But then he sees Lulu. Standing there stock still, the side of her neck open like a blooming rose. Blood starts to pump, a little at first, then a squirt. Her lips are red, too. A red far darker than her lipstick.

She starts to fall. Mookie reaches for her.

What he catches is a dead girl. Limp and lifeless. Eyes like the marbles in a mannequin’s head.

Skelly’s already crying out, running to the back. The other two girls follow with fleet feet–

Mookie hits the floor and army crawls to the door. He lifts up his cueball head, cracks the door and peers out. He has to know who’s shooting at them. He wants to know who did this. So he can break a baseball bat off in their bowels. He thinks, it’s gotta be a gang hit – they’re all making moves now, all riled up and ready to dance–

His heart sinks when he sees.

The car is a black Cadillac Escalade. Two guys hanging out – a fat fuck out of the passenger side, a weaselface out the back window. Weaselface has a little Tec-9 submachine jobby, spitting fire and lead. The other has a long and mean AK-47.

He knows the both of them.

The Weaselface is Tommy Spall. The fat fuck is Karol Lutkevich.

Spall and Lutkevich. Two of the Boss’s killers. Soldiers, technically, but specialized. Neither trucks much with the Blaze trade or the Underworld. They break legs, break heads, put bullets in hearts and brains.

Lutkevich changes the magazine. The Tec-9 in Spall’s hands keeps on barking.

A couple bullets punch through the wood next to Mookie. For a moment he doesn’t move. Can’t move – pinned down. He’s trying to parse this. What does this mean? The Organization’s coming to hit the Get-Em-Girls? Are they here for Nora?

Or – and here, a chill runs over his hide like a tide of spiders – are they here for him?

He sees Lulu there. Bleeding out. Heels stutter-spasming against the floor.

He pulls the door, shoves the barrel out–

Takes a shot. Choom. The back window of the Escalade explodes in. The weasel – Spall – screams, his face suddenly a red mask of broken glass and buckshot.

It’s enough. The fat fuck, Lutkevich, turns, sees that his partner’s hit – he slides back over to the driver’s seat.

People on the street are screaming. Running. Hiding.

Mookie’s already up and out the door. Shotgun up. One blast, then another: both tires pop in a flip of black rubber ribbon. Spall, howling, leans out and fires a burst but the bullets go wild: he can’t see anything through the blood.

Mookie shoots him in the head. A burping fountain of blood and brains.