I pounce. Lunging at him, I throw both my arms around his waist. I tackle him, flinging him down onto the rock-hard sidewalk. His gun skitters out of his hand as we land with a bone-crunching thud.

If I were still a cop, I’d already be pulling his arms behind his back, slapping on a pair of cuffs, and reminding him of his rights.

Instead, I twist one of his arms—and shove his face hard into the cement.

“Who the hell are you?” I demand. “And who told you to hurt Vanessa?”

He doesn’t answer. Maybe it’s because he’s panting like a dog.

Or maybe he needs a little more … encouragement.

I twist his arm harder until he groans in pain. I notice that his hand is mottled with fresh burns of some kind. And his forearms are a tapestry of faded prison tattoos—among them, a black cross inside a black circle.

Oh, my God. That woman I met, the one barbecuing shrimp near the safe house in St. Roch—she told me she saw a blond man hanging around there with this exact white nationalist symbol on his arm. There’s a pretty good chance that this is the same guy.

“If I were you, Angus,” I snarl, “I’d start talking.”

And at last, he does: “Screw you!”

I take a deep breath. Gotta stay calm. Especially since a small crowd of onlookers is starting to gather on the sidewalk. I’m sure one of them is going to start filming this with their phone at any second. So I have to be fast.

“What happened to your nose, Angus?” I ask. “Is it broken?”

“Huh?” he says, and turns his head slightly to face me.

I slam the heel of my palm into his nostrils. Cartilage crunches. Blood spews.

“How about now?”

CHAPTER 61

“Le Petit filet for the mademoiselle. And le grand rib eye for the monsieur.”

The waiter sets down two thick, juicy slabs of prime beef in front of Marlene and me. I straighten the cloth napkin in my lap in anticipation.

“And for the other mademoiselle, a Caesar salad.”

He places a pile of romaine lettuce, croutons, and Parmesan cheese—a perfectly fine dish, but let’s be honest, not nearly as mouthwatering—in front of Vanessa.

“Bon appetit.”

The three of us are sitting in the wood-paneled dining room of Mr. John’s Steakhouse. Tucked away in the Lower Garden District, this classy spot serves some of the best steaks this side of the Mississippi in a relaxing, elegant setting. Nothing trendy, nothing flashy. Just quiet perfection.

After a day like today, that’s exactly what all of us need.

I feel like I’m a thousand miles away from the violent men, decaying gas station, and blighted neighborhood of Central City, and I’m hoping—praying—that Vanessa feels the same way.