“A couple of weeks ago, it came to my attention that Mr. Salvador Gallo, aka Angelo, was selling a diluted version of my product to his tweaker friends.” Johan ran the tip of one finger along the ax’s swooping blade. “You can see the problem here. Canary is an exclusive focus enhancer, used by the Hollywood elite, and it is priced accordingly. Angelo distributing it to his lowlife cohorts negates that exclusivity, which severely impacts its appeal, and therefore my revenue. More importantly, the inferior quality demeans my reputation.”

His shoes were immaculately polished, the brown leather reflecting the basement lights as he stepped toward Kitty. He lowered the ax so that the head almost struck the floor, then used the hooked edge to flip the lid off the box. Kitty caught another glimpse of Angelo’s soft black curls before screwing her eyes shut. She then heard a scraping sound, followed by a light thump. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the box had been upended, and that Angelo’s head had rolled across the floor, facing Sly Boy.

Johan crouched over it for a moment—admiring his handiwork, perhaps—then stood to his full height and switched his gaze between Sly Boy and Kitty. His voice was steady, despite his obscene anger.

“I asked Angelo how he managed to obtain my canary—enough of it to distribute over a matter of weeks—and he said . . .” Johan let the sentence hang, now swinging the ax head like a pendulum, first toward Sly Boy, then toward Kitty, back and forth, seven or eight times, finally settling on Sly Boy. “You, Sly Boy. Angelo said he got it from you.”

“And you believe him?” Sly Boy stormed. Spittle popped from between his broken lips. “He’s a fucking piece-of-shit liar.”

“I had this ax held to his throat,” Johan said with an eerie degree of nonchalance. “Why would he lie?”

“Because he’s a fucking meth-head.” Sly Boy’s chains dragged, then tightened as he tried to crawl toward Johan. An expression of terrific angst worked every bruised muscle in his face. “I don’t know anything about this, Johan, I swear to you. I fucking swear.”

Johan appeared to consider this, tilting his head, frowning lightly. Kitty clutched her skateboard to her chest. It had been a comfort before, but now it felt like more—an embodiment of her freedom. She had a brief, hopeful vision of driving the tail of the board backward, into Xander’s balls, making her escape as he fell gasping to his knees.

“Angelo is untrustworthy, I’ll give you that.” Johan turned his attention to Kitty, pointing at her with the head of his ax. “So what, then—or who—is the link between my product and Angelo Gallo, who usually digs his drugs out of garbage cans?”