On early mornings, though, deadlifting on her rooftop patio while watching the smog ride low and off-color over the Los Angeles Basin, Tera knew two things for certain. One: she wasn’t dead at fifty; she still needed excitement in her life, something to make her pulse run faster.

Two: she wasn’t finished with Luke Kingsley.

His house bore the unloved frontage of a single man, with its grimy windows, faded paintwork, and several cracked planters strangled with weed. Tera had Ruben ring the doorbell while she screwed the action end of her Beretta into the pad of muscle between his rib cage and hip.

No answer.

“Send your boss a text,” Tera snarled into Ruben’s ear. “Tell him to open the fucking door.”

Ruben did. Seconds later, the front door swung open. Johan and Xander stood in Luke Kingsley’s hallway with decidedly suspect looks on their faces.

“Oh shit,” Johan said.

“Johan Fly, you slimy motherfucker. You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

She pressed with the pistol, urging Ruben forward. They edged into the hallway. Tera kicked the door closed behind her, then pushed Ruben toward Johan and Xander. He stumbled. Johan held him up. Tera kept her pistol at the ready, the sights flicking between the three of them.

Xander—holding a manila envelope in one hand—shot a glance at Johan. Tera knew what he was thinking. Three-on-one. Let’s jump this bitch. Johan gave his head the tiniest shake and made a calming gesture with one hand.

“That’s right,” Tera said. “Don’t try anything stupid. You think I’m on my own, but I’ve got fifteen amigos in the mag that are faster and tougher than any of you.”

Xander’s shoulders slumped. Johan stroked his long Viking beard and smiled.

“It’s been a while, Detective Montecino,” he said. “No, wait . . . it’s Ms. Montecino now. Word on the street is you got your ass canned.”

“I took early retirement,” Tera said, and angled her head, willing him to challenge her. He didn’t. “This looks like breaking-and-entering to me, Johan. Unless Luke Kingsley found himself a new cleaner.”

“So you know who lives here?” Johan asked.

“That I do.”

“And you know he’s a wife-killing motherfucker?”

“That he is.”

A stillness settled among them—several silent seconds in which mutual interest was gauged. Tera took a step back, lowered her gun a few inches, but kept her arms extended. She stared into each hard face, seeing anger, concern, and uncertainty. Johan softened his expression, then raised both hands peaceably.

“I think we’re on the same side here,” he said.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Tera rebutted. Her gaze flicked to the envelope in Xander’s hand. It was half-tucked behind his back, as if he didn’t know whether to hide it or not. “What’ve you got there, Xander?”