I ignore him and step into the office, pulling the door closed behind me. It’s not much of an office—bad beige carpet, a crowded bulletin board, a couple of chairs, a wood-veneer desk, some file cabinets behind the desk. To the left is another door, which must lead out back. Cargill stops spinning in his chair and looks at me, phone still clamped to his ear. “Well, I’m not fixing it for free, Mr. Becks,” Cargill says into the phone, a slight smile on his face, his eyes never leaving me. “I’m running a business. But once we identify the problem and can order the parts, I’m sure we can—”

“Hang up the phone,” I say.

Cargill’s smile remains fixed. “Hang on just one second, Mr. Becks,” he says, then lowers the phone. His eyes wander over my body, his gaze eventually returning to my own. His smile widens, revealing teeth. “Lemme finish this call, sweetie, and then I’m all yours,” he says. He raises the phone back to his ear. “Mr. Becks? Sorry about that—”

The humming in my head intensifies, a siren’s call. The baton is in my hand and I flick my wrist and the baton extends with a snick. The smile drops off Cargill’s face. I swing the baton, hitting the phone and sending it out of Cargill’s hand to thump onto the carpet.

“Jesus Christ—” Cargill snatches his hand away like it’s burned.

I use the baton to sweep some papers and a desk lamp to the floor. Cargill scrambles to stand up out of his chair, but before he gets to his feet I jab him in the chest with the baton. He loses his balance and falls back into his chair. I switch the baton to my left hand, freeing me to draw my CZ 75 just as the mechanic who was working on the Mustang rushes through the office door.

“Nope,” I say, pointing the pistol at him. I glance at Cargill and push the baton into his chest, pinning him to his chair, then return my attention to the mechanic. “Close the door and have a seat,” I say, waving the pistol to indicate a chair underneath the plate-glass window. The mechanic glances at Cargill, then shuts the door and takes a seat. Through the window I see the other man at the far end of the garage still has his head in the engine of that SUV.

“Girl, I don’t know who the hell you are,” Cargill says, “but you done fucked with the wrong man.”

“You’d know if I fucked you,” I say. “This is just foreplay.” I remove the baton from his chest and cock it over one shoulder, my pistol covering both men. “Where’s Tane Kamaka?”

“Who?”