The Angel shook her head. “Not a chance.” She stopped. A delicious aroma was wafting down the avenue. She realized that she hadn’t eaten for hours, as did her stomach, which grumbled audibly and angrily. She knew that she needed refueling. She stopped, pointed to the hot dog cart parked by the curb, a dozen feet ahead of them.

“Hungry?” she asked Razor Joan, who was still observing her closely, as if trying to unravel an enigma.

“Sure. I could use something before we head off for Brighton Beach.”

The Angel nodded and turned to the joker vendor who wore a white, puffy chef’s hat and a less than spotless white apron.

“What can I get you ladies?” He had a spatula in one hand, a can of soda in the other, an open bun in his third, and a squeeze bottle of mustard in the one that grew out of his chest. The smell of onions and peppers popping on the grill drew a rush of saliva to the Angel’s mouth. They’d rushed off to the meeting without getting a bite of breakfast.

“Six brats with the works—onions, peppers, and sauerkraut—and three Dr Peppers.” The Angel turned to Lonnegan. “What do you want?”

Lonnegan laughed in sheer disbelief. “I’ll have two dogs with sauerkraut and mustard.” She laughed again. “Some of us have to keep an eye on our figures.”

“Mollie!” Dad’s voice floated through the portal to Idaho. “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you waiting for?”

I’m safe, she reminded herself. I’m smart, I’m safe, I’m quick. Smart enough not to venture outside these locked quarters, safe behind a locked door, quick enough to get away if anybody tries to break in. I’m okay. They can’t get me.

She returned to the closet. “Heads up!” she called. She pushed the liberated safe through to Idaho. It crashed to the floor of the barn to smash against a pair of mangled slot machines. Dad and Brent hauled the safe aside and went to work with more hydraulic tools while the other boys kept pounding on the pile of slot machines. Judging from the mounds of coins it appeared they’d gotten the hang of opening them.

Mollie dragged Baba Yaga’s bed aside. Then she moved the portal so the lines for the hydraulic cutter could reach the safe in the floor. The whine of the cutting tool helped to drown out the screaming and shooting and murdering of the pitched battle from elsewhere inside the casino. It would be over quickly; how could an unarmed homicidal cannibal flashmob hope to overpower angry Ukrainian and Kazakh mobsters armed to the teeth with automatics?