“Don’t you give me that innocent face, you slime, you murdering bastard!” Jake’s offer of support became a grapple of restraint as Maxine lunged for Bright’s face. The room erupted with outraged shouts and the clatter of wood and steel, Smith and Joe alike.

Spunk loosed his knife in its sheath. “Jus’ say da word.”

Maxine bucked against the prison of Jake’s grip. “Do it! Tear out his fucking throat!”

“A slice for each one we lost!” Breakers yelled from above.

“NO!” Rousseau bellowed. “This stops right now!” He turned his back on Bright to lay one hand on Spunk’s shoulder and the other on Maxine’s. “Not here. Not at Unca Joe.”

Bright said nothing. He looked panicky and stunned.

When the room was quiet and it seemed no one was going to die right off, Rousseau faced Maxine. “What is this all about?”

Maxine drew into herself, got some control, then nodded for Jake to let her go. She jabbed a gauze-wrapped finger at Bright. “This trail of slime showed up at my den with the very same offer, not two days before the raid. Some vast price we could never afford. When I declined his services, he said he hoped I wouldn’t regret it.”

“Now, that’s a nasty coincidence,” said Jake.

“Raid?” asked Bright. “You can’t think I . . .”

“Who wouldn’t?” snapped Jake.

“My business is defense, not offense.” Bright’s boys were muttering among themselves. He hushed them. “What happened?”

“Don’t give me that!” Maxine’s body spasmed with outrage, her eyes wild. “You didn’t watch all our stores carried away? You didn’t see my entire den fired to the ground? You didn’t smell the bodies burned to char, the children made orphans?”

“I didn’t know . . .” Bright turned to Rousseau, hands spread. “I did make an offer. If accepted, my men would have been there to protect my clients. But I never . . .”

“You fucking creep! You sent those Adders in!”

Whistles and harsh whoops of fury echoed around the hall, rousing, hard to resist. I surged forward, but Rubio yanked me back by the wrist. “What are you doing?”

A good question. Was I ready to see blood spatter the tiles, eager to turn our den into a killing field, Rousseau’s worst nightmare? Maxine’s folk awaited only her signal. Even the mild-mannered Irv, hunkered with us at the table, quivered with rage and readiness.

“NO!” Rousseau roared, and in this hall, he was still the boss, if only by a hair.

He waited until the shouting died to angry murmurs. He met Maxine’s glare squarely, pushed past mediation and ready to say his piece. “Den Ladysmith. We have taken you in and mourned with you. We’ve fed and clothed you and soothed your wounds. While you are here, you will honor our values, and I tell you now: killing is not our way.”