“Just to check in,” she said. “I thought you might like to know that Christine Flanagan has been reunited with her family in Boston. She has a long road ahead of her, but there are good people by her side.”

Christine Flanagan was the “crack whore” that Ramón had apparently found in the gutter in Vegas. The other three women—all undocumented—had been taken to a residential center in Arizona, and were currently awaiting a decision by immigration authorities.

For Ramón, the decision had already been made: a lifetime in High Desert State Prison on a string of charges, including five counts of kidnapping, multiple counts of assault and rape, and the possession, trafficking, and manufacture of various controlled substances.

“You could have told me that in an email,” Luke said. “But while you’re here, can I get you a drink? I have beer, water . . .”

“A beer with Luke Kingsley.” Tera lifted one eyebrow. “Why not?”

The police and the press had a skewed version of events, because Tera had done most of the talking. They didn’t know, for instance, that Tera had been tracking Luke for months, and that she had tasked Johan Fly and his cohorts with carrying out an extreme form of justice. If this information were ever to come to light, it would be particularly damaging to Tera’s newfound hero status.

This was the real reason for her visit. She wanted to get a read on Luke—ascertain whether or not he had any interest in blabbing, and get ahead of it if she had to.

He decided to put her at ease.

“You saved my life,” he said, handing her a frosty-cold Bud. “You saved Kitty’s life, and you probably saved Lisa’s, too.”

Tera shrugged, but she knew it was true.

“We’re good,” Luke said.

“You sure?”

He twisted the cap off his own bottle and angled it toward hers. She considered it for a moment, then held out her hand instead. Luke nodded, drummed his palm into Tera’s, and shook. It was every bit the robust, Chuck-Norris-style shake that he’d anticipated, and that pleased him.

Xander Cray was cremated at an unremarkable ceremony in his hometown of Escondido, California. Six people were in attendance, all of whom remained silent. There was no eulogy of any kind, and not a single tear was shed. The entire process was as perfunctory as burning yard waste, and Xander was missed about as much.

Ruben Osterfeld’s demise was more widely memorialized, given his large family and MMA background. He trended across social media, and his various accounts exploded in terms of followers before being permanently removed. Ruben was buried in Historic South-Central, with an impressive crowd in attendance, and a soul quartet singing “Stand by Me” as his coffin was lowered into the ground. His father was heard to remark afterward that it was more than he deserved.