“The Michigan Department of Natural Resources,” the Black man bravely continued, “along with some of the City of Detroit Police Department’s finest sharpshooters and a DPD helicopter used as a spotter, cleared Belle Isle of all—repeat, all—deer suspected of carrying the fatal chronic wasting disease. We apologize for any disturbance this action may have caused—”

“A citizen from Windsor, Ontario, reported a fireball!” another reporter shouted.

Without finishing his prepared thoughts, the Black man introduced his portly white Michigan DNR public relations counterpart, who proceeded to educate the undulating crowd of reporters on the apocalyptic horrors of “zombie” deer.

And ticks.

Killer ticks.

Not unlike the reporters, I had a few questions of my own, like why none of us—Tomás, Lady B and her well-armed crew, Brutus Jefferies, Duke Ducane and the notorious Compton twins and me—were cooling our heels in a high-security lockdown. Or how an all-out bloody war on the island had become a DNR deer cull.

I took special notice of Police Commissioner Renard standing in the background. He looked as if he were seconds away from going thermonuclear. Renard had shown up at the Belle Isle scene in a black Lincoln Aviator SUV. Emerging from the back, over the din of sirens and people shouting, Renard had growled to a fellow passenger, “You fucking people are ridiculous! You’d sure as shit better have one big rug and a giant goddamn broom to sweep this shit under!” Then he’d slammed the rear door shut. Before the door closed, I’d seen a pair of long, shiny legs and white stiletto heels.

Tomás and I had been interviewed separately by DPD and someone I suspected was FBI (maybe the snappy suit and fifties high-and-tight haircut), but the interviews had been short and restrained—as if invisible strings were being remotely pulled and somebody else’s hands were operating their mouths. We had finally been released by Commissioner Renard, who tersely told his men, “We’re done here. Cut ’em loose.” As I passed by Renard, he’d glared at me and gruffly mumbled, “Why am I not surprised?”

“You know I ain’t got one damn weapon left,” Tomás said after a finishing gulp of his beer. “Not one pistol, rifle, bullet, knife or grenade. No C-4, no flash-bangs, no—”

“Here,” I said, reaching into the downstairs closet and pulling out one of Bojing’s guards’ Ruger AR-556 MPR rifles. “I managed to walk this out. Feel better?”

Tomás’s eyes lit up.

“You do care!” he said, taking the lethal weapon and cradling it as if it were a newborn. “You sure about this?”

“The rifle? Yeah, sure, why not? You earned it.”