He stepped into the room and Kitty attacked. In that second, all of her pain, exhaustion, and fear came together, fused into a cluster of energy intent on connecting the makeshift weapon with Johan’s skull. It was perfectly timed, brutally executed. Johan flailed backward, into the hallway. As Kitty watched, a puddle of blood darkened his blond hair and dripped down his face.

He swayed but didn’t go down. His mouth drooped into a trembling, inverted V. His eyes clouded for a moment, then snapped into focus, clear and blue.

“I always knew you were a fighter,” he hissed.

She screamed and threw the rattlesnake ornament at him. It hit his chest and knocked him back against the wall. She followed with the belt—two quick, stinging strikes. Johan retaliated by swinging Krókr in a heavy arc. It missed Kitty by some distance, but the threat of it unbalanced her. She stumbled and hit the floor hard.

Blood soaked into Johan’s plaited beard and splashed onto his chest. He trudged toward her, dragging the hateful ax.

“Bad Kitty,” he said.

Scrrreeeeeeee . . .

The poolside lights showed his face: a disfigured mask. They showed his body: a bloodstained rag. Xander pointed with the one remaining finger on his right hand and aimed the .45 with the other.

“Your final performance,” he slurred. “And the only one I’m going to enjoy.”

The report was deafening, a shuddering clap that opened the night. But it didn’t come from Xander’s gun.

The bullet entered the back of Xander’s skull and exited just above his left eyebrow. It was quick and messy—a splash of blood and bone against the starry sky—then he was gone, dead before his legs buckled.

Luke blinked several times, not breathing but definitely, incomprehensibly, still alive. He wiped Xander’s blood from his face and looked up. Tera Montecino, his old nemesis, was perched on one knee at the edge of the pool. A thread of smoke twisted from the barrel of her gun.

“Help is on the way,” she said, and collapsed onto her side.

Luke’s mouth moved soundlessly. He looked from Tera to Xander, expecting him to leap up for one final jump scare (goddamn the movies). When he was certain that the berserker was dead, he got to his knees, crawled over to the ladder, and dragged himself out of the pool.

“I called for backup,” Tera said. She lay, clasping her hip, sheet-pale and reaching for air. “You think you can survive another five minutes?”

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. Everything tipped giddily to the left, then the right. He dropped down beside Tera. “My wife . . . did you . . . did—”

“There’s a BOLO out for Ramón Aparicio, your bat-faced man.” Tera looked down at her bleeding side, because perhaps that was better than looking him in the eye. “If Lisa is with him . . .”