I bring the baton straight down onto the desk. It makes a loud crack and leaves a dent. Both men jump. “Come on, Brandon,” I say. Cargill’s eyes flicker at the use of his first name—he hates it and insists that everyone call him Brad—but otherwise he doesn’t move. “The guy the Sureños are looking for,” I continue. “Curly hair, accountant. Ring a bell?”

Cargill spreads his hands and shrugs. “The Sureños?” He pronounces it sir-rain-yos. “What’s that, some kinda mariachi band?”

I backhand him across the face with the baton. I was aiming for his nose, but instead I hit his cheek, opening an inch-long gash. He nearly falls out of his chair. Before the mechanic can even move I point the pistol at him and he raises his hands, the picture of cooperation.

“Oh, fuck,” Cargill says, sitting up, hand to his face. Blood seeps out from behind his fingers.

I glance out the window and see the man at the far end of the garage is now in the driver’s seat of the SUV, starting the engine. I move out of his line of sight and around the desk next to Cargill, who’s cursing steadily, his hand still pressed to his face.

“Come here,” I say to the mechanic in the chair. Reluctantly he stands, and I see him consider whether to do something—rush me, shout for help—but instead he walks toward me, still holding his hands up.

“Check out his face,” I say, indicating Cargill, and step back, pistol trained on the mechanic. The man hesitates, then leans over Cargill, frowning. I hit him in the back of the head with the baton and he drops to the floor like a sack of wet sand.

Cargill uses his feet to push his chair away from the mechanic on the floor, but he comes to a stop when his chair runs into a file cabinet. He has one hand clapped to his face, covering half of it, and his uncovered eye glares at me through a sheen of tears and fury. “You fucking cut my face!” he says.

I push the end of the baton against the top of the desk to collapse it, then drop the baton into a pocket of my leather jacket. I holster my pistol and lean forward to grab Cargill by the front of his shirt, shoving my face close to his. “Tane Kamaka,” I hiss. “You remember him now?”

“Okay, fuck, yes,” Cargill says, his one uncovered eye wide open. Blood runs between his fingers and down his jawline and chin, dripping to the floor. “I need a fucking doctor.”

“You’re going to need a team of doctors by the time I’m finished with you,” I say. “Where’s Tane?”

“I don’t know!” he says. “The spics are looking for him. Ask them.”