It would be a quick, brutal attack. The Mexicans would not see him coming. These were not brilliant people with complicated lives. They were drug dealers. Johan knew their routine. When they weren’t slinging rock or cruising Crenshaw in Benito’s lowrider, they were fucking teenage tweakers or smoking up (usually both at the same time). Johan just needed the three of them alone.

It was the early hours of a Friday morning. Benito, Chico, and Miguel returned from wherever, probably their corners in Huntington Park, or from outside Alejandro’s Stop on Pacific Boulevard, where they were known to hang out. Johan was parked at the end of the block in an old Buick he’d bought for $700. He heard them coming before he saw them; Chicano rock pounded from the speakers of Benito’s custom ride. Not ideal. It might wake the neighbors, but then again, this was the kind of place that slept through gunshots.

They were alone. No chicas looking to party. That was good. Johan watched as they sauntered one after the other through the front door. He waited seven minutes for any disturbed neighbors to return to bed, but also for the three of them to get comfortable, lower their guard, maybe unstrap their weapons and blaze up.

Johan grabbed Krókr from the backseat. He wore a long jacket and a baseball cap with his hair tucked up inside—a meager disguise, but better than nothing. He got out of the Buick, hid the ax inside his jacket, and crossed the street to the drug dealers’ run-down crib. At the front door, concealed in the shadows of the porch, he took off the baseball cap and jacket. He was shirtless beneath, his new tattoos stark and striking, his new muscles pumped with adrenaline.

The front door opened with one swing of the ax. It may have been bolted and chained—Johan had no idea; he heard the sound of splintering wood and then he was in. Everything after that happened in a shocking blur.

He stormed into a cramped living space. Shit everywhere. The stink of cat piss. Stains across the walls. These cholo bad boys clearly hadn’t used any of their drug money on home décor. There was a woman on the sofa, very young, maybe twenty. Johan dimly registered that these three fucks were supposed to be alone—there’d been no chicas in the lowrider—but this girl must have been here all night. She screamed, jumped to her feet. Johan swung the ax and cut her in half.