When I reach the end of the aisle, I stand and turn the corner, running right into Soul Patch and two other guys. He grins, showing me his teeth as well as the barrel of his own MAC-11. “Bala!” he shouts. “Es la puta!”

“Yeah, la puta,” I say. “You guys are so fucking original.”

Soul Patch plucks the CZ out of my hand and shoves it into his belt, then with his free hand grabs my shoulder and turns me around, pushing me face-first into a crate, the MAC-11 pressed against the back of my head. I stay calm, breathing through my open mouth, waiting for a moment. I hear footsteps running up, and more hands grab me, someone lifting the shotgun up and over my head. Then I’m dragged down the aisle and around the end of one wall of crates into an open space where Bala and Cargill are. I try to count Bala’s men standing around the perimeter. Six or seven, including Soul Patch and the two goons holding my arms, plus the two outside. And whoever else might be wandering around the warehouse.

The men holding my arms let go of me, but Soul Patch pokes me in the back with the MAC-11 to let me know he’s still paying attention.

Cargill’s face is bruised and swollen around the butterfly bandages. He gawps at me. “The fuck are you doing here?”

“Shopping,” I say, keeping my eyes on Bala.

Next to Cargill is the mechanic I knocked out earlier that afternoon. His name’s Jerry, I remember. Jerry’s eyes are wet with pain and anger. “You fucking bitch,” he says. “You hit me over the goddamned head.”

I shrug. “At least I didn’t cut your cheek open. Brandon’s gonna have a nice scar.”

Bala tilts his shaved head as if to get a better angle on me. “This is the old man’s niece?” he says.

“Yes, sir,” Cargill says. “And he’ll pay a pretty penny for her, too, even if he’s all stove up in the hospital.”

“Where’s Tane?” I ask Bala.

Bala smiles, revealing yellowed teeth. “I heard you’d lost him. Don’t worry, when we find him, I’ll make sure to tell him that right before we killed you, you were asking about him.”

“Wait, what?” Cargill says.

The howler monkeys in my head are hooting, but whether they’re amused or scared I don’t know. “That’s a great idea,” I say to Bala. “You shoot me in the head and my uncle will take you apart like a watch.”

Bala’s smile dims slightly, but not nearly enough. “Your tío is on death’s door,” he says. “I’m not worried about him.”