“You owe me money.” Johan nodded at the boxes he’d placed among the detritus on the coffee table. Benito smiled. Miguel laughed. A girl—no older than eighteen, clearly high on the product—stumbled into the room, wearing only a pair of discolored underwear. She fell bonelessly across the sofa, nuzzling into Miguel, her head bumping against the .45 in his lap. Chico blew smoke and slurred something in Spanish.

Johan took all this in, understanding what was happening, but not grasping why. He shook his head again. Had he insulted them in some way, or done something else wrong? Was the last batch inferior, or light? Had he inadvertently cheated them?

“There’s obviously been a misunderstanding,” he said. “I can—”

Benito pulled his own semiautomatic and pointed it at Johan.

“Go.” One word, spoken coolly.

Johan raised his hands, took a big step back. He would have turned and run, but the voices in his blood had woken. Anger kept him rooted.

“I have the contact.” He drummed his forefinger against his chest. “You can’t get that ice without me.”

“Your man . . . Ramón, in Nevada.” Benito dropped a knowing wink. “He is our man now.”

A light of understanding flared in Johan’s mind. They’d followed him. They’d followed his bright fucking yellow Corvette with its stupid fucking neon underglow to Pale Bone. They’d persuaded Ramón to work with them directly. Cut out the middleman. More stacks for everyone.

“You fucked me,” Johan whispered. He’d been fucked before—those big-ass mamas down on South Figueroa Street really knew what they were doing—but this was an entirely different experience, and it didn’t feel good at all. “We had a deal.”

“This deal,” Benito said, using the semiautomatic to gesture again at the door. “Only reason you’re not already dead.”

Johan left in a rage, tears flooding his eyes. The voices in his blood rose to a war-like cacophony that didn’t fade for weeks. There was no respite. He was on a crashing, swaying longship, caught in a storm.

He knew what he had to do, and his warrior DNA assured him he could do it.

Louis Cameron was a blacksmith out of Topanga Canyon who specialized in making medieval weaponry for movies. He’d worked on The Horns of Hattin and 26 Cannons, and was known for his authenticity and attention to detail. Johan visited his workshop in the mountains—it had an anvil and forge, much to Johan’s pleasure—and handed him an illustration that he’d removed from one of his grandfather’s old reference books.

“Can you make it?”