he’d leaned or stepped out from behind the SUV. I quickly took two shots, hitting his left knee, then his hip. He fell sideways into a snowbank. He fired three more shots, his dying partner receiving one in the head. A spray of blood and brain in my face. I fired one more shot, taking out Buzz Cut’s trachea.

Dead.

I washed my face and hands with snow, checked my suit for any blood or brains and took Blondie’s walkie-talkie. I got back in the SUV and fired up the engine. Before shifting into drive, I clicked twice on the walkie-talkie’s speak button.

“What’s up?” a voice said, crackling through the walkie-talkie.

“Guess who’s coming to dinner, motherfucker?” I said before tossing the walkie-talkie out of the driver’s side window.