She was halfway through her drink when the Viking entered the club. He stood out, even in the gloom, a tall guy—six-two, easily—wrapped in lean muscle, an ornate tattoo on the left side of his neck. More dark ink decorated his forearms. He noticed Kitty and smiled, twisting the prongs of his beard.

“Shit,” Kitty said. “That’s him.”

“That fucking guy?”

The Viking’s driver stood just behind and to the left of him. He was thick-bodied and looked dangerous, as if missing a critical element that made him all the way human. An animal—a jackal, maybe—that would eat his own young to stay alive.

Cal put his drink down and got to his feet. “I’ll take care of this prick,” he said, striding past Kitty with his chest puffed out. Cal had once told Kitty that he used to train SWAT team members in close-quarters combat.

He and the Viking met at the end of the bar. Kitty might have heard their brief conversation, had the band been between numbers. Not that she needed to hear anything. Cal gestured toward the door. You’re not welcome here. Kindly leave. The Viking twisted his beard and nodded toward Kitty. Not going anywhere. I want to talk to her. Cal said something else, puffing his chest out a little more. He prodded the Viking with his finger, which ended all dialogue.

The driver stepped forward and drove his fist into Cal’s face. It was a quick attack, and devastating. Cal’s nose broke open with a staccato pop. He wobbled on his heels and raised one hand, perhaps in some feeble attempt at defense, or to cry uncle. Whatever it was, it didn’t work. The driver grabbed him by the hair and introduced his face to the wall. Not once, but three times. The impacts were solid enough to halt the band. A flower of Cal’s blood bloomed on the rustic brickwork. One of his teeth hit the barroom floor and skated all the way to where Kitty was standing.

“Ain’t that some unhappy shit,” the pianist grumbled into his microphone.

The driver let go of Cal, who dropped into a loose heap, his days of eating solid food behind him, much like his days of training SWAT team members in close-quarters combat. His face was a broken mess.

The Viking examined his fingernails—indifferent, cool—and tipped Kitty a wink. At that point, Sly Boy and Ruben appeared, bursting in from the back of the club where Sly Boy kept an office. Kitty wanted to vault the bar and hide. Shit was about to go down, and it wouldn’t just be unhappy. There would be guns. There would be bodies.

Or so she thought.