He stepped toward her now, scraping the ax along the floor behind him, just as he had at Jink’s Warehouse. There were so many echoes of that horrific night here, with two big differences: it was Luke (a good man), not Sly Boy (a liar and a coward), tied up next to her, and the Rattlesnake Hotel was in the middle of nowhere. Even if she did manage to free herself and throw open the door beneath the exit sign, where would she go?

Johan ran one finger across the swollen skin beneath her right eye. She pulled away from him, pressing backward into Ruben, who tightened his hold across her chest.

“Kitty, Kitty . . . my sweet little raccoon.”

“Fuck you.”

He pressed his lips together and looked at her. His gaze softened for a beat, as if he were contemplating all the things that might have been, then his nastiness shone through again. He showed his teeth, gesturing toward Luke.

“Your friend here says I’m not a Viking, because I was born in Los Angeles twenty-eight years ago.” Johan brushed dust off the shoulder of his T-shirt. “What do you say, Kitty?”

“You’re a monster,” she replied, looking at the exit sign. Was it shining a little brighter now? Were the letters a little larger?

“A monster?” He shook his head. “I simply protect those who are loyal to me, and the things I’ve worked so hard to achieve.”

“You kill people, Johan. Don’t make it sound noble.”

“I eliminate threats. It’s how a business—how anything—survives. And, Kitty, you know I want to look good doing it.” He struck a pose, raking one hand through his hair. “I’m all about the showmanship.”

The lights in the lobby went out for a second, then hummed and clicked back on. The main building was set back from the road, fronted by a parking lot and fringed by unkempt fan palms. Kitty wondered if the blinking lights might be noticed by passing vehicles—a police cruiser, perhaps. This situation could be quickly resolved by a couple of state troopers with good instincts and a precise aim.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Your actor friend has a point, though,” Johan continued, hoisting his ax and pointing it at Luke. “A Nordic ancestry, by itself, is not enough. A Viking is not defined by who he is, but by the things he does.”

He moved away from Kitty, walking a slow, almost predatory semicircle back to Luke. The set of his shoulders, the arrogant tilt of his chin, suggested he was enjoying every second of this.

“So,” he said, crouching a little so that he could look into Luke’s downcast eyes. “What can I do to convince him?”