Vincent checked Google Maps on his phone. The local streets up here meandered with the contours, and many were dead ends. Through another turn, and in the distance he caught a glimpse of taillights—a weak smear of red before the SUV rounded another bend. Beauden buried the pedal, and the Caddy pressed them to their seats, and Vincent’s belt yanked taut through the curve. Up ahead, he saw the Navigator make a right into Achilles Drive.

Vincent checked his map. ‘This isn’t a shortcut to anywhere. We must be getting close. Drop back, give him some space.’

Beauden killed the lights and braked, rolled gently to the intersection with the Caddy dark. Off on their right, a hundred yards away, Vincent saw the Navigator pull to the kerb. Affluent suburbia. Two- and three-storey places by architects with grand visions, for clients on Hollywood money.

A man got out from behind the wheel of the Navigator and stepped around the hood. An orange flash as he locked the car with the remote, and now Vincent recognised him.

He said, ‘Huh, that’s Delroy.’

‘What, Sly’s guy? The manservant?’

‘Yeah. Whatever he is.’

They watched him approach a house on the left of the street. The yard was gated, and Delroy pushed a buzzer at an intercom by a pedestrian door, waited a moment, and then stepped through the door onto the property.

Beauden looked at him. ‘What do you want to do?’

He could feel his heart beating. The throb of it in his temples. Rustle of his breath in his teeth. He said, ‘Park up here.’

‘You got a red-mist look to you suddenly.’

‘Pull over.’

Beauden moved past the intersection and swung to the kerb. Vincent looked at his phone again, checking their position. ‘What sort of gear do you have?’

‘Remington pump.’

Words that had a whole new meaning since this morning. They’d been the enemy of his new religion: gun-free, and perfect. But those ideals couldn’t hold beneath the weight of what had happened—actual experience—and in his mind he saw Freeman on his back and bleeding, Erin terrified as the masked man tried to kill her. So fuck his rule: a rule was a liability if no one else followed it.

Vincent turned up the stereo. It was still playing Beverly Hills PD via Broadcastify. He said, ‘Whose jurisdiction is it up here?’

‘Ah … North Hollywood, I guess. LAPD.’

Vincent said, ‘Okay, swap us over. And pop the trunk for me.’

He got out and walked around to the rear and opened the lid. A three-foot shotgun case held a Remington 870 and a box of shells. He picked up the gun and checked the breech and closed the trunk and got back in the car.

Beauden said, ‘These are rich people around here. Police response time’s going to be fast.’

Vincent said, ‘How many phones do you have?’

‘Just this one.’