“I’d deny everything, of course, and let my father’s lawyers work it out in court. Then I’d sue for defamation of character. But really, who needs the headache?”

Luke drew a dry breath. Pain radiated from his ribs and spine.

“Either way, it would have meant the end of my lucrative canary enterprise.” Johan shook his head, as if the mere thought of this were an affront. “And all because of you and Kitty. You two make quite the team.”

“Crockett and Tubbs,” Xander quipped.

Johan laughed at that. He pointed at his berserker and nodded appreciatively. “Right? Because he looks like Don Johnson. In that fucking movie.”

“And because Kitty’s Black,” Xander added.

“Good, Xan. Good.”

Luke straightened, pulling his shoulders square. He met Johan’s gaze and tried to find whatever steel he had inside. “Let her go. This is all on me.”

Johan’s laughter ebbed to a mirthless hiss. He stroked his woven beard and narrowed his eyes. “Noble. I admire that. And such an unusual quality for a wife-killer.”

Luke shook his head. A coyote howled somewhere to the south, a lone cry that filled the night for a moment, then faded to nothing.

“How did you find us?” Luke asked.

Johan removed his hand from the back of Luke’s neck and walked around to the exposed underside of the Caliber. He crouched, craning his head this way and that, then grabbed something close to where the pummeled muffler hung by one strap. He examined it for a few seconds, turning it this way and that, before returning to Luke.

“These things really stick, huh?” He held it up—a small black box with a winking green light and the word track-u-gen printed on one side. “You know what this is?”

“You were tracking me?” Luke asked.

“Not me,” Johan replied. “This little doodad landed on your shitbox courtesy of Tera Montecino, formerly of the LAPD. You know her?”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, she doesn’t like you much, either.” Johan flicked his attention from the tracking device to Luke. “She gave us your location—just in the nick of time, I might add—on the promise that I enforce my own brand of justice. I assume she didn’t want to get any blood on her hands. But that’s okay; it washes off my Scandinavian skin quite easily.”

“Justice,” Luke echoed grimly. “For my wife’s supposed death.”

“Yes, but also for Kitty’s death.” Johan displayed his blade-like grin again. “You really shouldn’t have left those staged photos lying around your house.”

“Jesus Christ,” Luke said. He looked at the stars, as if they were all gods, every one of them laughing at him.

“That was excellent work, by the way. My compliments to your makeup artist.”