The big man approaches first, the sawed-off dangling from one hand, a slow smile on his face. He’s used to intimidating people. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulder, and he’s probably got seventy pounds of muscle on me. He could snap me in half. In other words, he’s a distinct threat.

Finally.

I extend my left arm and spray a canister of red pepper gel directly into the big man’s face. Gel’s better than aerosol spray—easier to aim and far less likely to drift back into my own eyes. It’s also nonlethal, although it makes your eyes and mouth feel like they’re on fire. The big man screams and falls to his knees, wiping at his face, the sawed-off clattering to the porch floor. Dreadlocks runs at me, his footsteps thundering on the wooden boards, but I’ve already drawn my baton and extend it with a flick of the wrist. I spin and swing the steel rod, striking his chest and sending him crashing into a wicker sofa. A cloud of yellow pollen erupts from the cushions, dusting his mirrored sunglasses. When Dreadlocks tries to stand up, I hit him in the head with the baton. It’s just a tap, not hard enough to crack his skull. He drops back onto the couch like he’s suddenly decided he needs a nap.

I turn and put the end of the baton against Peaches’s chest, pinning him against the wall of the house. Peaches hasn’t moved except for his mouth dropping open. With the Hawks cap on his head, he looks a little like a kid who just got his ass handed to him on the playground. My head is humming now like I’m on my third or fourth beer, except I’m completely stone sober and grinning like a maniac.

“I don’t like being called ‘girl,’” I say.

Peaches flicks his eyes toward the big man moaning on the porch, then back to me. Without looking, I sweep my foot across the floor to the right, connecting with the sawed-off I know is there and sending it sliding across the porch and well out of reach of anyone. I risk a glance at the big man, who is still on his knees, wiping at his eyes and bawling. Dreadlocks is still sprawled unconscious on the couch. Satisfied, I turn my attention back to Peaches. “All you had to do was let me ask my question,” I say.

Wariness and anger wrestle in Peaches’s face. “That’s not how your uncle said we would do this,” he spits.

So I wasn’t imagining his reaction earlier. “He’s in the hospital,” I say. “Didn’t exactly have time to give me the down-low on whatever kind of secret handshake you all have.”

Peaches frowns. “Hospital?” He’s not so much concerned as wary.