BLAZE

A HAM NOVEL

BOOK 7

DUSTIN STEVENS

CONTENTS

Prologue

I. The Warning

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

II. The Help

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

III. The Decoy

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

IV. The Contract

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

V. The Favor

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Epilogue

Sneak Peek

Thank You

Free Book

About the Author

Dustin’s Books

BLAZE: A HAM Novel

Copyright © 2025, Dustin Stevens

Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

Cover Art and Design: Christian Bentulan

Book Formatting: Jamie Davis

The stage is not the place to remind the

audience that one is human. The illusion

is what they are paying for.

—Suzanne Farrell

PROLOGUE

I can see the effects of the last few minutes plainly on his skin. Small nicks and gouges from the glass of the shattered passenger side window line his neck and wrists. Shallow scrapes that are enough to open the skin, sending rivulets of blood across his tan skin.

Minor streaks, compared to the larger wound caused by the Escalade impaling itself on the cypress tree behind us.

A collision that snapped his head forward, mashing the left side of his forehead into the seatback in front of him.

Impact that has opened a crimson blossom, staining his hairline and brow both with the resulting blood. Sanguine streaks that also trace along his cheekbone and down from his chin, dripping onto his shirt.

White linen to match his trousers, giving him an ethereal appearance. A pale smudge in the darkness, audibly sucking in deep breaths, bracing himself for what he seems to think will be a fight.

An impending battle that will be anything but.

Not with the concentrated animosity I am feeling, strong enough to ensure that his existing wounds are just the beginning.

Damage I intend to take great pleasure in inflicting as I reach around to my back pocket. Slide free the knife picked up from the floorboards of the cabin porch just a few minutes ago.

Holding it out before me, I twist the blade a few inches to either side, ensuring that the moon shining bright above catches the polished steel.

“Recognize this?”

PART 1

THE WARNING

CHAPTER ONE

Her feet just inches apart, Blaze stands bent over at the waist. Arms extended, they are draped over the backs of the ladies on either side of her. Two of her best friends in the world.

One, she has known for just over a year now.

The other, since the day she was born.

The base trio in a circle that has now grown to encompass a dozen people. Men and women all grouped up, lashed together in the same arm-over-arm arrangement.

People each bent in half and leaning inward, so that the tops of their heads are within inches of one another. A shared pose, allowing them to drink in the atmosphere around them.

A final few moments of calm before they step beyond the curtain behind them.

A single cloth barrier, separating them from the gathered mass outside.

More than five thousand people already filling the stadium they are about to perform in. The early arrivals, evenly spread across the folding chairs lining the field and the bleachers pushing upward in even rows above them.

A first wave that will be matched by a second coming in later. Concertgoers still fighting for parking or working themselves into an inebriated lather at the tailgates in the lots outside.

Rabid fans in t-shirts from concerts past.

Others carrying signs professing their love or requesting a particular tune.

The same stuff Blaze has been seeing for years, though only recently at this level. An escalation that she always dreamed of.

One she knew she would one day attain, though never did she imagine it coming so soon.

“You feel that?” a voice to her right asks. A question that is answered with a few grunts and mumbles.

Sounds of affirmation that Blaze lets pass, offering only a smile. A single outward response as she stands fixed in place, her eyes closed, her hair hanging down like brightly colored curtains around her face.

Her personal sanctum.

A private hiding place she can retreat to, absorbing the vibrations that were just alluded to. Tremors born from anticipatory energy. A kinetic force that passes under the stage, traveling through the soles of her feet and up her legs.

Into her spine.

Her soul.

“Every chord, every note,” Blaze says. The same four words she has said before every show going back as long as she can remember.

A ritual she once heard a college football team do a variation of before taking the field that she decided to co-opt as her own.

A combination starting gun and rallying cry, putting herself and everyone in the circle on the same page.

“We get better,” the people around her reply. A simple response that sparks activity on either side. Gentle swaying as the circle begins to rock, rotating back and forth.

“Every song, every album,” Blaze says, her voice rising.

“We get better,” the group fires back, the volume climbing to match her own. A heightened decibel, matched by the speed of their movement.

Growing energy that causes her grin to widen as Blaze opens her eyes. Lifting her gaze, she stares out through orange and yellow locks hanging down around her face.

A brightly colored filter, tinting her world in a neon hue.

The color scheme for the first couple of weeks of the tour, to be shifted somewhere along the journey ahead. Constant change, matching everything from the venue to her particular mood.

A visual representation of the adrenaline she can feel starting to seep into her bloodstream.

Outward expression of the urgency she carries to the stage every night.

The heat she can feel pulsating through her as she rocks to either side, knees bending as the circle sways more than a foot in either direction. Ongoing movement, pushing faster and faster, bringing the night’s first droplets of sweat to her brow.

“Every city, every show!”

“We get better!”

Cutting her glance to either side, Blaze takes in the expressions of those around her. The trio of bandmates in assorted attire, from leather pants to ripped jeans. Ribbed tank tops to t-shirts of rock greats with the necks and sleeves removed.

Rotating homage, tonight paying tribute to the Beastie Boys and Led Zeppelin.

Forebears whose impact – along with a hundred others – will be heard in just a few short moments.

Beyond those about to take the stage are people donning everything from basic black tees to the blazers worn by her two best friends to either side. A cast, each with their own job to do, as eclectic as the crowd they are about to perform for.

The only damn thing they seem to have in common is the smile they all wear as they stare back her way. Unspoken understanding, shared as the pace begins to wane.

The group comes to a halt, their hands falling to their sides.

“Just because we’re up first doesn’t mean we can’t be what everybody leaves here talking about,” Blaze says. Flicking her gaze about the group, she pauses, listening as the buzz outside continues to climb.

“Let’s blow these people away.”

CHAPTER TWO

Bertrand Davis has no idea what the name of the stadium is.

Hell, he doesn’t even know what team calls it home or what sport they play. Most likely, some professional football squad that strong-armed the local populace into ponying up hundreds of millions of dollars so they can watch a game a dozen times a year.

What Bertrand would consider a massive waste of public resources, if the place didn’t also serve to host events like tonight.

A venue befitting the star just moments from taking the stage.

Standing in front of his chair in the second row, Bertrand holds his cellphone out in front of him. The latest in Smartphone designs, the back bulges from the oversized battery attached to it.

An upgrade that was worth every penny, ensuring him double the recording time. Precious hours that he hasn’t yet needed, but wants to be sure to have in case there is a delay or an unexpected encore later in the night.

A second sighting that would leave him kicking himself if he missed.

Held at chest height, Bertrand checks the view to the stage in front of him. The same sweep he has made three times already, ensuring visibility from one end to the other.

A repeat of the same process performed in San Diego and Los Angeles before this.

The first two stops on the Blazing Limits tour, to be followed by twenty more. Bertrand’s entire summer schedule, traversing from one coast to the other.

A reward for all his prior efforts.

And the promise of much more to come.

“What song are you most looking forward to tonight?” a voice asks behind him. A sound that causes him to glance over his shoulder at two young ladies sliding sideways across the third row.

Matching blondes in various forms of bright Lycra, their hair teased out to twice its natural size.

More of the same that he has already been forced to deal with at previous locations. Airheads here for the headlining act on the tour, hoping to be spotted in the front rows and invited up onstage.

Or, even better, back to the bus or the hotel afterward.

Bimbos who no doubt were awarded their seats by virtue of their appearance. Easy marks that somebody affiliated with the tour had spotted outside and given upgrades to, aiming to pack the area around the stage.

Eye candy who will look good on the jumbotron later for the cameras stationed throughout the stadium.

Even better later on posters and promotional materials the band might want to use.

“Ghost Bride, easy,” the second of the two girls replies. An expected answer, confirming every last one of Bertrand’s assumptions in an instant. The musical equivalent of a novice sports fan saying their favorite player is Tom Brady or Michael Jordan.

A moviegoer picking The Godfather or Avengers: Endgame.

Obvious answers, lifted directly from Facebook or Instagram. The popular picks, proving nothing beside the fact that they have been alive for the past couple of years.

And that they have the musical taste of infants.

Making no effort to hide his smirk or the accompanying shake of his head, Bertrand completes his final check with the cellphone.

Tedious attention to detail that he has never once thought of as work.

More like, exhaustive preparation.

A small downpayment that he knows will be much appreciated later.

“You’re crazy,” the second girl replies in a voice that sounds like she was sucking on helium in the parking lot before coming inside. Genetic misfortune or an ill-fated attempt to get high prior to finding their seats, causing folds of skin to form along Bertrand’s temples.

His shoulders climb toward his ears as he pulls in a sharp breath.

A reflexive response that is repeated as the girl adds, “Maker’s Mark, no doubt.”

Fighting every desire to turn and glare at the pair, to unleash the caustic retort resting on his tongue, Bertrand presses his eyes shut. Clenching tight, he waits as they slide on past, spewing more inanity as they go.

More foolish debate about which other songs they want to hear or past concerts they have been to. The same sort of bullshit Bertrand has been subjected to twice already.

Suspects he will encounter at least a few more times along the way before people begin to understand who the real star is, regardless of where she appears in the lineup.

The reason why he is here, and why they all should be as well.

Forcing his breath out through his nostrils, Bertrand opens his eyes. Blinking twice against the bright glare of the setting sun behind the metal skeleton of the stage set before him, he unzips the chest pocket on his vest.

One of a handful of matching compartments all sewn into the light nylon mesh designed for holding fishing tackle. A piece repurposed from his everyday life back home, ideally suited for tonight and the better part of two dozen more to come.

An odd fashion choice that he was aware of even before the repeated comments lobbed his way. Weak attempts at humor by the wannabe surfers in SoCal and now the desert hippies in Arizona.

Folks unable to see past the surface, not understanding that the fishing vest is nothing more than a vehicle.

A means of ensuring that he does not let an opportunity slip past.

Turning the phone so the camera on the back is facing forward, he slides it down into the pocket. Zipping it shut just enough to hold the device in place, he pats at each of the other compartments in order. One final check, ensuring that the weight of the phone is offset by the digital camera on the other side.

Spare SD cards below it.

Ink pens and markers on the other side.

“Alright, Blaze,” he whispers. Lifting his weight onto his toes, he stares at the curtain across the back of the stage.

Envisions the huddle he knows is playing out behind it.

“I’m ready.”

CHAPTER THREE

The tray is laid out exactly the way Manuel Garcia likes it. Two saucers in the center, each with a teacup resting upon it. Matching vessels, both filled precisely to a centimeter below the rim.

On the right, Cafecito. Rich and dark, brewed with beans imported directly from the farm his great grandfather first established in Guatemala.

To the left, milk chilled to within a couple of degrees of freezing.

On the same side rests a silver spoon with an elongated handle. Opposite it, a folded linen napkin.

From end to end, it is the same lineup that touches his desk at precisely nine p.m. every night. The final chore for the young woman in a pale-yellow dress and white apron serving it before she is allowed to take her leave for the day.

“Is there anything else, Mr. Garcia?”

A cigar originating from the same small village as the coffee he was just served already clamped between his teeth, Manuel says nothing. Striking the green tip of a match to the edge of his desk, a quick hit of phosphorous passes across his nostrils.

A scent soon replaced by the aroma of dried tobacco leaves as the end catches and a curlicue of smoke drifts lazily toward the ceiling.

Waving the match to extinguish the flame working its way down from the end, Manuel shakes his head. Tossing the charred stick down onto the tray, he clutches the cigar between his middle and index finger with the opposite hand and pulls it away.

“No, that will be all for the night, Delfina,” he replies. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, sir,” Delfina replies in heavily accented English, taking care to sound out each word.

A requirement for all who come under his employ, making their way up from his native country.

Bowing at the waist, the halo of dark curls encasing her head sweeps forward. Brushing across the tops of her shoulders, they swing down, guiding his eye to the deep trench between her young breasts.

Another of his requirements.

Making no attempt to hide his stare, Manuel waits as she rises to full height. Pressing her lips together, she meets his gaze, backing out of the room.

Small shuffle steps that retreat no more than a few inches at a time, requiring the better of a minute for her to cross over the threshold and close the door behind her.

Performative measures that every last young woman like her knows to employ, regardless of the fact that he has never said as much.

Waiting until the sound of both the door swinging shut and her footsteps on the Spanish tile in the hall outside have faded, Manuel shifts his focus to the cellphone resting on the desk beside him. Switching his cigar to his left hand, he taps at the screen with his opposite index finger.

Dialing from memory, he finishes with one final touch, pushing the call over the loudspeaker.

A last bit of business to be performed before turning his focus to the tray before him.

Reclining in his seat, Manuel raises his right ankle to his opposite thigh. Bare skin peeks out between the heel of his patent-leather loafers and the hem of his suit pants.

Another of the unending variations of his daily attire, ideal for the humid Miami climate.

Especially now that the calendar has turned to June.

“Nik Doherty,” the same voice Manuel first heard just a year prior answers. Laced with mirth, voices and music can be heard in the background.

A man unable to resist taking a call, even on a night out.

“Mr. Doherty, this is Manuel Garcia. Again.”

For a moment there is no response. Nothing audible at all, the receiver likely covered as Doherty looks to relocate.

A change in position, followed by a notable shift in his tone as well.

“Mr. Garcia,” he replies. “As I’ve told you each of the previous times we’ve spoken-”

“Three,” Manuel inserts, cutting him off. “Three different times we’ve spoken now about this. And still, there is nothing.”

“I know. As I’ve told you on each of those three occasions, there will be nothing. Please believe me when I tell you, it’s time to stop calling.”

Bobbing his head just slightly, Manuel brings the cigar back to his lips. Pulling in a deep drag, he stares at the glowing tip in front of him, before slowly pulling it back, letting the lungful of resulting smoke unfurl behind it.

Given his preference, he would have rather handled this like men. Business people with honor, doing as was originally understood.

An option he can fast see isn’t going to happen.

At least not without a push.

“Believe me when I tell you, you may come to change your mind yet.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The grin affixed to Esai Garcia’s face has nothing to do with the echoes reverberating through the concrete tunnel around him. It isn’t a sign of joy for the faint sound of rock music that can be heard blasting from the stage above.

In no way is it a response to the throb of the growing crowd as they sing along to whatever is being played. Thousands of people who have paid top dollar to gobble up a watered-down version of what they can hear on the radio or stream through YouTube for free.

For the better part of a week now, Esai and his team have been working their way across the west. Glorified bouncers, forced to keep pace with the Blazing Limits tour.

A cheesy name, representing the unholy union of two even cheesier bands.

Drivel that Esai would not dare to put on in his own home or vehicle. Noise that he has been forced to endure through multiple stops now, waiting for the information that was just passed to him.

A green light issued from his father on the other side of the country, allowing them to finally put things into motion.

An inevitability Esai tried to inform the elder Garcia of before he left, finally brought to fruition.

Grin plastered across his face, he strides through the underbelly of the Phoenix stadium. Moving at a pace that is just shy of a jog, sweat trickles down over his tan features. It melds with the gel in his dark hair, forming a hardened crust.

Saturates the back and collar of the black t-shirt he wears, SECURITY emblazoned across the front.

A single word, partially obscured by the plastic lanyard swinging free to either side. A pass granting free access to anywhere he desires, ensuring that nobody who slips past so much as glances his way.

The same faces he has been staring at for days now, starting in Los Angeles a week before.

San Diego just yesterday.

Phoenix tonight, to be followed by Albuquerque and then someplace called Lubbock and then wherever the hell else.

Destinations Esai has zero interest in ever seeing, hoping that tonight will finally be the culmination of his life on the road. A short burst spent hiding in plain sight, waiting for this moment.

A time when all of the boring ass meetings and early mornings will be worth it.

When the annoyance of the identification around his neck and the freedom of movement it provides can at long last be taken advantage of.

Seeing the remaining two members of his team up ahead, Esai increases his pace. Inserting a hop as a means of a jumpstart, he pumps his arms, propelling himself forward.

A bit of extra speed, knowing that despite just being given the go-ahead, they are already up against the clock.

A narrow window they cannot afford to miss, lest they be forced to wait at least a couple more days for their next shot. Another opportunity that may never materialize, snatched away by any of a number of intervening reasons.

Alternate resolutions, stripping Esai of what he is about to do.

The very reason why he agreed to being sent out on the road to begin with.

“What’s going on?” Francisco asks.

A question that Esai has no chance at answering before Luis by his side adds, “Did you talk to your old man?”

While hailing from the same town in Guatemala, there is zero physical semblance between the two to hint that they are even the same species. Differences in every way, from Luis’s buzz cut and premature aging to Francisco’s thick dark hair and youthful appearance.

Side effects of their respective builds.

Luis, carved from nothing but bone and sinew, as compared to Francisco’s massive proportions. Equal parts muscle and fat, topping out at well over three hundred pounds.

Size stuffed into a triple-x t-shirt, made to look even more pronounced standing beside Luis.

Making no effort to slow as he passes, Esai waits for them to fall in on either side before saying, “Just got off the phone.”

“And?” Francisco asks, shuffling to keep pace.

“We’ve been told to send a message.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“Mark my words,” Harley Lewis says, his lurid delivery and stereotyped British accent both piercing the small break in sound emanating from the stage just a few feet away. A well-placed comment, thrust into the tiny pause between songs.

A moment for the band to reset and the crowd to catch its breath before both sides plunge forward again.

A much-needed rest that Bristol Lynch was rather enjoying, brought to an abrupt halt by the man behind her.

“Next time we do this,” Harley continues, not waiting for Bristol to even glance back, much less return a comment. Raising a hand darkened with ink and a wrist festooned with far too many bracelets before him, he juts a finger toward the front of the stage. “That girl will be the one headlining things. Not those old geezers in the back there.”

The closest thing Harley has managed to a compliment in the week they’ve been on the road – or the six months planning it before that – Bristol can still only agree with half of what the man said.

There is no doubt that Blaze is a star. An ascending supernova who No Limits was smart to grab and put at the front of their show, even going the extra step of including her in the name of the tour.

A way of both reaching a younger audience, and clinging to whatever waning relevance they might still have. A final moment in the sun for them, and one last spell in the shadows for Blaze.

A passing of the baton of sorts, fusing two crowds who might otherwise have never come together.

All of that, Bristol can agree with enough to force herself to nod. A single gesture before the percussive beat of the drum kit starts up again. A few simple tones, evoking a Pavlovian response from the crowd.

A lead-in that the rest of the band seizes on, jumping in to join. A conglomerated sound that is much too loud to be heard over, keeping Bristol from having to say anything as the next song begins.

A much-needed save, preventing her from letting slip that there is not a chance in hell that there will ever be a next tour with Harley.

Or any of the rabid minions he has working for him.

Cutting her gaze back toward the stage, Bristol watches as Blaze struts from one side to the other. Elongated strides accentuated by kicking her heels out behind her, pumping her fists like pistons on either side.

What Bristol likes to call her Freddie Mercury Walk, calling back to when they were just children growing up in Pennsylvania. Cousins separated by a handful of years spending their summers barefoot in the grass or frolicking in the backyard pool, repurposing whatever they could get their hands on into makeshift musical instruments.

Two kids making a bunch of racket, acting out their dreams of faraway stardom. Future stages with bright lights and adoring masses all offering their full-throated support.

Sold out venues, stretching from one ocean to another.

A make-believe future that, somewhere along the path, it became quite clear wasn’t merely a fantasy for the girl now out on stage.

More times than she can count in the years since, Bristol has found herself in this exact spot. A tiny carveout along the side of the stage, made possible by the lanyard hanging around her neck.

The title MANAGER stamped across the bottom of it.

A job providing her front row viewing to the spectacle playing out just a few feet away. The coordinated sounds blasted out by the band on one side.

And the adoring adulation returned in kind from the crowd on the other.

CHAPTER SIX

“Me? I still think about it all the tiiiiime,” Blaze sings, pushing the words out not from her throat, but from her diaphragm. An ejection of sound and air that passes through the microphone held just inches from her lips.

Thunders through the towers affixed to both front corners of the stage. The banks of speakers lining the top of the stadium around them.

The purest form of surround sound, causing it to swirl through the interior of the massive oval structure.

“That night, when I was all yooours,” she continues, moving across the front of the stage. Constant motion, beginning the instant the first guitar chord is struck after leaving the huddle.

A starting gun, commanding her to get moving.

Engage.

Blaze.

Propping her right foot up on the front lip of the stage, she staggers her left behind her. Bending back at the waist, her eyes close as she lifts her face toward the darkening sky above.

“And you were all miiiiiiiiiine!”

Three, four seconds, she extends the final syllable. A crushing crescendo to the song, paired with the sweeping reverberation of the lead guitar nearby.

The pounding of the drums at her rear.

One pure, crystalline note held until her lungs can take no more.

Lowering the microphone away from her face, Blaze’s eyes open. Her chin drops, bringing into view the sea of humanity spread before her. A crowd that has pushed inside in steady waves, filling every row in the place.

People who – as she told the huddle earlier – might not have showed up to hear them, but will damned sure leave talking about them.

A smile creases her features as she sucks in air. Her chest expands, her shoulders rising and falling, as her pulse thrums.

Electricity of the purest form, felt through every last cell of her body.

To say this is what she was wishing for when she first started jabbing at the hand-me-down children’s keyboard in her basement would be a lie. Not because she didn’t want it, but because she would have never thought it possible.

Blaise Stratford wasn’t born with a trust fund. She didn’t have access to the best equipment or private lessons. She sure as hell didn’t have a fairy godmother looking out for her.

She was just a kid who loved the sounds that old plastic box could spit out.

And was too damn stubborn to ever stop chipping away, no matter how many people told her to over the years.

“Helloooo, Phoenix!” Blaze calls.

A greeting sparking an automatic response from the thirty thousand people packed tight, the sound of their reply sweeping up and over the stage. A swell of noise pushed forth with raised hands, so strong Blaze can practically feel it blowing her hair back.

Touching the sweat staining her skin, it sends pinpricks of sensation the length of her body.

“You guys having as much fun as we are?” she asks, feeling her smile stretch wider across her features as she begins to move again. A slow stroll along the breadth of the stage, her free hand extended out over the edge of it.

An offering that every last person in the pit below reaches for, their fingers splayed wide.

“Now I know some of you might be here for No Limits, but we’re going to go ahead and play for just a little while longer, if that’s okay with all of you?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The first time Bertrand Davis heard the song, he wasn’t sure. The lyrics were just vague enough that they could have been a reference to anything.

A chance encounter with someone long in the past.

A meeting that had not yet taken place that Blaze was hopeful would happen in the future.

Scads of different possibilities that Bertrand had convinced himself were more likely explanations.

Surely, she couldn’t actually remember that night they met in Oklahoma City three years ago. A meet-and-greet after one of her shows in a rundown joint on the edge of the Plaza District. A midpoint on a tour that promised to hit a hundred different places within the year.

Stops all filled with people just like himself. Fans who had been around since her work first popped up on YouTube, building her own platform even before the record companies got their heads out of their asses and offered her a contract.

Diehards, who didn’t mind the smell of stale beer and the feel of sticky floors.

To her, he was surely just another face in the crowd. A guy she had signed a couple of autographs for. Stood alongside him and smiled as her manager took a photo with his cellphone.

An interaction to match a thousand others just like it.

If not more.

The second time Bertrand played the song back, that same feeling returned. A reprisal that was a touch stronger than the first, though still he managed to put it at bay.

What he thought was common sense, allowed to take the lead until he listened to it a third time. And then a fourth.

Repeats that continued to beat back such a notion, each successive one adding a little more detail. Throwbacks to the conversation they’d had.

The way she draped her wrist over his shoulder.

The oversized smile on her face that is still the home screen for the device recording in his chest pocket.

By the time his playback reached double digits, there was no longer any doubt. Certainty that has lasted to this very day, driven home by renditions like the one she just put forth.

A song written for a man she met on the road one night long ago, belted with fire far surpassing something just churned out in a random studio one afternoon.

Passion on display night after night, making it clear that the song means something to her. There is an underlying story.

A yearning for a brief connection first started long ago.

Rooted in his spot in the second row, Bertrand can’t help but let a smile come to his face. A grin steeped not just in the power of the song and the story it is telling, but in the thought of the moment when at last he will make himself known.

The big reveal, proving to her that he is aware.

That he has always been aware, spending the time since helping to spread her gospel to the masses.

And for the last couple of months, he has been right here, hidden just beyond the bright glare of the lights shining in her face. A blinding screen, keeping her from seeing that what she wants, has been seeking, is so much closer than she realized.

Countless times, he has envisioned how that encounter will go. The look on her face when she sees him. What they will say to each other, if anything at all.

Future interactions unspooling in his mind, interrupted by a shrill voice stating behind him, “I cannot wait until school tomorrow. Chelsea Sears always acts like she’s the biggest Blaze fan, but no way after this.”

“No way,” a second voice chimes in. “It’s clearly you. It has to be you.”

Forgetting the camera recording in his front pocket for only an instant, Bertrand casts a look over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he says, the word out before his gaze even lands on the source of the conversation behind him. Two little girls in braids and braces, neither reaching double digits in age yet.

Children in matching Blaze t-shirts, escorted by a mother looking thoroughly bored in her chair beside them.

A trio that, in unison, looks up at him, eyes wide.

“But that would be me,” he says. “I’m the biggest Blaze fan, president of the biggest fan page on Facebook. Everybody else is just playing for second.”

So much more he wants to add, correcting the drivel they were just spewing, Bertrand forces himself to turn back.

Knowing how much Blaze adores her young fans, she wouldn’t want him to belabor the point.

“Jesus,” he can hear the mother say, his focus returning to the stage. “They’re nine. You don’t have to be so mean.”

“And they don’t have to be so stupid.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Esai Garcia has always thought of wearing latex gloves the same way as wearing a condom. Necessary evils, to ensure that nothing is transferred that he doesn’t want to be.

Bodily fluids of various forms that could have repercussions that linger with him for the rest of his life.

While he fully understands the need for precaution, he has never once been happy about either. Thin barriers that prevent him from fully feeling the things that bring him such pleasure.

Three nights ago in Los Angeles, that was the pair of young ladies he took back to the hotel where he and Francisco and Luis were staying. Asian co-eds at USC who could have passed for twins, according to his two cohorts.

Bastards just walking the hazy line of racism by being unable to tell the girls apart.

Tonight, Esai’s joy will be from a decidedly different source. An act that will only be the start of what he has been envisioning, but at long last it will represent a bit of a release.

A way to rid himself of the extreme sense of frustration that has been lingering for days now.

Building hostility at the inanity of the assignment, growing exponentially with each successive city.

Hands both shoved into the front pockets of his jeans to hide the black latex pulled up to his wrists, Esai moves fast through the tunnel underlying the stadium. A corridor with a slight bend in it, perpetually wrapping them around the massive, curved structure.

Brimming with anticipation, his shoulders jut forward with each stride. Exaggerated movements, helping to propel him onward.

On his right, Francisco is forced just shy of a jog to keep up.

A pace that has his puffy features glistening with sweat. His breathing is almost a pant, the sound interspersed with the heavy slaps of his feet against the concrete floor.

Loud punctuations overlaying the low drone of wheels from a cargo box being pushed by Luis behind them. One of a hundred matching pieces with chrome corner plates affixed to plywood painted black.

Standard fare that are loaded and unloaded almost daily, meant to carry everything from musical equipment to stage lighting.

Cargo that, for the next little bit, will be of a decidedly more organic nature.

Brimming with anticipation, Esai forces himself to keep his hands stowed out of sight. Rubbing the fingers of his left hand against his thigh, he can feel the powder inside the latex gloves against his fingertips.

Fine grit that settles into the ridges of his skin, sending pinpricks of sensation up his hand and wrist.

Harbingers of future action that pale next to the feel of the telescoping knife resting against the palm of his right hand. A weapon chosen with care, brought along for this exact moment.

A statement to be made, coming on the heels of the conversation he had with his father just a few minutes earlier.

An emphatic stamp on all that has come before, sure to shape whatever might come after.

Overhead, the faint call of a guitar chord can be heard. The kickoff to a new song, answered in kind by the crowd roaring its approval.

Vocal pleasure that Esai knows can’t be in response to another trite tune, but to the sight of their target coming into view up ahead.

An audible nod from the universe, spurring them on.

“Here we go,” Esai hisses, the words evoking nothing more than a grunt from Francisco beside him.

Twenty yards ahead, the door to the dressing room of the woman currently captivating the tone-deaf masses looms. A point of entry that Esai will get to soon enough, his focus settling on the lone figure standing in front of it.

A man in his late fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a budding paunch wearing the same t-shirt as them.

Most likely a local cop riding out his last few years before retirement, if he isn’t already there. Some poor bastard looking to make a couple of extra dollars he can put toward a fishing boat or fork over to an ex-wife who hates him.

Another sad backstory Esai does not give a damn about, his grip on the knife tightening as the man turns their direction.

A smile crosses his face as he lifts his hand to wave.

An opening Esai is not about to miss, aborting his previous path and pushing diagonally across the concrete floor. One elongated stride as he slides the knife from his pocket.

Pressing the release button on the handle, he snaps the blade into place.

If the man himself was to be the statement, Esai would go for the throat. A straight slash across his exposed neck, carving through arteries and tendons.

A wound meant to create a spectacle, leaving the man to bleed out right here on the floor.

Gore that is far from the goal tonight, Esai instead driving the blade in just above his floating rib. A single shot into the man’s lung, using the knife handle and his opposite hand to keep the man upright as he gasps for his last breath, choking on his own blood.

Death brought on in a matter of moments before handing the man off to Francisco and Luis for disposal as he pushes on through the dressing room door.

CHAPTER NINE

Twenty minutes after Harley Lewis first appeared by Bristol Lynch’s side to state what the rest of the world had known for quite a while now, he reappeared. A second visit, not to reiterate that Blaze was going to be a star – as if to say that she wasn’t already – but that Bristol was needed down below.

Insider speak for the bowels of the stadium. Dressing rooms and setup areas and all of the other places that were merely meant for support.

Checkpoints along the way. Benchmarks to be hit, culminating with the place alongside the stage where she was standing.

The apex of a multi-day journey, set to begin anew the instant they finished with their part of the show.

Standing with her walkie-talkie less than an inch from her face, Bristol’s first reaction was annoyance. Agitation much beyond her general distaste for the man.

His lack of style and grating accent and condescending manner.

A spiking of her disdain that even overrode the command she was on the cusp of barking into her handheld. Direction for the lighting guys up top to widen the angle of the spotlight to give Blaze a bit of extra room.

Space so that she didn’t keep escaping the edges of the golden circle as she worked back and forth. Constant movement that was her trademark, bordering on frenetic.

The Freddie Mercury Walk, and a hundred others to match.

Moves she was pretty sure Blaze wasn’t even aware she was doing, so lost in the music. The crowd.

The moment.

Turning with every intent of unleashing the venom rising along the back of her throat, Bristol needed only see the expression on Harley’s face to stop short. A quick glance that relayed whatever had drawn him back to the stage to summon her was legit.

A matter that she can now only guess has risen to the level of grave importance as she practically jogs to keep pace beside him. Quickened strides, needed to keep up with the young man with blonde hair leading them through the underbelly of the stadium.

A guy with inflated arms and shoulders stuffed into a black t-shirt, the word SECURITY screaming from the front.

One of the regulars who she has seen traveling with the tour from city to city, rather than part-time staff joining them at each stop.

“What’s going on?” Bristol asks, the question receiving no response from either. Gazes aimed down at the concrete, they push forward, mouths pulled back into grimaces.

Looks prompting her to follow up with, “Seriously, did something happen? Where are we going?”

Shoving the words out as her breathing becomes quicker, heat rushes to her face. Warmth of a much different kind than what was being cast down by the lights above the stage.

Internal heat, evoked by the emotions welling within her.

Frustration, at being pulled away from the stage just shy of Blaze’s finale. The big crescendo to their performance, honed through the last couple of years on the road, after which her cousin always comes bounding to the side of the stage.

Greeting Bristol with a sweaty hug, there they stand, watching as the band caps things off for the night.

Their big farewell, making sure they are what everybody goes home talking about afterward.

A nightly rite that Bristol is annoyed to miss, but that pales in comparison to the budding fear she feels.

Anxiety that grows higher as they march directly to Blaze’s dressing room, stopping just shy of the door.

“Ernie here couldn’t summon the guy who was supposed to be watching the door for his regular check-in a little while ago,” Harley says, casting his gaze between the two of them. “So he came to check it out, found this.”

Extending a finger to the side, he points to the wall alongside the doorknob to the dressing room.

Concrete block covered with glossy slate gray paint, making it easy to spot the handful of blood droplets. Bright red flecks spattered in a loose line, a few large enough to have streaked south before finally drying.

A sight causing Bristol’s entire core to clench as her jaw sags.

Once, twice, in order she tries to speak, making it all the way to her third attempt before finally she is able to summon the words to ask, “Is he okay?”

“We don’t know,” Ernie answers, pulling Bristol’s focus his way. “Still haven’t found him.”

Her eyes bulging to match her mouth, Bristol gasps, “You still haven’t found him?”

“No,” Harley answers, drawing her attention back his direction. “And that’s not all.”

Saying nothing more, he reaches for the doorknob. Pulling it open, he waits as Ernie steps inside before motioning for Bristol to follow.

Coming in behind her, he steps into her periphery. Extending his hand a second time, he points to the dressing table where Blaze sat to get ready barely an hour before. A basic fixture found in every such space across the country, this one left almost exactly as it was when Bristol last saw it earlier.

Brushes and makeup and all the rest, the glaring exception being the knife driven vertically into the wooden top of it.

The blade slick with blood, a note is pinned in place beneath it, a crimson stain spreading outward beneath the handwritten words:

You’ve been warned.

CHAPTER TEN

The decision to leave the last couple of minutes of their act unscripted was a very deliberate one. A calling card that the band came up with collectively when they first started touring together more than four years earlier.

A departure from what most acts chose to do, closing with one of their signature hits. Lyrics that the audience would know by heart and sing along to.

The safe choice, which has never been what Blaze is about.

Instead, they opted to leave those last two minutes to an open jam session. Free play, to be led by a rotating member of the band.

Something different to send home their audience each and every time they hit the stage. A unique signoff that people can take home with them, cherishing at least one aspect that nobody else – even from one night to the next – can claim.

A cool twist that Blaze always looks forward to as she finishes the last of her vocals of the night. A few elongated notes that she holds until her lungs feel like they are going to burst before the spotlight is blinked out. She is able to fade to the side as the recessed lighting around the stage takes over.

Dim bulbs of various colors that slowly dim while her friends show off their musical prowess for all to see.

An exercise in harmonious creativity that is nothing short of incredible.

An exhibition that Blaze normally shares with her cousin, for some reason missing from her post this evening. A rare absence, serving as one of the first Blaze can remember.

Certainly, the first one since they started playing venues of any size. Places large enough to have a curtain along the edge of the stage, providing a perfect place for Bristol to tuck herself away.

A girl more than capable of joining them under the lights, preferring to stick to the shadows.

Massive talent, outdone by her introverted nature.

Her ribcage still expanding and contracting as she fights to catch her breath, Blaze stares out at the sea of people before her. A throbbing mass of humanity, tonight numbering more than thirty thousand strong.

People wearing t-shirts with her face on them, their arms thrust in the air. Homemade signs done in markers and glitters wave above them.

Jaws unhinged, they scream their support.

A spectacle that has a jack-o-lantern grin etched onto her features, tugging at the tendrils of hair matted to her cheeks. Strands of orange and red, striping her face.

Despite the sweat encasing her body, a shiver climbs the length of her spine. An involuntary spasm bringing goose pimples to her bare forearms.

Tonight’s reminder that this is where she is supposed to be.

What she is meant to be doing.

Tonight’s turn in the rotation set aside for Chauncy on the drum kit, Blaze bobs her chin. She pushes her knees forward, her body rising and falling in time with the pounding of the cymbal.

Hand wrapped tight around the microphone, she taps the bottom of it against her leg, counting off the seconds. A few lingering moments, waiting as the wail of Webb on the lead guitar slowly starts to fade.

The deep throb of Brecker slapping the bass becomes less frequent.

A signal to her on the side, drawing the microphone up to her lips.

“Phoenix, Arizonaaaaa!” Blaze calls, drawing out the last letter several seconds in length. Two words evoking the same response as the previous couple of nights, igniting a renewed roar from the crowd as the band continues to slow.

“We love you so much, and cannot thank you enough for having us here tonight!”

Pulling her hand back just a couple of inches, she pauses, gulping in oxygen.

“That’s all for us, but I urge you guys to all go hit the bathroom, grab something to drink, and get yourselves ready for No Limiiiiiiits!”

On cue, the crowd again erupts. A percussive wave of sound that more than fills in as Webb finishes on the guitar and makes his way over. The first one past, he offers Blaze a fist bump as he goes, his chin-length hair hanging lank and damp around his head.

An exit followed in order by Brecker, his long raven hair pulled back tight, revealing the widow’s peak already creeping up his forehead. Cocking his arm by his shoulder, he taps his forearm against Blaze’s, his damp skin sliding across hers.

A smear of sweat that brings a smile to his face as he goes by, clearing the way for Chauncy bringing up the rear. One hundred and thirty pounds of buzzed blonde hair and dimples, his cheeks pink from heat and exertion.

Barely able to lift his arms after beating on the drums for the finale solo, he settles for keeping his hands by his waist, merely turning his palms upward. Twin offerings that Blaze slaps with both of her own, adding a third to his back as she falls in behind him.

Four members of a band that bears only her name, but has been together for going on half a decade.

Three guys who she could not fathom doing this without, falling in behind them as they make their way down the stairs at the back of the stage. A transition from the lights and sound and heat out front to the relative solitude of the stadium concourse serving as the backstage area.

An insulated concrete tube, dropping the temperature more than thirty degrees.

A blessed reprieve that Blaze drinks in, picking up a hand towel from the table at the bottom of the stairs. Swiping it across her forehead and along the back of her neck, she walks on, nodding to each of the many people offering their praise as she passes.

A gauntlet stretch of various crewmembers, all making the frantic transition to No Limits.

A crowd scurrying in every direction, making it easy to pick out Bristol and Harley Lewis both walking her way. Outliers moving at a trudge, presenting themselves in front of her on the edge of the bustle.

“Missed you up there tonight,” Blaze says in greeting, extending a hand toward her cousin.

“Yeah, sorry,” Bristol answers. Offering the bottle of water she is holding, she adds, “There was something down here we needed to deal with right quick.”

“Yeah?” Blaze asks, accepting the bottle and twisting off the cap. “Everything alright?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harley says. “Momentary bother, turned out to be a false alarm. Nothing to worry about.”

Sliding his phone from his back pocket, he glances at the time splashed across the screen. Raising his brows, he lifts his gaze and says, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to go check on the band, and then go make a couple of calls.”

PART 2

THE HELP

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It doesn’t matter that I am technically on vacation, I know better than to stare directly into the flames. Flickering fingers of red and orange that rise up from the center of the fire pit out behind the farmhouse, painting the area around me in alternating bursts of light and shadow.

A natural strobing effect that illuminates the clearing, flashing against the sides of the house and barns to the south. The dense wall of pine trees to the north.

A natural amphitheater carved from what was less than a year ago dense Montana wilderness tucked up tight against the Absaroka Mountains. A location chosen with great care by my adoptive mother and sister to relocate after their last home was razed to the ground in neighboring Idaho.

A site that tonight serves as the setting for an impromptu concert.

A gathering in the woods for not just the three of us, but for the ten other people who call the place home. Young ladies ranging in ages from five to just shy of adulthood.

Girls of various shapes and colors, all balanced on bales of hay and chunks of logs arranged around the fire. Tonight’s centerpiece, providing not just the light spilling outward in all directions, but also the heat to cook dinner.

Classic bonfire fare consisting of hot dogs on sticks and ears of corn wrapped in tin foil.

A main course, to be followed later by roasted marshmallows smashed between graham crackers and blocks of dark chocolate.

A meal like many I enjoyed when I was their age, coming up under the watchful eye of the woman sitting just a few feet to my right. Someone I know to be well into her sixties, though she sure as hell doesn’t look it.

Especially not with the shadows from the fire cloaking the few fine lines and wrinkles she has developed, everything else exactly as it was when I showed up twenty years ago.

Long, waxen hair.

Square shoulders.

A take-no-shit demeanor that has visibly softened for tonight’s festivities. A celebration for the end of the school year and the start of what should be summer, even if Montana doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo yet.

The temperature sitting in the lower fifties – with a further drop sure to ensue in the hours ahead – most of the girls are adorned in fleece or flannel. Those who aren’t have dragged blankets out from their cots in the larger barn to the south.

A combination dormitory/schoolhouse/training center that isn’t quite what existed at their previous location, but it is coming along.

The last piece to be finished, following first the basic construction of everything present, and a close second the security measures in place to keep them all safe.

Means to ensure that what happened at their last home won’t ever occur again.

Trauma that none of the girls show any outward signs of, though I know at least a few have to still be battling with. A violent encounter, likely not far from whatever happened in their previous lives to land them here.

Varied stories, from serving witness to something they weren’t supposed to, being born with the wrong last name, or as the daughter of an abusive parent.

Any of a thousand different things, the details of which are far from the point.

Whatever happened in the past will stay there, just as it did for me when I was their age.

Making sure to preserve my night vision as much as possible, I sit with my back to the flames. A spot on the edge of the circle, close enough to feel the resulting heat through the pullover I’m wearing.

Warmth that carries with it the smells of roasted pork and vegetables.

The even stronger scent of woodsmoke swirling over me each time the wind shifts.

“Dancing with the devil,” the young woman’s voice calls from the radio sitting a few bales over.

Words belted out to the tune of a lead guitar, drawing in a few of the voices on either side.

“Just outside the fire.”

No more than a scattered few, the singing elicits a couple of giggles from the younger girls. Laughter soon drowned out by a handful more jumping in on the next line.

“That’s just how it goes.”

“Everybody now!” one of the girls calls.

A rallying cry, pulling in the others for a big finish.

“Living on the highwiiiiiiiire!”

Voices of all ranges and ability levels melding into one, they extend the last syllable for several moments. Lifting the sound skyward, they draw it out for as long as their young lungs can handle, one by one falling away.

An impromptu competition, the winner making it the better part of a minute before finally falling silent, replaced by a bevy of cheers.

Catcalls and whistles, giving way to excited chatter as the girls go back to preparing their dinner.

A bustle of activity behind me, culminating with one of them dropping down onto the bale at my side. A paper plate in hand, she extends it my way, a roasted hotdog resting in the center.

“Here you go, auntie.”

Glancing down at it, I can’t help but smile at Amber, the daughter of my adopted sister. A girl fast approaching the cusp of womanhood, serving as the spitting image of her mother when she was a teenager.

Round cheeks and bright blue eyes, all encased in a head of bushy blonde curls.

“You didn’t...” I begin, letting my voice trail away. “Have you-”

“Already had two,” she says, cutting me off. Nudging it my way, she adds, “Besides, I don’t like mustard or relish, so you have to eat it.”

Chuckling softly, I accept the plate, balancing it across my thighs.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she turns back and asks, “So what did you think?”

“About?”

“About the song,” she says. “You like it?”

Lifting the hotdog from the plate, I pause with it just short of my mouth. “First time I’ve ever heard it.”

“Really?” she asks, her eyes bulging slightly. “‘Highwire,’ by Blaze?”

“Blaze?”

“Oh my God, she’s so cool. They call her that because she has this crazy hair with all these different colors that is always changing.”

Taking my first bite of the hotdog, my only response is an arched eyebrow.

A look she picks up on, responding, “Do not tell me that you, of all people, are questioning somebody else’s name and hairstyle.”

Swallowing my bite, I can’t help but push out a chuckle. A bit of mirth, preceding my intended response.

An answer that I never get a chance to voice, cut short by the chirp of the alarm on Glenda’s phone erupting beside me.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The sounds of harried movement at my back propel me across the clearing. Coordinated efforts that have been drilled and redrilled enough times that they are carried out without so much as a sound escaping Glenda.

Commands that might be overheard by whoever has just arrived on the front drive, giving away the location of the girls behind the house.

A faux pas that was part of the reason why they were forced to push east out of Idaho last year, not about to be made again now.

Despite the youth of many of those gathered around the fire, not one calls out in fear. Nobody emits a single sound beyond that which is required to douse the flames and retreat into the safety of the bunker under the barn nearby.

A subterranean concrete cube where they will wait until they hear back from Glenda or myself that all is clear.

Whatever threat stupid enough to come near us has been neutralized.

Doing my part to keep our movements as silent as possible, I keep myself to the right of the gravel drive. A winding lane of crushed stone emerging from the western edge of the dense woods.

In the moonlight, its pale color stands out plainly against the grass surrounding the house and barns. A lawn made deliberately wide and kept clipped short, ensuring nobody is able to approach unnoticed.

Threats of a thousand possible origins, every last one passing through my mind as I sprint forward.

Using the driveway as a guide, I let it set my route toward the dark wall of vegetation rising up ahead. Lips peeled back over teeth clamped tight, I chew up the distance in long strides, feeling the chilled night air passing over my features.

Cold that touches the perspiration already forming, pinpricks of sensation dancing across my brow. The first signs of adrenaline entering my bloodstream, causing my grip on the combat tomahawk in my right hand to grow tighter.

Same for the Browning HI-Power handgun opposite it.

A deliberate allocation of resources, reserving the razored blade for my dominant hand. My preferred weapon, ideal for working in close quarters, especially when sound is a concern.

In my off hand goes the option with the greater reach.

Means of defense that I wasn’t actively carrying while sitting by the fire, but that are never far away.

Especially not while I am here, popping north to visit from my home in the desert of northern Mexico.

Maintaining my pace until the darkened trunks of lodgepole pine trees are just a few yards away, I force myself to slow. A slight decrease in speed as I twist my shoulders to the side, knifing my way past the tree trunks that are little more than matchsticks around me.

Bare stilts, interspersed with some light brush at ground level. Small saplings just starting to sprout leaves, their smooth surfaces sliding across my knees and calves.

Thin cover that peels back with barely a whisper as I pass, pushing forward for more than fifty yards. Distance deeper into the forest, the dense boughs up above blotting any moonlight from penetrating.

Near total darkness, forcing me to slow my pace again.

Dropping to barely a walk, I raise the weapons to either side. Bending at the knees, I move largely by feel, my mind continuing to conjure ideas of what may have set off the alarm imbedded in the lone lane serving as an entrance to the property.

An endless parade, rife with visions from what happened in Idaho springing to the fore.

Vivid recollections of a trained team in ghillie suits moving across the fresh snow, automatic weapons trained on the farmhouse ahead.

A starting point, followed by many others in order.

Stored memories from a lifetime of facing down enemies, many of them fueled by reasons I don’t pretend to know. Evil motivations that I refuse to let get anywhere near the girls as I peer into the darkness, picking my way forward.

Slow going over a bed of felled pine needles as a veneer of sweat rises to my features. Perspiration that starts along the sides of my scalp shorn close, tracing down my cheekbones and along my jaw.

More soon rises to match, dotting my brow and sliding across my lips.

A familiar briny taste that I barely register, my focus fixed on the matching pinpricks piercing the veil of the forest up ahead. Twin dots of light aimed straight ahead, both completely motionless.

Parallel beams shot out from a vehicle sitting up high, each experiencing varying levels of success cutting through the trees.

Stationary points that manage to push a bit of extra adrenaline into my system, spurring me onward as I move silently through the forest.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The only thing to even hint at the gathering that was taking place four hours ago is the faint whiff of woodsmoke still in the air. A lingering remnant of a night of well-intended frivolity, cut short by nothing more than a careless error.

A mistake that was far less violent than most of those present have experienced in their lives, but still managed to achieve the same end.

An abrupt halt to a few moments of escape, forcing them to acknowledge the dangers that lurk much closer than most would like to believe.

The combat tomahawk stowed in the rear waistband of my pants, the Browning HI-Power remains out by my side. Bottom three fingers curled around the base of it, my index finger is extended along the barrel, applying soft pressure to keep it tucked tight against my leg.

Firepower that I am not about to go without as I scan the area one last time.

A final check to make sure all is clear for the night, even if there is not a chance in hell I – or Glenda, I would imagine – will be getting a wink of sleep this evening.

Using the same path I did earlier, I keep to the side of the driveway as I emerge from the woods. A force of habit, eliminating the sound of gravel crunching so that I can better hear anything that shouldn’t be there.

Branches snapping.

A gun cocking.

Somebody who might have been using the Amazon Prime truck in the driveway as a diversion, or even just an animal smelling the hotdogs earlier and coming in for a closer look.

Predators of every kind that I am scanning for as I swing wide of the gravel roundabout in the center of the clearing. A focal point around which the house and barns are all clustered, their pale forms almost glowing in the moonlight.

Matching paint jobs, topped off by dark shingles on the roofs.

A wraparound porch for the farmhouse.

Crisscrossed X’s stacked atop one another adorning the sliding doors comprising the front facades of the main barn and the smaller outbuilding beside it.

Meticulous attention to detail, meant to evoke a certain look. All the trappings of a working ranch serving as window dressing for the double block wall construction. Bulletproof glass in each of the windows.

Even a series of tunnels connecting the bunker under the barn with the other two buildings. Escape routes, leading deep into the woods in either direction.

Safety precautions meeting – and in many places exceeding – what existed at the previous site.

Added means to ensure it never happens again.

Pausing on the edge of the drive, I give everything one last look. A final check before pushing forward again, stepping from grass out onto the gravel. A clear demarcation point with each step sounding out beneath me as I cut a direct path toward the farmhouse.

The final few steps in an unexpected journey started hours before.

Flicking my gaze to the side as I go, I can see the faint outline of a shadow behind the glass of the lone doorway into the barn. A standard entry positioned along the right side, spotlit by the lamp extended above it.

A small door for foot traffic, dwarfed by the sliding one beside it that a real barn would use for farm trucks or tractors.

Not needing to see any more detail than that to know who is sitting there keeping watch, I raise my left thumb by my side. A silent signal that everything is clear, matched by a response on the opposite side of the glass.

A flash of pale skin reciprocating the movement, followed by a twirl of dark hair as they retreat from serving as self-appointed lookout.

Silent interaction, followed a moment later by a lone voice piercing the night.

“Tiana?” Glenda asks, alluding to the oldest of the girls who call the place home.

Someone who technically could graduate and move out into the real world soon enough, but I can see sticking around for a while longer.

A continuation of the overlook position, steeped in still feeling responsible for what happened in Idaho months before.

“Without a doubt,” I reply, climbing the trio of steps up onto the porch. Each step landing softly on the floorboards, I turn at the top of the stairs, taking up a spot in the other rocking chair tucked into the shadows beside her.

Two seats near the front corner of the house, bisected by the shotgun resting against the white siding behind us.

“Anything?” Glenda asks.

“All clear,” I reply, reiterating what I texted her a couple of hours ago. Our only contact since I called earlier to let her know it was a false alarm.

The van was legit, as was the vest the driver was wearing.

A guy who got lost looking to make a delivery, forced to stop and check the address before moving on.

“How’d the girls do?” I ask.

“Good,” Glenda answers. Pausing just a moment, she amends the statement, adding, “Very good.”

Glancing over, she adds, “Of course, having you here helps.”

Grunting softly, I lower my chin in a nod. “I was thinking about that while I was roaming out there in the woods. Maybe it’d be a good idea to stick around a little longer, just in case.”

“Well, about that,” Glenda replies, her gaze shifting back parallel with mine. “I heard your pager go off in there a little bit ago.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The dream was an amalgamation of the night before. An unholy fusion of Esai Garcia’s two favorite things in the world, both performed within just a few hours of each other.

Each stemming from the concert less than three miles from where he is laying, the first was the incident outside of the room in the underbelly of the stadium. A fast and decisive strike that already felt like it was days overdue, despite the tour being less than a week old.

An act that, if left up to him, would have taken place on the opposite side of the country long ago. A cautionary tale done for public display, sending out a far more emphatic message than a clandestine hit in the bowels of a concrete block somewhere in Arizona.

Another of his father’s antiquated practices that will be the first thing to go when Esai ascends to take over in the future.

The second event of note from the night before was the dark-haired vixen he picked up a short time later. A groupie who had arrived hoping to be spotted by the cameramen panning the crowd. One of hundreds showing up every night looking to make it onscreen with hopes of being invited backstage.

The famed third encore that No Limits is known for, performing two to end their show before taking the third one back to the hotel to finish the night.

A practice they swiped from the Eagles or the Who or some other seventies-era rock band.

An origin in line with the aging performers trying desperately to cling to the spotlight. Live an outdated notion of how stars on tour are expected to behave.

Bullshit that would rank near the top of the list of things pissing Esai off daily, if not for the opportunities it provides. Young women just like the one pressed tight to his side. Ladies only days past the drinking age, wearing just enough clothing to keep them from getting stopped by law enforcement.

Prime targets, all looking for a good story to take back to the other tramps at their day jobs. A tale of how close they were to greatness, some guy with a security t-shirt and a lanyard being more than enough for most.

A close approximation inducing both gratitude and enthusiasm, leading to nights like the one before.

A carnal blur of alcohol and lace that Esai’s subconscious was in the midst of replaying – along with more than a few vivid callbacks to what happened to the guard outside of Blaze’s dressing room – when his phone came to life on the nightstand beside his bed. Steady and persistent buzzing, just barely loud enough to penetrate the haze of substance-assisted slumber.

More than a handful of pulses in a row, fighting to reach down into the abyss and grab him by the front of the t-shirt his dream state was still wearing.

A point of contact, used to drag him to the surface, leaving him blinking up at a brushed concrete ceiling above. A smooth surface, against which pops of light erupt like flashbulbs each time he blinks.

His senses fighting to catch up, not expecting to be awake for quite some time.

The phone continuing to cry out one time after another beside him, Esai raises his left hand to his face. Exhaling loudly through his nostrils, he presses his thumb and forefinger over his eyelids, causing another starburst of light behind his lids.

Shades of red and green that remain even after he removes the pressure and opens his eyes again, reaching for the phone.

Stilted movements that his paramour fails to even notice, verging on a state of comatose by his side.

Snatching the device up from the flimsy wooden stand, Esai starts by pressing the buttons on either side. A mercy killing to the insistent sound continuing to bore into his psyche, followed by sliding it his way.

His eyes squinted up against the bright glare of the screen, he glances at it for only a moment, confirming what he already suspects.

A name he in no way wants to talk to at the moment.

Knows better than to ignore.

“You didn’t call,” his father opens.

His features twisted up with a handful of responses, Esai answers with another sigh. A non-vocal means of relaying his annoyance without actually having to say as much.

“Why?” Manuel presses.

“Didn’t think I needed to. Figured someone else would be calling soon enough.”

Pausing for a moment to process what was just shared, his father answers, “They’d better. Otherwise, I’m going to be paying them a visit tomorrow.”

How his father chooses to handle – or over handle – the situation, Esai is past trying to debate. Logic that he knows the old man will just ignore, sticking to his own outdated paradigm.

Some shit about codes and standing and all that.

The same tired crap he’s been prattling on about since Esai was a kid, not once realizing that his son – and the world around them – were both growing up.

“Right,” Esai replies. “Maybe I’ll even join you for that.”

“No,” Manuel answers. “Stay where you’re at for now. I’ll let you know when it’s time to come home.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Blaze’s mother used to joke that as a child, she had a specific soundtrack for every different activity. Music carefully curated to coincide with whatever she was doing in a particular moment.

Playing in the sprinklers in the summertime called for 80’s jams. Things like “Walking on Sunshine” or “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

Tunes that were light and easy, letting her bounce around barefoot in the grass.

Chilly rainy days in the spring were for older rock ballads. U2 or Aerosmith, droning from the ancient CD player that she had picked up at a garage sale for six bucks.

A battered chunk of plastic that Blaze still has tucked away on a bottom shelf in her bedroom. A beloved old friend that is far too laden with nostalgia to ever part with.

A key component in what became an ongoing love affair with music, expanding over time to not just include sounds to specific activities, but also moods. Days of the week.

Even times of the day.

A constant rotation that grew wider as she got older, eventually encompassing time spent working out as well. Hours pounding the pavement outside or throwing hands and feet at kickboxing class.

Her preferred forms of energy release, swapped out on the road for places like the small gym tucked into the basement of the Motel 6 that was home for the previous night. Her third different bed in as many cities, to be followed by dozens more in the months ahead.

Additions to a tally that is already well into the hundreds, traversing both coasts and all forty-eight states in between.

“Movie’s showing, so you’re going,” Blaze sings, the sound of her voice just barely audible over the song blaring through her headphones. Young MC’s “Bust a Move,” chosen from the hip-hop soundtrack reserved for when it’s time to break a sweat.

Something with energy, to keep her going on the rickety treadmill facing a cracked pane of glass.

A reflective surface showing the underside of the conveyor belt as it sits at a forty-five-degree angle, visibly wobbling under her weight.

“Could care less about the five you’re blowing.”

Barely ten hours removed from the stage, she can feel the effects of the night before. Fatigue that used to only show up after performing multiple nights in a row, working small clubs and bars across the west.

Places with little more than a wooden platform for her to stand on, limiting her to just a few steps in either direction.

Confined space that is no longer a problem, venues like the stadium last night giving her plenty of room to move about. Express the energy pulsating through her, doing her very best to fling it back out to the crowd.

Effort taking much more of a toll than she is used to, manifesting with the lactic acid already starting to burn in her butt and thighs. The shortness of breath threatening to choke out the string of lyrics being belted one after another.

Necessary evils, making sure she is ready when they hit the stage in Albuquerque tomorrow night.

Lubbock the night after that.

A string of venues she’s only dreamed of, not about to let a little road weariness set in, minimizing the experience for her or her fans.

“Theater gets dark-” Blaze continues to push out, cut short by the door swinging open behind her.

A flash of movement visible across the cracked glass, drawing her attention to Bristol Lynch stepping through.

Hopping up into the air, Blaze balances her feet on either side of the conveyor belt still spinning beneath her. Pulling her headphones down around her neck, she drapes herself over the plastic arms extended at waist height.

Sucking in deep breaths, she waits until the third or fourth one before saying, “Hey, cuz.”

“Hey there,” Bristol replies, the same expression on her face that always seems to pop up whenever visiting Blaze in the gym.

A look mixed of both bemusement at whatever workout Blaze is putting herself through, and relief that she is no longer asked to take part.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Oh, you know,” Blaze says, still fighting to catch her breath as she rises to full height. “Just making sure I’m not bouncing off the walls of the bus all day.”

Casting her gaze over the treadmill standing at an angle before her, Bristol lifts her brows. “That’s why I’m here. Rolling out in forty-five. You going to be ready?”

“Of course,” Blaze answers. Grasping her oversized headphones in either hand, she starts to nudge them upward. “I might be the stinky one on the bus, but I’ll be there.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Flashing her trademark grin, Bristol juts her chin forward. “Do I even want to know what you’re listening to today?”

Matching the smile, Blaze fits the headphones back down into place over her ears.

“You say neat-o, check your libido, and roll to the church in your new tuxedo!”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The instant Bristol Lynch turned and exited the makeshift gym in the basement of the third hotel they’d be in over the last five nights, the smile she’d been wearing vanished. An instant evaporation as her crimson lips receded past neutral, either end dipping down into a frown.

The casual stance she had adopted contracted, pulling her shoulders toward her ears. Her fingers curled up into fists.

A defensive posture, matched internally by her chest and lungs both constricting, forcing her to actively think about the most basic of bodily functions.

Reflexive responses that had all been with her for the better part of ten hours and counting. Her body’s new baseline, beginning the instant Harley Lewis opened the door to Blaze’s dressing room last night.

A single moment, managing to annihilate any bit of annoyance she might have felt. Same for any exhilaration she was feeling from watching the show.

Even any joy for them being invited on the tour.

A series of natural responses that all dissipated in an instant, replaced with nothing short of wanton terror. Fear that she could feel inching steadily higher each time the image of the note pinned to the desk with a bloody knife crept into her psyche.

A snapshot that seemed to have a life of its own, each successive mental viewing bringing it into sharper relief.

The light hitting the stainless steel.

The bright red blood dripping the length of it, staining the note underneath.

Even the coppery scent filling the air.

Sensory assault that had kept her awake most of the night, worrying who might have put it there. If – as Harley seemed to suggest – it was someone just playing a prank, or maybe even actively trying to sabotage the tour.

Things that were plenty reasonable, paling next to the even more real possibility that it was an overzealous fan or someone from Blaze’s personal life with an ax to grind.

Real danger, in which case Bristol couldn’t help but wonder what it was they wanted. What possible slight could have evoked such a reaction.

What would have happened if they’d gotten there just fifteen minutes later.

One question after another riffling through her mind, keeping any notion of sleep at bay.

Assigned to the room directly across from her cousin, no less than a couple dozen times she had gone to the peephole to check the hall. Stops of increasing length, checking to make sure that the door a few feet away was undisturbed.

Nobody was inching closer.

No more notes or knives or anything had been affixed to it.

Time spent peering through the narrow fish-eye lens, trying her best to see in either direction. Elongated scans filled with nothing but bad wallpaper and worse carpet, after which she would return to the rayon comforter tossed atop the bed.

Taking up a post with legs crossed, she would clutch the remote control in both hands.

The closest thing to a weapon that was available, ready to be wielded in an instant.

Exiting the stairwell into the front lobby of the hotel, Bristol turns away from the loose collection of people gathered in the adjoining room. Folks who look to have been awake no more than a couple of minutes, attacking the continental breakfast and around-the-clock coffee bar with equal aplomb.

Fuel for the day ahead that she leaves them to as she turns and heads outside through the main entrance.

Automatic doors that part down the middle, greeting her with a full blast of Arizona sunshine. A natural spotlight, bringing with it the dry desert heat, already sitting above eighty degrees.

The middle stages of a climb that will get into the lower nineties before it is done, with more promised in the weeks ahead.

Hotter days that Bristol is glad they will miss, the tour making a point of hitting their southernmost sites early before turning north later in the summer.

Sandals slapping against her heels, she walks the length of the building. Swinging out around the corner, she heads for the side lot where their tour bus is parked, the oversized flaps on the sides raised to receive the baggage of those about to board.

A process that Bristol herself will also soon be taking part in, though for the time being she continues on around the building. Following the sidewalk on to the grassy lot next door, she glances in either direction, ensuring she is alone, before sliding her cellphone from her back pocket.

Tapping the same saved contact she stared at for most of the night, she stops, pressing the device to her ear.

“‘Ello!” Harley answers after but a single ring. A word delivered with too much cheer and volume.

Performance, no doubt done for the crowd whose voices are plainly audible in the background.

“How are things at the Motel 6 this morning?”

Snorting softly, Bristol replies, “Just lovely. And at The Ritz?”

“We’re actually at The Continental today,” Harley replies. Sounding as if he is on the move, the din of conversation behind him fades. His overly ebullient manner recedes to match. “Don’t worry, you’ll be the headliner staying at places like this soon enough.”

Their respective accommodations far from Bristol’s greatest concern at the moment, she pushes straight to the real reason they are talking.

“Did you make some calls last night?”

“I did,” Harley answers. “I spoke to my guy in LA, who said he has someone perfect for the job. They’re flying in as we speak, will be waiting in Albuquerque when we get there.”

Rotating in place, Bristol scans the backside of the motel. A solid wall of windows, behind one of which is her cousin.

Another, Rumer Ripley.

Others still, the guys in the band.

People who could have all been targeted last night.

Individuals whose safety – or even lives – could be affected by the decision she and Harley made.

“Harley, are you absolutely-”

“I’ll even let you go to the airport and pick them up. Vet them yourself, in person, if it’ll make you feel better.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Logically, I know what I saw last night.

The young man with dark hair and patchy facial scruff really was just a driver who had gotten lost. Well outside of his normal delivery route, he had been looking for one of the neighbors a couple of miles in either direction and had simply stopped at the first turnoff available to check his directions.

An act that took a little longer than usual due to the remote location and the poor cell reception in the area.

Staying no longer than five or six minutes, the instant he found what he was looking for, he and his official Amazon Prime vest climbed back into the official Amazon Prime van and took off. Not once did he look back. Never again did another car go past in the four hours I waited in the woods beside the drive.

All details that I know, intuitively, prove what happened was nothing but a random fluke.

That doesn’t change the fact that I still don’t believe in the damned things.

If pressed, I would dare say that none of the girls who call this place home do either. A dozen people with well over a century of cumulative time on this earth, almost all of it informing us that flukes are the rare outliers.

Isolated incidents when good intentions go awry.

Far more often, those intentions are nothing but pure evil. People wanting to sow chaos or cause harm that we always have to be on watch for. Prepared against.

Willing to die to defend.

Firmly entrenched in such a mindset, most of the remainder of the night was spent out on the front porch. Hours sitting alongside Glenda until she turned in, followed by even more posted in the second rocking chair staring out into the darkness.

Constant vigil, broken up only by a trio of laps around the property. Trips well beyond the edge of the clearing, moving out into the forest as well.

Checks for any hints of recent activity or things that shouldn’t be there. Signs as innocuous as a footprint or a broken tree branch, none of which ever surfaced.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling.

Not just that what happened wasn’t completely innocent, but that now is not the time for me to be leaving. Flying to the southern edge of the country, willingly putting a thousand miles between myself and the people I care about.

Have made it my job to watch over.

“Breakfast?” Glenda asks, her voice arriving in lockstep with the low whine of the hinges on the front door. Chilled metal rubbing against itself that sounds out a second time as it swings shut behind her.

Heading past the chair where she spent a good chunk of last night, she goes to the edge of the floorboards and stops, her gaze pinched up against the bright morning sun.

Rays made even stronger by the layer of dew covering every blade of grass and shingle within sight.

Fifteen feet to her right, my shoulder is braced against the corner post of the porch. Arms folded over my torso, I keep my gaze on a parallel track to hers and reply, “I don’t have to go, you know. I told Mikey-”

“You told him you would do it,” Glenda inserts, cutting me off short. “And there’s no reason for you not to.”

We both knew what she meant last night when she said my pager went off. Not one for keeping up casual friendships – or even friendships in general, for that matter – my number is known by exactly three people.

One, my sister currently enjoying a plate of bacon and waffles inside.

Two, the woman standing a few feet away.

And third, Mikey. A man who I previously served with, back when we both wore camouflage and collected a paycheck from Uncle Sam.

Someone who, in the time since, has become one of the premier handlers in the country for people like me. Folks known as mercenaries, or soldiers for hire, or whatever other fashionable term someone wants to apply to us.

People with very specific skills, and an even more specific mindset to employ them.

Long ago, I learned to never be in possession of a permanent cellphone. The security on them – no matter the encryption – is just too lax.

Roving tracking beacons, able to pinpoint someone damned near anywhere on the planet.

For that reason, my number doesn’t contact me directly, but goes to an answering service that, at the moment, is housed in a strip mall outside of Atlanta. An automated system that I swap every few months where whoever needs to get ahold of me can leave a message.

Once they do, an alert is sent to the pager Glenda heard go off last night.

I call and listen to it, and then determine whether to call whoever left the message back.

“No reason?” I ask, parroting her words as I glance her way.

“We’ll be fine.” Matching my look, she lifts her brows and adds, “And if something does happen, you’ll come back, just like you did last time.”

Rotating back to stare out over the clearing before us, I can’t help but keep returning to the same thought that raced through my mind dozens of times after speaking with Mikey last night.

This is no time to disappear, no matter how much damn logic I apply to what happened last night.

“If I do this,” I eventually say, rotating my gaze back to the side, “I want your word. No more bonfires, no more sing-a-longs for a while.”

Smirking softly, Glenda again meets my gaze and replies, “Not until you get back. Which might be when again?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The question is a near replica of the last thing Glenda said to me before I took off from the compound just ninety minutes ago. Further proof of my burgeoning theory that the longer she and my sister cohabitate, the more alike they are becoming.

Melding that goes far beyond shared practices, coming to resemble something of a hive mind.

“Any idea when we might see you again?” Amy asks.

Standing on the curb beneath a sign marked Departures outside of the Bozeman International Airport, her face is turned toward the sun streaming in from the east. A glowing ball resting just a couple of inches above the horizon, painting everything in a straw-colored glare.

Bright light that is not nearly as welcomed as the warmth it provides, bringing with it some hope that chilled nights like the last one might fast be coming to a close. Summer in Montana might soon be arriving.

No matter that the rest of the country welcomed it weeks ago.

My other home in northern Mexico, more than a month before that.

Cherubic features bunched up tight, her sightless eyes are narrowed to mere slits. Bright blue dashes against pale skin tinged with splashes of a rosy hue.

The same exact face I woke up to each morning for most of my youth, the sole differences being a couple of extra pounds and a few more inches of white-blonde hair.

A living time-lapse photo standing alongside her daughter,

the twenty years separating them just barely discernible.

“Come on now,” I reply. Letting the duffel bag resting on my left shoulder fall to the ground, I take a step forward. Wrapping an arm around my sister’s shoulders, I pull her close. “You know I can’t answer that.”

Face pressed against my shoulder, she snorts softly in reply. “Can you at least promise to be careful?”

Giving her an extra squeeze, I do my best to stifle a chuckle.

Even more, the response that comes to mind, being careful not exactly something that comes with my job description.

“Okay,” she capitulates, releasing her grip and pulling back, her hands resting on either of my hips. “Can you at least promise not to do anything stupid or reckless?”

This time, I make no effort to stymie a laugh. A rare moment of levity, cleaving through the battling senses of urgency and concern that have been with me since her daughter and I sat on a bale last night, joking about music and names.

A conversation that I couldn’t help but think was something bordering on prescient once I called Mikey back on the front porch in the wee hours and he told me about the request that had come in.

The attached parameters that had made me uniquely qualified for the role.

“Done,” I reply.

Sliding my hand free from her shoulder, I move a foot to the side, wrapping the same around my surrogate niece.

“You guys be careful,” I say, echoing Amy’s words. “Watch out for each other.”

“We will, auntie,” Amber says, clutching me tight for an instant before pulling back.

As close to a goodbye as any of us are capable of, we leave things at that. Moving in unison, they retreat to the waiting SUV behind them, Amber heading for the steering wheel while her mother slips into the passenger seat.

Coordinated movements that I watch while taking up my bag from the ground. Nestling it back on my shoulder, I wait until they each gave one final wave and start to pull away before turning the opposite direction.

Passing through the automated doors for the terminal, I slide my phone from my pocket.

By the time I’ve made it past the first rack of brochures hawking skiing and fly-fishing tours in the area, it is already to my cheek, the trilling cry of a ringtone sounding out.

“Ham.”

“Mikey,” I reply.

“You on the move?”

“Just got to the airport,” I reply, leaving out the parts I shared last time we spoke. A preference for driving that would allow me to bring along some of the same gear I was carrying just last night.

A means of travel rendered impossible by the tight timeframe the new client is on.

“What have you got for me?”

“Nothing new,” Mikey replies. “Some rockstar is out on tour right now and had an incident in the dressing room last night. Not sure exactly what it is, but they called asking for some extra muscle for a few days.

“You came to mind because one, it is a young woman, and two, they requested someone who can blend in.”

Knowing what he is alluding to on both points, I don’t press on either.

Rather, I ask, “What kind of incident?”

“The kind that was enough to scare them into calling us instead of the police.”

Striding through the terminal concourse, I flick my gaze toward the bank of monitors hanging down from the ceiling above. A quartet of screens, split between arrivals and departures.

Ignoring the first two entirely, my gaze moves to the accompanying pair, checking to ensure that my flight to Denver is still going out as expected.

The front end of a trip that will dump me down in Albuquerque sometime mid-afternoon.

“So the kind that it would probably be better if I was armed for.”

“Sure sounds that way,” Mikey replies. “Which is why I went ahead and talked to my guy over there. He’s expecting you first thing in the morning.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Bertrand Davis has never been to New Mexico.

Just like he’d never been to Arizona or California before that.

Three new places that he never really had any desire to see, having not once ventured west in his thirty-three years on the planet.

What little travel he had done was reserved exclusively to school field trips a lifetime ago or forced family interactions. Perfunctory jaunts to Washington, D.C. or New York City to look at old buildings where something important may or may not have happened a century prior.

Mandatory visits to his grandparents squirreled up in the Louisiana bayou that were more like exercises in survival. Weeks spent fending off predatory snakes or spiders and ducking marauding mosquitoes while sweating his ass off.

Treks that deserved the very least little bit of credit that could be given, but did come with the limited upside of having something interesting to look at as he went.

Mountains.

Swamps.

Rivers.

Hell, even the occasional tall building.

Stuff that came in different sizes and shapes and colors, as opposed to the desert that was the first half of his day. A flat sprawl that stretched wide in every direction, connecting Phoenix on one side with Albuquerque on the other.

A six-hour trek that somehow managed to all be done in the same boring-ass color. Nothing but tan as far as he could see, matching the shit box motel he is currently standing in. A single-story structure even cheaper than where he stayed the last couple of nights, looking like it was built long before Bertrand was born.

Decades without anybody bothering with new paint or shingles, leaving it all to the sun and sandblasted into oblivion.

More monotony, matching every last thing since he got on the highway this morning.

The kind of thing he knows he shouldn’t complain about since he isn’t the one paying the bills, but that doesn’t make it any better.

“Help you?” the man behind the counter asks as Bertrand steps up to the counter. A guy matching every known stereotype Bertrand has ever heard about the state, with dusty boots on his feet and a matching hat on his head.

A bulging gut held in place by a faded snap-button shirt.

In his hand is an enormous slice of watermelon, pink remnants clinging to his bushy mustache.

“I have a reservation,” Bertrand replies.

Grunting softly, the man takes a step forward. Grabbing up an ancient leather-bound ledger from the underside of the desk separating them, he slaps it down in front of him.

Swapping the chunk of watermelon from one hand to the other, he flips open the top, peering the length of his nose at the entries all scrawled out in pencil.

A total list of no more than a couple, matching those of the previous few nights. Entries all parsed out by thick black lines, their dates jotted down in the same stilted hand.

More throwbacks to an ancient time and place, further solidifying every barb Bertrand’s ever heard before. Jokes that he always thought was a way of making people in Oklahoma feel better about their own lot.

Words that he can now see were closer to observations than attempts at humor.

“Davis. Bertrand Davis.”

“Yup,” the man says, the lone word pushing more watermelon bits out into the bristles lining his lips. “Got you right here. Just the two nights?”

Again, resisting the urge to comment, telling the man it wouldn’t even be that if it was up to him, he forces his chin up and down.

“Just the two.”

“Alright,” the man answers. Taking up a pre-printed slip of paper and a golf pencil from a pile on the lower portion of the desk between them, he places both down in front of Bertrand. “Just fill that out, if you would.”

His work for the moment done, the man takes a step back. Switching the watermelon back into his dominant hand, he watches as Bertrand turns the paper right side up and begins to do as instructed.

Basic information he is in the midst of filling in when the man asks, “What brings you to town?”

His grip on the pencil tightening, Bertrand pushes a breath out through his nostrils.

“Concert,”

“Oh, right, No Limits,” the man says, pausing his assault on the piece of fruit just long enough to add, “Those guys are pretty good.”

Words that Bertrand doesn’t bother responding to, letting the sound of the miniature pencil snapping within his grip suffice.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The strip along the armrest in the rear passenger seat of the Cadillac Escalade is something Manuel Garcia had specially installed. A necessary upgrade, second only to the security features enveloping the vehicles.

Run-flat tires and body armor and all the rest.

Bullshit that Manuel had waved aside as his security team went over it with him, his bigger concern being the small rectangle resting right by his elbow. A patch no longer than an inch in width and four times that in length.

The sole rough texture in a vehicle where everything else has been buffed to a glassy veneer. Essentially, a piece of medium-grit sandpaper embedded in the polished wood.

The ideal surface for striking matches such as the one clutched between the fingers of his right hand. Another in a countless procession, leaving just a faint smear of blue behind.

A bit of color, soon joined by the crack of the match coming to life. The whiff of woodsmoke in the air.

Precursors to the luxurious scent of cigar smoke that follows.

The acrid taste that passes across his tongue and down his throat, filling his lungs.

Letting it expand his chest, Manuel holds it as he shakes out the match before him. A quick flick serving to extinguish the flame, leaving behind only a thin curlicue of smoke.

Gray vapor that he adds to, slowly pushing out what is held within. A smoky zeppelin shooting out before him, blanketing the rear of the vehicle in a haze.

As far as cigars go, it is satisfying, but far from the best he’s ever tasted. That designation – no matter how he loathes to admit it – belongs to the island just ninety miles south of where they are currently driving. Castro’s personal fiefdom, capable of producing beautiful women, mediocre food and, somehow, the finest damn tobacco on the planet.

An odd combination that Manuel is happy to cede to Cuba, the primary export from his country of a much more profitable nature.

The very reason why they are out and about now, slowly rolling through the port on the lower boundary of the greater Miami area. A dizzying labyrinth of steel containers stacked high, overseen by cranes spinning in circles above, their frames lined with seabirds of every type and size.

Waterfowl dropping bits of shit in equal intervals, the misshapen splotches dotting the dark streaks covering the concrete below.

Rubber residue, left behind by one of the dozens of forklifts flying about. Small machines covered in yellow paint that has been chipped away over time, flaked off with each corner taken too tight or sideswipe of a passing vehicle.

Tight confines that they all know better than to attempt with the Escalade, pulling to a stop well back as it rolls through.

While the best Cuba has to offer might come rolled and dried, his country is most famous for its ability with counterfeiting. Taking pieces of common consumer goods ranging from coats to cashmere and reproducing them on the cheap.

Close facsimiles that are then sent north, where Manuel sells them at a premium.

“Where to today, Mr. Garcia?” his longtime driver Ramiro asks from the front seat. A man landing directly between Manuel and his son in terms of age, his thick dark hair just starting to show the slightest flecks of gray.

“On the end,” Manuel answers. “Johny’s expecting us.”

Grunting softly in reply, Ramiro lifts his foot from the gas. Angling them down the center of the aisleway, he brings them to a stop alongside one of the new arrivals.

A standard container painted dark brown, the oversized doors on the end both standing wide. Metal gates, behind which wooden boxes are stacked clear to the ceiling.

Cargo that has not yet been unloaded, awaiting the arrival of Manuel to inspect.

“Keep the engine running,” Manuel says. “This won’t take long.”

Clamping the cigar between his teeth, he steps out into the humid midday air. Omnipresent moisture, exacerbating the smells of brine and bird shit.

Odors helped only nominally by the light breeze blowing in from the water, pushing smoke from the tip of Manuel’s cigar and tugging at the lapels of his suit coat.

Looping around the front grille of the Escalade, he is met by a short man wearing stained work pants and a neon reflective vest. Most of his hair having vacated his scalp, his tan skin has been leathered by the elements.

Hard years that become more pronounced as his features split into a grin, his hand outstretched before him.

“Mr. Garcia.”

“Johny,” Manuel says, reciprocating the shake. “What have we got today?”

Turning over a shoulder, Johny lifts his chin toward someone hidden out of sight within the container. A silent command, answered in the form of an object tossed back his direction.

White and brown in color, Johny catches it in both hands before turning and offering it to Manuel.

“Handbags,” he replies. “Gucci, Chanel, all the big names.”

Jabbing a finger at the item he just handed over, he adds, “That one there is Louis Vuitton.”

“This one here is shit,” Manuel replies. Running his finger along the bottom seam, he can feel the stitching already starting to pull loose.

Shoddy craftsmanship that is no doubt a hundred times worse on the inside.

Thrusting the bag back against Johny’s chest, Manuel turns back toward the Escalade.

“Send them back. Tell them I want whoever stitched this one to be shot.”

Looping around the front corner, he pulls the cigar from his lips and adds, “And also tell them, if it happens again, everybody involved will be too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The last time my ass was in Albuquerque was just over five years ago. A stretch encompassing the entirety of my self-imposed early retirement to the desert, and the couple of years I’ve spent back on the job since.

A full half decade, during which it doesn’t look like a single thing has changed.

The landscape is comprised entirely of shades of tan. Different layers of sand and mud, all stacked up and left out in the desert sun to bake.

Same for most of the people slipping past me in either direction. Folks who have been dried and leathered by the elements, giving their appearance a hardened edge and adding at least a decade to their features.

Even the damned name of the building I am exiting is the same, the place for some reason insisting on calling itself a sunport instead of an airport like the rest of the world.

On my shoulder rests the duffel bag I packed before leaving the farmhouse this morning. A couple of changes of clothes and some basic toiletries, anything else I might need to be picked up along the way.

A list topped by the meeting with Mikey’s local contact tomorrow morning. An impending appointment that can’t come fast enough, leaving me unarmed for the next fourteen hours and counting.

A rare occurrence for me, imparting the feeling of nakedness, especially after the events of last night.

Even if I as yet have only a vague idea what I might be up against.

Passing through the automatic doors at the front of the terminal, the first thing to hit me is the intensity of the midday sun. A spotlight even stronger than in Bozeman this morning, magnified by the sea of windshields waiting just outside. Vehicles pulling up to the curb to nab arriving passengers, and others parked in the lots just a short distance away.

Paired with the wicked glare is a temperature increase of at least fifteen degrees from the terminal inside.

A full thirty or so above Montana.

Dry heat that I can feel swirl around me, starting at my ankles and working its way up. A simulated cyclone, wrapping across my legs and torso, finishing along the sides of my shorn scalp before tugging at the long hair from the top and back pulled into a ponytail.

What feels like an aggressive pat down from the elements, checking to ensure that I am in fact traveling without a weapon, before passing on to the next poor bastard stepping out of the terminal.

Emergences that are paired with exclamations about the sun or the heat or both, as if they had no idea what to expect when first booking their travel.

The same usual canned comments that I tune out as I scan the curb in front of me, needing only a single pass to identify my ride.

A lone girl who doesn’t look much older than my niece, standing well down on the end by herself.

Facts that alone wouldn’t be enough to make her readily identifiable. That honor goes to her being the sole person who isn’t even looking at the steady trickle of passengers spilling outside. Phone clutched tight in both hands, she has it pulled up to within a few inches of her nose.

Her top teeth are pushed down over the red lipstick of her bottom lip, dark hair spilling down on either side.

Sporting boots and a pair of jeans with holes on either knee that look like they were put there by design, she looks woefully out of place standing alongside the dusty Jeep. Like someone who packed only for showing up to concert venues every night, not quite ready for general public interaction in between.

“You the one who called?” I ask. An opening that is as vague as possible, not wanting to mention what happened backstage last night in the event my assumption is wrong.

Concern proven unwarranted as the girl jerks her attention upward. Sucking in a sharp breath, her eyes go wide, everything going rigid for an instant as she looks at me.

Registers the question that was just posed.

Visible processing, ending with her exhaling as a forced smile comes to her face. Her right hand releases its death grip on the phone, thrust my direction.

“I’m sorry,” she manages to get out. “I just...”

“Were expecting a man,” I reply. Accepting her offering, I add, “A big one.”

Despite my grasp not being nearly as forceful as I can – or that she possibly deserves – I still see her features falter.

A tiny quiver, hinting already that whatever brought me down here, it is bigger than just a minor security issue.

Pairing with the scare last night and the last five hours folded into an economy airplane seat, the information does nothing for my mood as I jut my chin toward the Jeep behind her.

A motion saving her from having to lie about who she was expecting.

“Shall we?”

“Yes, please,” the girl says. Turning toward the Jeep, she pauses as if about to ask if she can help with my bag.

An offer she immediately thinks better of, swinging on around the back and sliding behind the wheel as I take up the passenger seat beside her.

“My name’s Bristol,” she says, acting as if she might extend her hand again. A second awkward movement in as many minutes, igniting more than a couple of red flags in my mind.

Extreme nerves, the source of which I can only guess about at the moment.

“Bristol Lynch,” she adds.

Putting the Jeep in gear, she checks the rearview before pulling away from the curb as I reply, “Ham.”

A name eliciting a response much like when I initially approached, causing her to do a double take in the seat beside me.

“Excuse me?”

“My name,” I reply. “Call me Ham.”

Obvious questions lined up on her features, her lips forming into a perfect circle for just a moment, she pushes them away.

“It’s nice to meet you, Ham. I’m not sure what exactly you were told before coming down – thank you for that by the way,” she rambles. More nervousness, causing her to push out words at a rapid pace.

Verbal diarrhea I let continue for the time being, in need of whatever information I can get.

“But I am the band manager for Blaze,” she continues. “I don’t know if you-”

“I’m familiar with her,” I insert, not bothering to point out that my knowledge of her includes one song, going back less than twenty-four hours.

Immaterial information I move past, asking instead, “What happened last night? Was she harmed?”

“No,” Lynch answers, jerking her chin to either side. “While she was up onstage, someone snuck into her dressing room and left a threatening note.”

“How threatening?”

“It said: you’ve been warned, and was pinned to the table with a knife.”

Shifting my gaze to the side, I process what she just shared in silence for a moment. Data that is a bit more serious than I originally thought, but nowhere near as bad as it could be.

A story falling right in line with needing extra muscle, if not why they would call us instead of the police.

“What did Blaze say once she returned?” I ask. “She have any idea who did it or why?”

Exhaling slowly, Lynch shakes her head again. “She doesn’t know. And if possible, we’d like to keep it that way.”

Lifting my brows, I turn to stare at her profile beside me.

“We?”

“The, uh, tour manager and I,” she manages to push out. “His name is Harley Lewis. We’ll be meeting with him first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Not today? Right now, before tonight’s show?”

Sliding her gaze from the road to the side mirror, she flips up the turn signal. Easing into the inside lane, she slips past a truck looking to make a turn, waiting until we’ve returned to the original lane before answering, “We’re actually off tonight. We play tomorrow at University Stadium, and then on to Lubbock the next night.”

Sliding my gaze back to stare straight ahead, watching the usual assortment of urban shops and stores sliding by on either side, I ask, “What about tonight?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Just twenty minutes into the case, I can already see that this is going to vary from my last one for two key reasons.

Both of them bad.

Things going well beyond the general ambiguity of what exactly my role is, speaking to the situation at a more fundamental level.

The first is the fact that on that last one, the little boy I was protecting – am still protecting, if occasionally popping by to visit and check in on him counts – knew from the very first instant what was going on. The first time we met was just minutes after both of his parents had been murdered inside their home by a band of predatory assassins.

A brutal opening that meant I didn’t have to tiptoe around what was happening. I didn’t have to act like he wasn’t in danger.

Like there wasn’t a damn psychopath leaving knives in his dressing room.

The second thing - which was basically an extension of that - was that I also didn’t have to convince him to take his own safety seriously.

If Blaze doesn’t know there is an issue, she won’t change her behavior.

She won’t have any reason to.

She’ll continue doing exactly as she has, leaving herself open to attacks just like the one that occurred last night.

Twin issues that do nothing to improve her safety, and make things a hell of a lot harder on the rest of us.

Perched in the passenger seat of the rented Jeep, I can feel my grip on the handle above the window tighten. Physical manifestation of those two things roiling through my mind, already envisioning every potential pitfall with what I was just dropped into.

An unending list of possibilities, causing my hand to clench. Muscle striations the length of my forearm and bicep to show plainly against my tanned skin.

Again, the feeling of nakedness flares, making me want nothing more than to tell the young woman behind the wheel to turn south.

We need to make a detour to visit Mikey’s contact early.

A quick side trip to ensure we’re ready for what is coming.

“If we’re not telling her why I’m really here,” I eventually say, pulling her focus my direction. “Then what are we going with?”

“Merchandising,” Bristol Lynch replies. Flipping a glance my direction, my own visage flashing across the lenses of her reflective sunglasses, she turns back as she lifts her foot from the gas.

Raises the turn signal, hinting that our short journey has come to an end for the time being.

Baptism by fire, coming in the form of the roadhouse sitting just back off the road. A structure that looks like it could have been anything from a restaurant to a Civil War fort in a previous incarnation, with a front façade of vertical wood planks.

Above, square corner turrets sprout flagpoles announcing allegiance to the country, the state, and what I’m guessing are a host of local sports teams.

Resting over the door, the name Riley’s is spelled out in neon script.

A throwback surrounded by a parking lot of equal parts gravel and impacted dirt, most of it already filled with Jeeps like the one we’re in. Pickup trucks with sprays of mud down the side.

Even a dune buggy or two, the only thing missing being a horse tied to a hitching post out front.

“We told her the record company is looking to develop some new t-shirt and poster ideas, so they hired you as a freelancer to help come up with some new designs.”

Offering nothing more than a grunt in reply, I keep my gaze aimed straight ahead, adding the new information to the list of things I already do not like.

A cover that is excessively narrow, backing me into a role I know not a damned thing about.

“You really think this is a good idea?” I ask, as she heads toward the back corner of the lot and pulls to a stop.

A question that raises her brows in reply, my own answer being to point up at the massive bar standing before us.

Pretty much the last place on earth I would let someone I knew go that had just been threatened.

A sentiment she seems to agree with, replying, “No, but one of the guys found it online and they’ve been talking about hitting this on our first day off since we started. If we don’t...”

Shoving the gearshift into park, she pulls the keys and adds, “By the way, leave your hair up like that. Blaze will love it.”

Saying nothing more, we push out on opposite sides of the Jeep and head for the door. The faint call of classic rock music already in the air, we crunch over the uneven parking lot, both having to stop for the requisite ID check by the pair of bouncers with steroid-induced acne working the entrance.

A meager line of defense before passing through the oversized wooden planks serving as front doors. Built to match the outside décor, they resemble gates standing wide, ushering us into more of the same inside.

What is essentially one massive space, the centerpiece being the stage on the far wall where a band is just starting to set up. Live entertainment later in the night, replacing the music that is blaring through the speakers at the moment.

Noise pollution that nobody inside seems to notice, the early crowd lining the bar along the back wall or filling the extra-wide booths arranged around the sides.

A bare minimum of seating, meant to maximize the dance floor in the center.

A fully open layout, soon to be filled beyond capacity with drunken fools.

A night that hasn’t even started yet, and already I hate it.

“Come on,” Bristol says, drawing my attention her way. “Everybody’s over here.”

Adding nothing more, she takes off at a diagonal, heading across what is at the moment open floorspace. A direct route, pulling up at the head of an elongated table framed by elevated bench seats on either side.

Precious seating, built directly into the outer wall.

Space enough for the six people already split evenly on either side, with more than plenty for Bristol, myself, and the two bouncers from the door to join as well.

“Hey, hey, everyone,” Bristol announces, any trace of the nerves I saw in the Jeep vanishing. “Sorry, we’re late.”

At the sound of her voice, the group all turns our way in unison. A few are wearing smiles from whatever conversation we just interrupted.

The remainder don looks of surprise and curiosity, making no effort to hide their open appraisal of us.

And by that, I clearly mean me.

“Don’t be,” a girl in the back corner who looks like she needed a fake ID to get past the door says. “We just got here.”

“We did,” the young woman by her side adds.

Without a doubt, she is who I was sent here to protect, a few stray locks of orange and yellow flaring from the bottom of the black bandana wrapped around her head.

Her gaze landing on me, she asks, “Who’s your friend?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Blaze wants to believe she was doing everything right.

She was seated between Bristol Lynch and Rumer Ripley, the both of them pinning her in tight on either side. Wedged into the middle, she was sitting with her back to the stage, using the row of mirrors behind the bar to watch the house band behind her.

Middle-aged guys working their way through a set of classic rock covers. Bon Jovi and AC/DC and all the usual favorites that always make an appearance in places like this.

Songs people have been listening to since they were kids, so imbedded they can be belted out no matter how inebriated one might get.

Pantheon-level familiarity that she can only hope her music one day reaches.

Her trademark hair was hidden out of sight, tucked up into a plain black bandana. A muted dark color decidedly at odds with the glowing locks underneath.

Concealment that she loathes, but that is a condition for the nights out such as this. A rare break from the grind of the road, letting them all head to the kinds of places they were playing not that long ago.

A chance to remind themselves where they came from. Where they would gladly return if things didn’t pan out.

Joints that first instilled a love for the audience, there whenever needed to help solidify it along the way.

Despite all those best efforts though, it didn’t matter.

Still, she had been spotted.

Somebody must have caught a glimpse of her or – more likely – the assembled throng of people around her. Not just her cousin and friend on either side, but the guys from the band hanging out on the opposite side of the booth.

Three people who she has known for years now and loves dearly, but cannot pretend don’t tend to stand out in a crowd.

Same for Duke Larson on the end, with his towering stature and arms that are always bare. Guns that are great for clearing a path for her, but that also tend to draw a few stares.

An odd assortment of folks, now added to by the inclusion of the new merchandising rep sent out by the record company on the end. A woman who looks like she was carved from solid marble before the sculptor decided to get creative, giving her a spray tan and shaving the hair down on either side of her head.

A look that is admittedly badass, but also isn’t going to slip by unnoticed.

A swirl of unique characters with Blaze at the center, all but ensuring that at some point, someone would put it together.

Start circulating the word.

Whispers that would eventually make their way to the stage, just as they now have.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the man who just moments before was doing his best Axl Rose impression calls out. “It has been brought to my attention that we have a very special guest with us here tonight.”

In response, a few groans rise from the audience. Initial reactions, quickly drowned out by a few cat calls.

A joke or two, drawing a couple of laughs.

Early sounds of a crowd already on their third or fourth beer, promising to get rowdy as the night wears on.

“Someone who, I’m hoping, we might be able to get to join us up onstage for a song or two.”

On Blaze’s right, Rumer touches her elbow to her ribs. A gentle prod, helping to point out the obvious.

Recognition matched by Bristol on her other side, releasing the death grip she’s had on her beer since they arrived to tap her knuckles against Blaze’s wrist.

A silent head’s up, paired with Chauncy in the corner faux whispering, “Just so we’re clear, I ain’t playing shit.”

His usual irascible nature, drawing snickers from Webb and Brecker beside him.

A half chuckle from Blaze, doing her best to keep her head down, pretending that maybe if she doesn’t acknowledge it in any way, the moment will pass. The singer will get the hint, apologize for the confusion, and move on.

Perhaps even pick someone else out, making a joke of it. An old buddy or a house regular, drawn up to butcher some cowboy karaoke.

Alternatives that Blaze doesn’t really believe will come to pass.

Doesn’t really want them to either, if she’s being honest about it.

“Aw, come on now, don’t act like you can’t hear me, over there in your black bandana,” the man presses. Pausing just a moment, his voice shifts as he addresses the crowd again. “Let’s put it to a vote.

“Ladies and gentlemen, what do you think? Should Blaze come up here and join us for a few minutes?”

On cue, twin reactions seem to pass through the crowd. Two things lined up one after the other, the first being an audible murmur.

Gasps and whispers as people glance to either side, trying to decide if what they just heard is true.

A split second of indecision, followed by lifting their drinks and their voices. A hearty roar, reverberating from the all-wood décor inside the place.

“I do believe the people have spoken, Blaze,” the man presses. “I mean, unless you’re too cool for us.”

Even knowing full well that the man is goading her, Blaze can’t help herself. Her lips part in a smile as she lowers her gaze to her lap.

Reaching up, she peels the bandana back, dropping it onto the table in front of her.

Actions that cause the buzz of voices to grow louder around her.

“Bristol, let me out.”

“Hon, I don’t think-”

“I’ll be right back,” Blaze inserts, cutting her off as she rises from her seat. “It’s just one song, maybe two. What’s the worst that could happen?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Anybody who’s ever been in battle before knows there is a moment. Ingrained understanding that isn’t exclusive to those who have been in combat or carried a weapon, extending to anyone who has ever been inside a ring.

Faced off across a mat from an opponent.

Been involved in a bar fight.

That one particular instant when the air shifts. Things go from curious to contentious to confrontational all at once.

An escalation straight to a breaking point, after which you can bet your ass some punches are going to be thrown.

The reason most of us recognize such a moment is because we know to get out in front of it. Position ourselves so we can be the aggressor.

The best suited not just to avoid their shots, but to throw a few of our own.

Tonight, that instant occurred well before Blaze was called out from the crowd and pulled semi-unwillingly up onstage. It happened while I was still sitting beside Bristol Lynch, with my back to the stage.

A post next to the only person there who I had actually spoken to for more than a moment. The same young woman who had made the addendum when I answered Blaze’s initial question, telling everyone that my name was Ham.

Information evoking the usual response, to which Bristol had added that it was Hamm, with two m’s, like the soccer player.

Whoever the hell that might be.

The official start to a stretch of trying to remain unseen. More than an hour, attempting to follow through on the bullshit story that had been invented about who I was and why I was there.

Some independent contractor wonk looking to hawk merchandise, tucked away on the front corner, pretending to nurse a beer.

The kind who are meant to be seen and not heard, affording me a vantage on the front end of the booth. A spot not expected to contribute to the conversation, allowing me to study the young woman I was brought in to protect.

Her style. Mannerisms.

What kind of impression she makes.

Who might be drawn to her.

An initial focal point, after which I worked my way outward, getting a read on the people who surrounded her.

Lynch, who I was already familiar with, doing her best not to let the sheer terror she was feeling show. Forced smiles and awkward laughter that the others didn’t seem to notice.

Or if they did, wrote off as just her general style.

The girl who looked like a child on the other side named Rumer Ripley, clearly relishing her close proximity to the star. Positioning she seemed to bask in, soaking up as much ambient glow as possible.

The type of person who clearly picked out seats ahead of time, making sure she got the best chair.

A recent college graduate who had likely latched on with the record company in a menial role, just recently elevated so that she was actually getting face time with one of the acts. A sudden shift in post that she was still giddy about.

Visible joy, offset by the three guys sitting across from them. The rest of Blaze’s band, trying to pretend they were too cool to be there.

Big rock stars, not needing to go slumming at a place like Riley’s, despite Lynch already revealing that it was one of them who had found the place.

Self-importance that had waned the longer they were there, helped in no small part by the shit being tossed their way by Blaze. Endless banter that they more than gave back, much like sibling rivalry.

Ongoing chatter that the last person in the group did his best to keep up with. Efforts to lob the occasional one liner that was met with tepid response, most of the others shrugging aside whatever the big guy with bare arms tried to insert.

Weak efforts that didn’t bother me near as much as the fact that he was clearly there as security, but his intense need to be a part of the group was keeping him from doing his job.

So intent on leaning inward, hanging on every word shared, not once did he cast a glance at the growing throng of people around us. An after-work crowd that was already starting to fill the place by the time Lynch and I arrived.

Too many people in too small a space consuming too much liquor too fast.

A combustible situation, culminating in the moment when I knew things were going to go sideways.

The exact instant when I turned my focus away from the table and started watching the floor around us, picking up on the first signs of trouble.

Relatively minor stuff like a spilled drink.

Someone stepping on somebody’s else boot.

Incidents that were easy enough for a third party with a cooler head to diffuse. Small insertions that worked initially, but weren’t going to last all night.

A blinding inevitability, meaning that by the time I was forced to slide off my spot at the end of the booth so Blaze could get out, I knew better than to sit back down.

I also knew better than to turn my back to the stage again, relocating so I was standing on the opposite corner when Blaze hit the first few lines of Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock and Roll.”

What should have been a crowd pleaser, instead serving as a spark to the tinder box that is the dance floor now packed tight.

A starting gun that puts me immediately on the move as I push straight forward, sliding along the end of the booth.

“Get to the Jeep. Now,” I hiss at Lynch as I pass, snatching up a pair of bottles from the end of the table as I go.

Makeshift weapons I grasp by the neck, clutching them at waist height as I continue forward, skirting the edge of the dance floor. Square footage that just forty-five minutes before was relatively barren, now housing a sizable percentage of the people inside.

Men and woman of every size and age, their sweaty bodies contorted in a tangle of limbs.

Arms and legs thrashing in every direction, flailing at any available target.

A brawl I have no intention of taking part in, no matter how much angst I might be carrying. Frustration that started with that damned driver last night, continuing with every last bit of information I’ve been given since I got here.

Future problems to be dealt with later, my full focus on getting my ass to the stage.

Grabbing Blaze and getting her out the back before things really start to break down.

My pace set just shy of a jog, I knife my way along the outer edge of the room. Never more than a foot or two from the booths lining the outside, I make a point of avoiding as much of the conflict as I can.

A burgeoning melee that I slip past, twisting my shoulders to slide through narrow gaps and even dropping to a squat to slide under a tossed chair.

Practiced avoidance, hanging onto the bottles until I no longer have a choice, using the first one on an asshole who plants himself in front of me. Fist cocked by his ear, his lips are pulled back in a snarl, his eyes wide.

Blind aggression that I put down by swinging my right hand up in a tight arc, smashing the bottle into the underside of his jaw. A clean strike that shatters the dark glass, sending him toppling backwards as shards of glass rain down on the floor.

An emergence and elimination of a threat lasting no more than an instant, returning him to the abyss of humanity at my side.

A final obstacle as I reach the front corner of the room and bend inward toward the stage, increasing my speed to a sprint. A hard charge at the elevated wooden platform, putting my aim not on the trio of stairs rising along the end.

A point of entry that some bastard in a tank top has already reached, making his way up.

Going instead for the front edge of the stage, I pump out three more strides. Elongated bounds, building momentum, before vaulting myself up from the floor below.

Landing hard on the plywood platform just a few feet in from the corner, I lock my legs. Planting my feet, I slide to a stop, barely coming to a complete halt before twisting my body hard to the side.

A quarter rotation, letting my left arm unspool behind me.

A makeshift whip with the bottle at the end, sending it crashing into the side of the man’s skull as he ascends the final stair.

Sideways impact that causes the bottle to do just as the first one did, exploding outward in a hail of crystalline shards. Sparkling debris that seems to hang suspended in the air, even as he is tossed sideways off the steps.

A second potential opponent, there and gone.

Two decisive strikes, putting me exactly where I wanted to be in just a matter of moments.

But also leaving me empty handed as I turn back to see the flashing glint of a knife coming straight at me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The knife the guy is holding is an A5 SPRY. A switchblade with an automatic release producing a three-and-a-half-inch piece of razored steel, this particular one configured into a drop point.

Honed edges on both sides, pinching inward to form an isosceles triangle at the end. A weapon capable of inflicting damage whether used forehand, backhand, or jabbing.

Lethality that is the damned reason why the thing is illegal in a good chunk of the country, including New Mexico.

Recognizing it in an instant, the melee going on in the pit below fades. Background noise that I keep in my periphery to one side, much the same as the band and Blaze herself standing a couple of feet away to the other.

Considerations that I will get to soon enough, my main focus on separating the man from the blade.

Not because I am afraid of him hurting me with it.

Of that, there is little chance.

Because I want the damn thing for my own.

Barely two hours on the ground without a weapon, and already this shit is happening. The realization of exactly what I suspected when I first asked Bristol Lynch if this was a smart decision.

Example A in what will probably be many on the list of mistakes made in the name of trying to keep the young woman at my side from finding out about the warning in her dressing room. Situation after situation where it – or something much worse – can happen again.

Flicking my gaze between the tip of the blade and the man holding it, I raise my hands before me. Knees flexed, I stagger my feet, twisting my body to the side.

Careful movements, meant to make myself a smaller target. Less surface area for him to strike, forcing him to lunge.

Get him off balance.

A lifetime of experience that he pretends to match across from me, doing his best to lower himself a few inches. An aborted squat that is the best he can do in his too-tight Wranglers, dropping the bottom few inches of his gut over the buckle holding his belt in place.

The knife outstretched before him, his opposite hand goes out wide like some sort of damned matador.

A jack-o-lantern grin graces his features, his lips and teeth shiny with saliva.

Left to my own devices, I would take great pleasure in ripping this pudgy bastard apart. Unleashing the simmering rage that has been building since the bonfire last night, letting him be the recipient of every bit of frustration since.

A slow and methodical dismemberment, starting with me taking that knife from him and using it to pin his ass to the stage. Driving it through a hand or a foot to keep him fixed in position, and then really going to work on him.

As much as I might want that – and he might deserve it – though, right now I know I can’t.

Not with the fracas going on nearby, threatening to spill up onto the stage at any moment.

And more importantly, not with the young woman who doesn’t even know I’m here to protect her standing just a few feet away.

Rooted in place, I make no effort to advance on him, trusting that he will do exactly what I want. A few moments of inactivity, luring him into acting first.

Movement revealing both his capability, and his experience with the weapon in his hand.

Neither of which amount to much.

Shuffling straight ahead, he extends the tip of the blade out before him. Using it like a poker, he tries jabbing at my core. A forward strike that elongates his reach by no more than a couple of inches, coming nowhere close to his target.

A weak try that I barely even have to pull away from, going back only an inch or two. Just enough to give the illusion of retreat, baiting him into coming forward again.

A second jabbing motion, displaying he is unaware of the knife’s capabilities.

Sharpened edges on either side, far more useful for slashing across. Sweeping arcs back and forth, able to inflict damage in either direction.

Planting my back foot, the instant he starts coming at me a third time, I don’t react the way he expects.

Instead of retreating, I push straight ahead, snapping my forward hand across my body.

A downward strike with my left palm, hitting square across his wrist, driving the knife from his grasp. An unexpected shot that twists his shoulders to the side, leaving his face fully exposed as I come in hard with my opposite forearm, smashing it across the bridge of his nose.

Bone-on-bone contact that fractures the tensile strength of the thin bones forming his nasal cavities. An unexpected blow that opens both nostrils like faucets, sending bright red blood across his lips and down his chin.

His eyes dim as he staggers backward, arms flailing as he tries to keep his balance.

A full opening that I would love nothing more than to rush right into, burying the heel of my foot into his overpronounced midsection. Send him toppling down onto his ass, and then really have at him.

Show the bastard what happens when someone comes at me with a blade.

A series of mental images that I again have to force to the side, rushing not forward to go after him, but taking a single step to the side. A lateral movement, shooting out a hand and grasping the microphone stand resting just a couple of feet from Blaze.

A solid piece of steel with a weighted bottom, providing a second makeshift weapon in just the last few minutes.

An impromptu battering ram that I used to take out his right leg, driving the base flush into his thigh. Firm contact between the flat bottom and the muscle belly, swinging his leg out behind him.

Backward momentum that causes him to pirouette in place, his heft balanced on one foot.

A precarious pose, leaving him unable to do a damn thing as I shove the base of the mic stand forward one more time. A hard thrust, putting it flush against his lower spine.

One final push, sending his fat ass off the edge of the stage and into the crowd.

A writhing mass of humanity that swallows him from view as I drop the stand, snatching up the switchblade from where it landed just seconds before.

Closing the blade, I slip it into my back pocket as I turn to Blaze still standing wide eyed a few feet away.

“Come on. We need to go.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Francisco had referred to the place as a honky-tonk. A word that Esai Garcia absolutely despises, along with all of the associated connotations it brings with it.

Shitty music in the air.

Peanut shells and sticky beer on the floor.

Loads of drunken rednecks rubbing up on each other.

The type of situation Esai has always traditionally tried to keep himself far removed from, the exceptions being those few times in his younger days when he wanted to go hunting. Evenings when he would be pissed off or floating high on some new substance and needed a release.

A place to aim whatever he was carrying, nothing serving better than fat and sweaty rubes who think they’re tough.

Easy targets just like those who had packed the place full tonight, creating something of a combustion chamber. A room stuffed with egos and self-importance. Old men looking to prove they still have it and young kids trying to show they’re ready to take over.

A scene matching a hundred others Esai has seen, this one wrapped in denim and cowboy hats.

Idiots who needed only a couple of beers and a couple of errant shoves on the dance floor for things to break down.

In another time and place, Esai would have handled the night much differently. On those previous outings, he would have gladly jumped in. He would have sent Francisco through the middle to carve some space, and then he and Luis would have really had some fun.

The three of them causing chaos in the center of the place, leaving carnage in their wake.

Equally likely at this point, he would have simply shaken his head and headed for the door. An early end to an outing he wanted nothing to do with, leaving the ignorant assholes to beat the shit out of each other.

His two primary options that tonight were both eschewed for staying exactly where he was. Remaining posted up along the corner of the bar in the back of the room, slowly sipping the piss water that counted as beer in this part of the country.

A weak drink he was glad to force down for the view that the post afforded him.

The information he was able to glean from it.

“What do you sound so happy about?” his father snaps over the line. The first words spoken since their initial back and forth.

A quick introduction as Esai drives he and his friends away, the three of them crammed into the front of the pickup they have been in since Los Angeles. A ride to fit their chosen cover, same as the meager accommodations they’ve been staying in the last several nights.

The shitty fast food they’ve been forcing down for dinner.

Three working stiffs, trying to cut costs while out on the road.

“Happy is a stretch,” Esai replies. His left elbow braced against the windowsill, he keeps the phone pinned tight to his cheek.

His opposite wrist is draped over the steering wheel, the twist of his shoulders affording him a couple of extra inches of space.

“Though I’d think you should be pleased right now.”

“Why the hell should I be pleased right now?” Manuel asks. “All day waiting for a reply that never came.”

“It did,” Esai says, “just not in the way you expected.”

Pushing on without waiting for another of his father’s snide questions, Esai explains what happened at the bar just a short time earlier. The presence of Blaze and her band.

The fight that broke out.

A tale evoking more sharp comments from Manuel that Esai completely ignores, charging right through to the part about the woman with the terrible haircut. A new arrival with obvious fighting and weapons training, showing up less than a day after what happened in Phoenix.

Proof that their message was heard.

Steps are being taken.

“And that’s why I should be pleased?” his father eventually asks once Esai falls silent.

Another barb that brings Esai’s teeth together, casting a sideways glare at Luis sitting on the bench seat beside him.

“I give it a day,” Esai manages to push out. “Two, at most.”

“And what if I have no intention of waiting that long?”

PART 3

THE DECOY

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The cheap swill the continental breakfast tried to pass off as coffee is exactly what Bertrand Davis showed up expecting it to be. A mix of muddy water and motor oil, to match the stale cereal and not-quite-molding muffins on the lone folding table in the lobby.

Shit in line with the threadbare sheets he was forced to sleep on and the piece of steel wool doubling as a towel in the bathroom.

Amenities in name only, matching his experiences each of the previous nights as well. A string of rundown motels that aren’t just past their expiration date, but clinging to their last few gasps before being reduced to rubble.

A pattern that he would be more pissed about, if not for the fact that they were being offset by prime tickets each and every night. Optimal seating with clear viewing lanes, enabling him to have already amassed more than fifteen hours of concert footage.

Five of that filled by the woman he is there to watch.

Will spend the rest of the summer watching.

Holding a paper cup of the dirty water in either hand, Bertrand backs his way out of the small room connected to the front office where he checked in the day before. A tiny carveout resembling a repurposed closet, big enough for the small spread and a couple of additional tables.

Two-tops, as his mother used to call them back when she was waitressing.

Space enough for a total of four people, though the family of five gathered around the other one had different ideas. A mother with four kids between the ages of three and thirteen, all huddled together, devouring every last item they could get their hands on.

A veritable pack of hyenas, right down to the cackling sounds they made as they descended on the feast. Shrill calls of delight, interspersed with the staccato patterns of conversation rattled off in a foreign language.

Something from far south of the border, in line with their dark tans and even darker hair.

An unwanted intrusion paired with the poor night’s sleep and the dismal food offerings to make for a shitty start to the day.

His gaze scrunched down into a squint against the early morning sun, Bertrand opts against following the sidewalk around the horseshoe-shaped establishment. Focus aimed downward, he shuffles straight across the parking lot, making it almost to the rear bumper of his dusty Bronco before lifting his attention to see the maid’s cart parked on the sidewalk at the opposite end.

The door to his room standing open behind it.

“What the...?!” he snaps, his hands both clenching. An automatic response, sending hot coffee over the sides and across his fingers.

Heat that causes both hands to open wide, letting the cups fall to the pavement, sending more coffee across his toes peeking out past the straps of his sandals.

Another thing to be ignored as he rushes forward in long strides, needing just a handful of steps to pass the length of his vehicle.

Another to step up onto the sidewalk and past the cart.

Four in total, during which he can feel heat flushing his features.

Anger spiking within, far surpassing whatever annoyance he might have had during the last eighteen hours.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Bertrand spits, his body splitting the sun streaming in through the open door. A bright stripe over the threadbare carpet, framing the maid standing in the center of the room.

A woman who looks like she could be the twin of the mother in the lobby, the only thing to set them apart being the cheap dress she is wearing.

Zip-up polyester in a tangerine hue, making her skin tone appear even darker.

“Huh?” Bertrand demands, taking a step further.

Progress that causes the woman to visibly flinch, her wide-eyed gaze swinging from him to the wall above the lone table in the room. A barren stretch of drywall, to which Bertrand has affixed no less than three dozen images.

Pictures of all things Blaze, from snapshots of her onstage a few nights before to her recent album cover.

Items arranged in painstaking detail, the photo that is the background on his phone serving as the centerpiece.

“That is not what you think it is!” Bertrand adds, taking another step forward as she recoils a bit further, a small sound escaping her. “That’s for my work! I need that for...”

Cutting himself off there, Bertrand merely stares at the woman for another moment.

“Why am I bothering? Do you even speak English?”

Shaking his head, he turns back toward the door.

“I’m going to find the manager.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I’m pretty sure I scared the shit out of Bristol Lynch by banging on her door at half past six this morning. An early start that I’m already starting to see is a stark contrast to how things are usually done on a concert tour, as evidenced by the pillow creases striping her cheeks and the tangle of hair rising behind her head like a halo.

Framing for the pair of puffy eyes that stared at me as she hugged a fluffy robe closed in front of her and asked if everything was alright.

A mix of fear and confusion that lingered even after I told her I needed the keys to the Jeep and that I wouldn’t be long.

Just had a quick errand to run before everything else got started for the day.

Looking like she had gotten no more than a few minutes of sleep after the brawl at the bar last night, it took several moments for the request to compute. Logical deduction made difficult by the lack of firing neurons, requiring me to snap my fingers a couple of times.

Spit out the single word, “Keys.”

Prompting that eventually managed to register as she retreated back into the room. Making it no further than the dresser, she snatched up a ring with two keys and a fob on it, settling for tossing them to me rather than plodding back over to the door.

The expedient choice that I appreciated, grabbing them out of the air and reiterating that I would be back soon. The last words said by either of us as I let the door swing shut, heading straight down the rear stairwell to the parking lot below.

Five minutes after that, I was sitting in the drive-thru at the McDonald’s just down the street. A quick stop for the largest cup of liquid caffeine they offered, currently resting in the middle console beside me.

Dark roast serving to perfume the air, working to mask the odd assortments of smells filling the interior of the vehicle. Whatever lotions and shampoos Lynch was wearing when she came to pick me up, overlaid by sweat and beer and a host of other things left over from our escape last night.

Odors I have encountered too many times to count over the years.

None of which I want around to start the day.

Bypassing the thought of food for the time being, I settle for taking down the coffee in large gulps as I pull away. Cellphone resting in the retractable cupholder extended from beneath the stereo system left off, I turn to the north, following the directions spit out by the device’s GPS program.

A detailed list, sending me toward the address of the man Mikey first mentioned the last time we spoke.

A supplier to match many others across the country, seemingly residing outside of every major and – in this case – midsize city. Weigh stations for people like myself, having to get someplace fast and needing to be properly outfitted once we arrive.

A situation highlighted last night, the resulting A5 SPRY currently resting on the passenger seat beside me.

The closest thing I have to a weapon, not about to be tucked away until I have something stronger in hand.

Following the handful of entries listed out the length of the screen, I push the Jeep across the breadth of Albuquerque. A straight shot made easy given the early hour, passing by the sunport and Riley’s before heading out into the desert.

A journey taking me more than ten miles past the far reaches of civilization before I am instructed to make one last turn. A final left, moving off the pavement and onto a lane that is little more than twin ruts carved into the firm sand.

Particles pinging against the undercarriage of the vehicle, I drive another mile before coming to a halt alongside what looks like a concrete bunker. The first hard edge I’ve seen since leaving the road, jutting from a sand dune towering high above the Jeep.

Three lines that plainly form the rectangular front, the bottom obscured by small mounds of sand pushed up against it.

Rolling hills of various sizes, bisected in the center by a plain metal door.

Leaving the Jeep parked broadside to the door, the driver’s side facing it, I step out into the early morning sun. Rays not quite as strong as those in Bozeman yesterday, but warmer by at least twenty degrees.

Making sure to keep my empty hands spread wide to either side, I track straight across the sand to the door and knock twice. Pounding done with the side of my hand, the dull reverberations of the metal echoing within.

Sounds that barely fade before the light rasp of a speaker can be heard overhead.

A hint of feedback, followed by a brusque voice snapping, “Name?”

Where the speaker is hidden in the wall before me, I don’t have the slightest. If I had to guess, I would say it’s probably paired with a camera of some sort, every move I’ve made since pulling up carefully monitored.

“Ham,” I reply, lifting my voice to make sure I am heard, wherever the damned thing might be lodged. “Mikey sent me.”

In response, there is another hit of white noise. Static crackling through the speaker, though no additional sound is heard.

The start of a reply that apparently isn’t deemed necessary, replaced by the metallic click of a deadbolt being turned.

A precursor for the door swinging inward, revealing a man who isn’t terribly far from many of those I saw at the bar last night. A desert lifer, with skin tanned a deep russet brown, his handlebar mustache bleached by the sun.

A heavy web of wrinkles is visible as he squints into the morning sun, tilting his head to either side.

Open scrutiny, ending with him smirking softly.

“I’ll be damned,” he mutters. “You really are her, aren’t you?”

Not sure how to respond to the question – or if it was actually even meant as one – I simply nod.

“Call me Baker,” he says, stepping forward and thrusting a hand out. A shake he waits for me to meet before adding, “What exactly is it you’re looking for here today?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Whether the name Baker was an actual name, a nickname, a former call sign, or hell, just something the guy made up in the face of a woman with a strange haircut banging on his door first thing in the morning, I don’t know.

Don’t much give a damn either.

What I do care about is the fact that I no longer feel naked. No more will I be forced into a situation like on the stage last night, staring down a knife while having to make do with whatever is on hand to fend it off.

A situation that could have been a lot uglier had the bastard across from me not been some half-blitzed redneck.

Given the short notice of my arrival and the restrictions I was working under when I rolled up, I would have been glad to take whatever Baker had on hand.

Anything small enough to be easily concealed. Quiet enough to be employed in a potentially crowded setting without igniting a stampede or drawing a whole lot of unwanted attention.

Strictures that he was able to work around, even managing to meet some of my requested preferences as well.

Flexibility that earned him a fist bump from me on the way out, and what I promised will be a hefty bonus from Mikey when it comes time to settle up.

While I was forced to bypass my favored combat tomahawk, he was able to set me up with a Browning HI-Power, along with a silencer threaded down on the end of it.

A weapon with both range and stopping power, currently wedged under the mattress in my room upstairs. A spot in the exact center of it, ensuring that even if some overachieving maid overlooks the Do Not Disturb on the door, there is not a chance in hell they find it.

Same for the collapsible baton resting beside it.

Standard police issue for crowd control, to be employed in exactly the same manner. A way of beating back the masses or pushing my way through, freeing me of the need to grab up beer bottles or whatever other random object I can find like last night.

The final bit of gear I was able to pick up from Baker was the Glock 43 now strapped to the outside of my left ankle. Placement much like the allocation a couple of nights ago, putting the firearm in my non-dominant hand, leaving my right open for the A5 SPRY left folded into a towel in my duffel bag upstairs.

Twin weapons that will both be present by the time Blaze takes the stage tonight, for now reduced to just the gun hidden beneath the leg of my jeans. A small addition that I feel tugging slightly as I step into the conference room on the main level of the motel, though highly doubt anybody else can notice.

Not unless they are staring specifically at my feet.

And even then, only if they know what to look for.

“Good morning,” Bristol Lynch says as I enter. Standing behind one of a trio of elongated folding tables filling the room, long gone is the groggy young woman I rousted from bed hours ago.

In her place is something much closer to who picked me up yesterday, her hair styled, her makeup freshly applied. Donning a denim skirt and a blazer over a concert tour tank top, she looks already set to head off to the venue.

A state of readiness that cannot be said about the man sitting by her side, his eyes red rimmed as he looks up from the chair he is slouched in. Looking like a castoff from a band last seen in the eighties, his heavily lined face is framed by mid-length hair sticking up at odd angles.

A trio of silver studs adorn each ear.

Metal accessories, matching the quartet of chains around his neck, and the even larger number of bangles and rings on his hands.

Trinkets that all clink loudly as he manages to roust himself to a standing position, extending his tattooed hand across the table.

“Harley Lewis,” he says, his voice betraying a cockney accent. “Tour manager. You’re Ham, the one Mikey sent, right?”

“That’s right,” I say, meeting his shake.

Soft hands. Weak grip.

“That a problem?”

“Hell no,” he answers. “You’re good with Mikey, you’re good with me.”

Tilting his head to the side, he adds, “Bristol here was just telling me about what happened last night.”

Flicking my gaze between them, I reply, “I’m more interested in what happened the night before.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Sitting on one side of the conference room table, my gaze flicks back and forth between the knife and the note sealed in separate Ziploc bags. Two items both stained with blood that has dried and blackened, making the first question obvious.

The next five or six after that too.

Procedural and situational matters that I push aside for the time being. Stuff we will get to soon enough, my greater concern at the moment being clarity.

Understanding, both of my role and their expectations moving forward, because what they just put in front of me is a hell of a lot different than what they fed Mikey to get me here.

Lifting my gaze upward from the two things that should be in an evidentiary lockup in Phoenix right now, I ask, “I was brought here under the impression that I was to work as security, bodyguard, whatever the hell you want to call it.

“Shit like last night, helping keep drunken yokels from making their way up onstage.”

Extending a finger before me, I continue, “This is something else entirely. This is something for an investigator.”

In order, I can see them both tighten up. To one side, Lynch resumes her default setting. The same one she assumed on the curb outside the sunport yesterday, and again on the drive back from Riley’s last night.

Her fingers curl up into fists. Her shoulders rise a few millimeters toward her head.

She draws in a half breath, though no words escape her lips.

A foot to the left, Lewis exhales loudly, letting it push him back in his seat. His brows rise as he tilts his head to the side, contemplating how to respond.

A dual reaction so synchronized it almost feels rehearsed.

“Well,” Lewis begins, “we need both. We need you to keep her safe, and to figure out who is doing this.”

Sliding my gaze between them, I reply, “They have people for that. They’re called police.”

“Right,” Lewis says, “but that would be the Phoenix Police, which are already, what, four hundred miles behind us? And tomorrow, we’ll drive another three hundred to Texas.”

Lifting my right eyebrow, I make no effort to hide the budding frustration I feel. Growing angst from being lied to, and from now facing something at least twice as large in scope.

A situation that I’m not even sure should be allowed to play out.

Much less, that I’m the right person for it.

“But you were there two nights ago, when this happened. Why didn’t you call them then?”

“Because-” Lewis starts to answer. A single word, cut short by Lynch beside him.

“Because it would be the end of the tour,” she says. Words she almost spits across the table, pulling my focus her way. “At least for Blaze.”

The first honest thing said since opening introductions, I slide my focus sideways to Lynch. “Is that what the record company said?”

Lowering her gaze back to her lap, she presses her lips tight together. Her nostrils flare as she exhales slowly.

“They don’t know.”

Once more, I can feel acrimony inching upward within me. Frustration building with each new piece of information they share, my eyes narrowing as I flick my gaze between them once more.

“The company doesn’t know, and neither does Blaze?”

Not expecting an answer from either one, I pause just long enough to make sure the question is heard and registers before adding, “Don’t you think they should? Or are you two just going into business for yourselves here?”

This time, neither one immediately responds. Lynch’s focus goes straight to her lap as Lewis reclines a bit further in his seat, making a point of looking anywhere but at me.

Practiced avoidance, again bringing to mind the impression of coordinated movements.

Means of sidestepping the question that I refuse to let happen.

Staring straight back, I wait long enough that it becomes clear I want an answer. More than a full minute, pushing well past the point of awkwardness.

Discomfort that eventually Lynch caves to, her eyes rimmed with moisture as she looks up at me.

“Blaze, or the record company, would never hurt anybody. And they absolutely would not demand to keep going if they knew somebody had been hurt.” Glancing sideways to Lewis, she says, “It’s just...”

Bringing her gaze back my way, she continues, “You’ve heard about that big break, right? Well, this is it. For her, and the band, and the record company.

“Everybody. This is that shot.”

“And it’s not just that,” Lewis says. “The tour has already started. We’ve got road crew, merchandisers, concession vendors, hundreds of people now relying on this.”

“And that's more important than somebody’s life?”

“No!” Lynch answers, her eyes going wide as she extends a hand my way. Fingers splayed open, it looks like there is more she wants to add.

Words that don’t make it out, cut short by Lewis inserting, “We don’t actually know that somebody did lose their life. It’s not like we ever found a body or anything.”

Cutting my gaze back his way, I reply, “But you did find this knife, and this note-”

“Yes, but-”

“And blood spatter on the wall outside the door?”

Stopping there, I wait for an answer I know isn’t coming.

A return to the previous state of anxious silence, enough to cause Lynch to look up twice as if she might speak.

Further protests or attempts to ease her conscience that she is beat by Lewis stating, “Look, I know it’s messy, but in the moment...”

Letting his voice trail away, he adds, “And it’s not like we didn’t do anything. We called you.”

One at a time, the full list of things I want to say to these people plays across my mind.

Admonishments for how they handled things. Protestations about their plan moving forward.

Accusations about the lies they told to get me down here.

A host of things I don’t bother voicing, both of them already making it clear that they’re going about this with their asses on fire right now. A full-on scramble that means yelling at them might make me feel a bit better, but it isn’t going to get me any more information.

Sure as hell isn’t going to make things safer for Blaze moving forward.

Pushing out a couple of loud breaths through my nose, I draw the moment out a little longer, making sure they understand how I feel about things, before sliding my gaze down to the two items before me.

“The letter G?” I ask, starting with the letter inset in the textured grip of the knife handle.

A question they both answer with a shake of the head, prompting me to move to the other item before me.

“Warned about what?”

A second question they answer in the same way, neither so much as emitting a sound.

Further silence that causes the fingers on my left hand to curl inward, clenching into a fist.

“At least tell me who else knows that I’m allowed to talk to about this?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

On one hand, Manuel Garcia wants nothing more than to again utilize the small strip along the armrest in the back of the Escalade. Striking a simple wooden match against it, he wants to hold the flame to the tip of a cigar.

Use the resulting smoke to fill his lungs. Create a plume of haze around him.

A scent that will mark where he has been.

Leave a lingering reminder of his presence for all who are working today. A stamp that cannot be ignored, no matter how hard the sniveling prick tucked into the back office might try.

Manuel wants to create gossip. Speculation.

In short, he wants to make a scene.

At the same time, he doesn’t want the reason he is here to be obfuscated in the slightest. He doesn’t want spectacle to overrule substance.

Misdirection to confuse the message he is about to unleash.

“Door,” Manuel mutters as he strides along the concrete path leading up to the main entrance of Sunburst Records. A double-wide walkway connecting the side parking lot and the single-story building on the outskirts of Coral Gables.

A brick structure with inset windows lining the front, their bottom halves filled with tinted glass, the tops displaying various record covers.

Albums that have been produced by the label, including the one they are here to see about. A vivid image aglow with bright colors, a set of matching prints framing the entrance.

A not-so-subtle hat tip to what they envision their meal ticket is moving forward.

All on the back of Manuel’s benevolence.

Grunting softly in reply, the man to Manuel’s right increases his pace. A mountainous figure named Jesus who spends most days helping tend to the lawn and garden surrounding the mansion, trotted out for moments just like this.

Times when his best skill is putting on the largest sports coat available and a pair of dark sunglasses to match the beard framing his oversized jaw. Standing with his hands clasped before him, making sure the scars latticing his massive knuckles are plainly seen.

A silent message far more pronounced than any cigar could ever be.

His pace not once slowing, Manuel passes through the door held wide. Entering onto a front foyer of dark marble, he slides the sunglasses from his face, giving the reception area a quick once-over.

A single check, long enough to see that the only thing that has changed since his initial visit months before is the framed poster affixed to the brick wall behind the front desk. A black-and-white variation of what is hanging just outside, as if put there to taunt Manuel.

Flaunt the very reason why he is here now.

“Good afternoon,” the young woman behind the desk says without looking away from the computer screen before her. A Pavlovian response to the door opening, paired with a smile gracing her bright pink lips.

An automated reaction, waning just slightly as she lifts her gaze to the two men before her.

“Can I help you?”

Taking a single step forward, Manuel juts his chin toward the hallway extending out to the right of the desk. The shorter of the two leading in either direction, this one going to only a single office.

A palatial corner spread, separating the man who seems to think he is in charge from the rest of the peons siphoned off to the left.

“Mr. Doherty?” the girl asks, a vertical line appearing between her brows.

A stupid question from an obviously stupid girl that Manuel doesn’t bother responding to, replying with merely a wave of his hand. A silent brush off that draws her up out of her seat, though she is smart enough not to say a word as he passes down the corridor.

A journey of merely fifteen feet made across the same dark marble, framed records and concert photographs lining the wall to either side.

Images Manuel doesn’t care to even glance at, his gaze aimed straight ahead.

“Door,” Manuel says again. A repeat of the simple command, eliciting the same exact response.

Jesus shuffling ahead, putting a gap of several feet between them. Just enough space for him to grab one of the matching vertical gold bars equally spaced on either side of the seam separating the double doors and pull it open without Manuel having to slow down.

A coordinated entrance, presenting him in front of the man he came to see mere seconds after exiting the Escalade.

A sudden and unexpected arrival that works exactly as intended, leaving the son of a bitch in a matching pose to his receptionist out in the lobby.

Seated behind his desk, Nik Doherty stares up with eyes and mouth, all three opened wide. Congruent circles, framed by light brown hair pushed to the side and a weak chin.

The classic American tale, where success can be had without ever throwing or receiving a single punch.

Striding across the marble floor, Manuel steps up onto the circular plush rug in the center of the room. A floor covering acting as a moat, Doherty’s glass-top desk resting in the center of it.

Cigar still clasped in hand, Manuel uses it as a pointer, jabbing it at the same poster that was framing the main entrance hanging on the wall by Doherty’s desk.

“We need to talk about the other night.”

Following the tip of the cigar, his mouth still hanging open, Doherty glances at the poster.

A quick look to verify what it is, as if he hasn’t been staring at it for who knows how long, before shifting his gaze back forward.

“Mr. Garcia, as I have told you then-”

“That’s not how this works. You don’t tell me shit. You knew that when you signed on the bottom line.”

Little by little, whatever color the man’s pasty complexion contained bleeds away.

“But-”

“But nothing. You owe us. And I’m getting tired of waiting to collect.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Knowing what little I do about Bristol Lynch, I have zero doubt that she gave me the name of the guy walking beside me during her initial introductions at the bar. An existing attention to detail taken to an entirely different level by the sheer amount of manic energy pulsating through her.

Nervousness that was apparent when I first spotted her on the curb at the sunport, becoming more pronounced the longer we talked on the drive over.

A steady climb, peaking around the time Blaze asked me my name and Lynch jumped in to make some terrible joke about a soccer player.

More concerned with who I was there to protect and the scene that I could already tell was going to be a shitshow around us, I either didn’t hear or didn’t care what the guy squeezed into the extra-medium sleeveless t-shirt’s name was. Details that seemed unimportant as I watched him trying so desperately to fit in.

Be cool.

Get even a little bit of attention from the others at the table.

Personality traits that far outshined the collection of dark ink blotches on his forearms and the paunch resting just below the edge of the table. Stomach fat that isn’t nearly as pronounced as when he was stuffed into the booth, but still hints at an extra twenty pounds or so.

Added weight that pairs with the small lump above his left eye. The faint bruising on his right cheek.

Signs telling me that he had jumped right into the fray last night, just as he probably has many times before.

A guy willing to mix it up, likely hired – or brought along - for that very reason.

“Wait a minute,” the man who reintroduced himself as Duke Larson begins.

A name that still doesn’t sound real, falling somewhere between a character from an old west movie and something that he made up when he started working security, thinking it would make him sound tough.

“I thought Bristol said you were here from the record company? Something about selling records or something,” he says as we walk along, making our way through the underside of the football stadium where tonight’s concert will take place. A site that I’m guessing isn’t nearly as big as some they’ve already hit, nor will it compare to others that wait down the line.

Home to some mid-size college football team, drawing crowds from a city that is a fraction of LA or Phoenix.

“Merchandise,” I correct. “And that was just a story for Blaze’s benefit. She doesn’t know what happened, isn’t supposed to know why I’m really here.”

Pulling his focus back forward, he exhales slowly. “Right. That.”

One of only a couple of people involved with the tour who know what went down in Phoenix, I ask, “What can you tell me about it?”

“Guard on the dressing room door stopped responding to his walkie-talkie,” Larson says. “One of our rovers went to check on him, found his spot empty, the note inside the dressing room.”

A very bare bones overview, I pause for a moment, waiting for more.

When it doesn’t come, I press, “Tell me about the guard.”

“Local guy named Billy,” Larson says. “I don’t think I met him, and if I did, I don’t remember it.”

“But you know he was local?”

“Definitely,” Larson replies. “Tour like this has two types of security. Permanent guys like me, who go from town to town.”

Waving a hand before him, he adds, “Those are the ones who are here already. Have full clearance badges. During the shows, they work the area around the stage or they’re what we call rovers.”

Dropping his hand back by his side, he adds, “In each city, we then pick up anywhere from ten to thirty local guys. Off-duty cops, retired military, bouncers. hell, sometimes they’re just big dudes.

“Kind of have to take what you can get some places.”

Filing this all away as things to be checked on later when I speak with the tour security manager, I reply, “What do they cover?”

“The gates, and stationary spots.”

“Like outside of Blaze’s dressing room.”

“Exactly.”

Reaching the end of the concrete chunk comprising the north end of the stadium, we pass through an open gateway out into the midday sun. Turning up the side of it, we make our way to the corner of the playing surface, watching as a handful of stagehands work to get things set up.

The final touches, before turning things over to the technical teams, I am told. Lighting and sound and all the rest that apparently goes into a major production like this.

“How long have you been with Blaze?” I ask.

“Two years now,” Duke answers, his cheeks reddening slightly. Flush that could be from the heat, or more likely from the subject matter.

More sign of what I first noticed last night, which is not necessarily a bad thing.

A healthy amount of infatuation will make him try a lot harder to keep her safe.

“I was working a place where they were regulars, we all kind of got to be friends,” he continues. “When they went on the road, they asked me to come with them.

“Been along for the ride ever since.”

“Ever any problems?”

“Occasional drunken idiots, hecklers, that kind of thing,” he says. Glancing over, he adds, “Nothing major. Hell, nothing even as big as last night.”

Hardly would I call what happened at Riley’s major, though I don’t bother correcting him. “Any enemies? Maybe someone starting with the letter G?”

“Blaze?” he asks, his eyes bulging slightly. “Never. Her biggest problem is what you saw at the honky-tonk. She can’t tell anybody no.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Twenty minutes after meeting Duke Larson for the second time, I left him to get started on clearing the boxes from around Blaze’s dressing room. A job I could tell he wasn’t super enthused about, though he wasn’t about to turn down being stationed on her door from now on himself.

Especially with the new extendable baton I’d just given him to carry while doing it.

Continuing on the same path we had used to get there, I listened to the sounds of his grunting and the wheels of rolling bins squeaking fade behind me. Noises on either end of the sound spectrum, neither doing much to tamp the growing agitation I could already feel as I pushed ahead through the underbelly of the stadium.

A straight shot measuring fifty yards in length, culminating with an arched opening matching the one on the far end.

An entrance that, like its twin, we walked through earlier on the opposite side, was fitted with a wrought-iron gate standing wide open.

Direct access to any damned person who wanted to walk right on in.

Beyond that, open parking lots stretched to the north. Slabs of asphalt that would soon be filled with tailgaters and parked cars. Crowds and vendors.

A zoo that someone could easily escape into, never to be seen again.

Same for the opposite side to the south, exiting directly onto campus. A tangle of buildings and walkways that a person could assimilate into without catching so much as a sideways glance.

Today’s headache, sure to be surpassed in Lubbock tomorrow.

Wherever the hell else we’re bound the day after that.

Provided my ass is around to see any of it.

Passing through the arched gateway, I turn away from the parking lots. Guided by the first sounds of music starting to play, I move toward it, slipping up the side of the end zone bleachers I was just under.

One of four elongated chunks of concrete of varying heights and widths, encompassing the field on all sides. Freestanding pieces, rather than a singular structure.

Enough seating for what Bristol Lynch told me could accommodate more than twenty thousand people, plus the majority of the field in the center.

A playing surface of some sort of synthetic material, the color vibrant green, gridded with yard lines and numbers in bright white. Colors all made to look more vivid under the summer sun shining down from directly overhead.

A veritable heat lamp, pelting many of the staff and crew arrayed around the interior of the stadium. Guys with bare skin glistening with sweat. Women in tank tops revealing streaks of perspiration along their back.

Everywhere, people are using hand towels and wearing sunglasses.

A battle with the elements that I’m sure will get worse as the tour wears on.

Which is probably why we’re here now, everybody wanting to get all the desert dates out of the way early before running their asses back north.

Taking no more than a few steps out onto the field, the fake grass feeling buoyant beneath my feet, the full stage setup comes into view beside me. A non-permanent structure erected flush against the concrete bleachers in the end zone, allowing the bands and staff to utilize the stadium section gates for getting in and out.

Standing ten feet off the ground, it juts out almost to the goal line in length, stretching at least twice as much in width. A massive performance ground, above which an elaborate system of metal scaffolding has been erected.

A makeshift arch lined with lights and speakers, crews currently working to enclose the sides with curtains.

Folks intently going about their job, completely oblivious to Blaze and the other members of her band currently out on stage. All dressed in basic shorts and t-shirts, they are gathered in a loose huddle in the center. Arm extended, one of the guys from the band I met last night is pointing to something up above.

Some matter of seemingly vital importance, enough to draw both Bristol Lynch and Harley Lewis out to join them.

The position of a camera or a light bulb or some other such shit that I do not care about, glad only for the brief break in noise. Time I do not intend to let go to waste as I slide my phone from my back pocket and retreat back the way I just came.

Turning away from the stadium, I head out toward the parking lot, making it no further than a few steps across the asphalt before a familiar voice calls, “Ham.”

“Mikey.”

Only a single word, still enough to prompt him to ask, “That bad already?”

Rotating over a shoulder, I glance back toward the stadium, ensuring nobody is within earshot, before answering, “Damned sure not good.”

Starting there, I run him through what information I’ve been able to cobble together over the last eighteen hours. The initial conversation with Lynch in the Jeep, and then the deeper dive with her and Lewis this morning in the conference room.

The ensuing talk with Larson a little bit ago.

A sum total, effectively muddying the waters on why I am here. What the hell may or may not have taken place.

An attack on a guard who wasn’t part of the regular security team, and nobody can remember or has seen since.

What might have been a legit strike, or could have just been some sort of staged scare tactic.

Listening in silence, not until I am done does Mikey reply, “What I’m hearing is, this may or may not be something, but it’s damned sure not what they called and told us it would be.”

Snorting softly, I can’t help but nod in agreement.

“Pretty much.”

“How you want to handle it?”

On a base level, it’s not as if what they are asking is that much. I’ve seen worse more times than I can count.

Done worse, almost as many times.

What I don’t like is being lured in under false pretenses, and then being handcuffed while asked to babysit.

“Like I told them,” I say, “they should have called the police. This isn’t what I – or we -do.”

“I agree,” Mikey answers. “Entirely your call.”

Turning back once more, I can hear as the music onstage starts up again. The first few chords of “Highwire,” first heard while sitting around the fire in Montana.

Sounds that can’t help but draw my gaze toward the girl with the bright hair standing in the middle of it.

Two distinct images, melding into one in my mind.

“I’ll give it a day or two,” I eventually reply. “In the meantime, can you have Frost take a look online, see if there’s been any chatter, threats, anything like that going on?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Concert security, Esai Garcia has come to learn in the last couple of weeks, is an inexact science. A mixture of permanence and fluidity, meaning that no two days are exactly alike. A constantly shifting mash of variables, making the job all but impossible.

A situation that would drive Esai crazy if he actually gave a damn about trying to keep any of the people he is pretending to watch over safe. Cracks and openings that are always leaving them vulnerable.

Just like at the bar last night.

One of a thousand different opportunities that he and Francisco and Luis are endlessly scheming about. Constant thinking on ways to take advantage in service of their true purpose for being present.

Ideas looping through his brain, even as he now sits in the bleachers above the west end zone of some college stadium on the periphery of Albuquerque.

Easily the smallest of the venues they’ve been to thus far, with the outline of a wolf’s head painted on the grass at midfield. In the end zone down in front of where they are sitting, the word Lobos is painted in script letters.

Red markings atop a white base, standing out plainly under the bright midday sun.

A team name and mascot that mean absolutely nothing to Esai, his hope to get in and out of the place in as little time as possible.

Or even better, to be given the word from his father that their days on tour are done. The new arrival with the shitty haircut who got on stage last night was not the only action by the record company.

They have finally come to their damn senses and made things right so that everybody can go back home.

Swap out the brutal dry desert heat for the pleasant humidity of Miami. The same t-shirt he’s been wearing for a week straight for a pair of swimming trunks.

The lukewarm bottle of water in his hand for some tequila, preferably served by one of the many young vixens his father pretends are employed as some sort of favor to his native country.

“Okay, so let’s be sharp,” the man standing on the bottom row of the bleachers barks, slapping his hands together for effect. More military posturing, to go with the steel-gray flattop and wraparound shades.

Rah-rah bullshit from some old has-been who wants to believe he is still in uniform.

They are all his soldiers, forced to snap and obey his every order.

“Just because this place isn’t as big as the last few we’ve been to, doesn’t mean the threats are any less real.” Scanning the crowd, he adds, “If anything, I’d say the danger is even higher here because they’ll be expecting us to let our guard down.”

In his periphery, Esai watches as Luis lifts his hand from where it hangs between his knees, his wrist resting on his thigh. Curling his thumb and fingers into a loose circle, he wags his hand up and down, miming the universal sign for jerking off.

A gesture Francisco responds to with a smirk, sun reflecting from the heavy coating of sweat droplets already covering his face and forearms.

A silent back and forth that Esai doesn’t take part in, his attention drawn to the screen on the cellphone resting on the bleacher beside him lighting up. A flash in his periphery, alerting him to an incoming call from his father.

Sliding the phone up onto his lap, Esai taps on the red button in the bottom corner. A move to send it straight to voicemail, followed by tapping out a quick message.

On the clock now. Can’t talk.

Barely does he have to wait a moment for the reply to come back.

Went to visit the record company this afternoon. Keep your eyes open, let me know if anything happens.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The lanyard provided by University Stadium is much larger than any of those the previous couple of nights. A plastic sleeve almost five inches on either edge. Room enough for the usual tour logo and city name, along with a matching image for the school where the concert is taking place.

Signage that feels like a billboard swinging across Bristol Lynch’s chest as she speed-walks under the bleachers on the west end of the stadium. Hanging from a nylon cord around her neck, it moves to either side, corners jabbing into her bare forearms as she goes.

One more thing on a list that feels a mile long for her to deal with.

Just shy of an hour away from start time, her walkie-talkie is already in hand. Her blood pressure is already up.

Two things stemming from decidedly different sources.

“Duke,” Bristol snaps. A single word drawing over a handful of glances. Stares that move her way as she marches past, her focus on the big man up ahead.

Seeing him turn her direction as well, Bristol waits until just a few feet separate them to ask, “You’re on the door tonight?”

“Tonight, and every night for a while according to...” he begins. An answer that he cuts short, his eyes going wide, before finishing, “The boss.”

Knowing exactly what each part of his response is alluding to – from who put him on watching Blaze’s dressing room to why he couldn’t just say as much – Bristol nods. Pulling up just short of him, she glances from him to the door at his back.

“Everything good?”

“All set here. Blaze is inside, getting ready. Harley came by a few minutes ago to give us the one-hour mark.”

Pulling her focus back his way, Bristol asks, “And how about with you? Everything good?”

A faint smile crosses his lips as he swings his right hand forward a couple of inches, revealing a black rod hidden against his opposite leg. Some sort of baton with a solid steel shaft that he taps against his knee before tucking it back out of sight.

“All set here.”

For the same reason that he cut his response short just a moment before, Bristol refrains from telling him to be careful. Keep a close eye out.

Any of the other warnings that have been circling through her mind all afternoon, for him and many others.

Nodding in reply, Bristol again slides her gaze to the door behind him. A plain, unmarked plank of metal painted white, likely used the majority of the time for housing referees or storing supplies.

Alternate purposes she doesn’t much care about, her concern for her cousin on the opposite side.

The same carefree spirit she grew up with, watching her sing and twirl circles in the backyard, just the same as she was belting out tunes while running wind sprints only the previous morning.

“Have you seen Ham?” she asks, cutting her focus back to Duke.

Tilting his head back to push his chin forward, Duke answers, “Saw her headed that way a few minutes ago.”

“Parking lot or field?”

“Field, I think.”

Forcing a smile onto her features for anyone who might be watching, Bristol turns and heads the direction he just pointed. Fast steps with the lanyard continuing to flop around in front of her, each passing minute lowering the likelihood of it making it through the night.

One of the few headaches on a lengthy list she can actually do something about.

Pressing it flat to her stomach, she marches the length of the bleachers lining the endzone. Stepping out into the bright afternoon sun, she swings around the side to find Ham posted up just as Duke said.

Her feet splitting the line between asphalt and green turf, her shoulder is pressed against the corner of the same section Bristol was just under. Arms folded, she stares out straight ahead, as if trying to envision every possible threat for the night ahead.

What Bristol knows to be a fool’s errand, there no way to possibly prepare a first timer for the spectacle that is a major concert tour.

A fact that causes the clench in her stomach to grow a bit more pronounced as she swings out wide. Sure to approach in Ham’s periphery, she pulls up several feet short, her hand still keeping the lanyard pressed tight to her stomach.

“We just got the one-hour alert from Harley,” she says. “Which means it’s time to start getting ready.”

Tilting her head forward, Ham motions out toward the field. “I am ready.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The style of the shirt Bristol Lynch gave me to wear is fine enough. Basic cotton, the hem hangs just past my waist. The sleeves are cut off so that they rest right across my shoulders.

Freedom of movement I have a feeling will be needed at some point in the nights ahead.

If in fact things go that long.

What I have a problem with is the graphic splashed across the front. What looks like a damned pompom of red, orange, and yellow that I guess is supposed to symbolize Blaze’s signature hairstyle.

An explosion of color that looks like something a kindergartner with some markers would draw.

A pretty clear explanation why nobody thought to ask last night when Bristol introduced me as here to help with merchandise ideas.

Equally annoying is the giant lanyard she gave me to hang around my neck. What feels like a five-pound talisman that is bad enough on its own, made worse by the fact that the string is too long, sending the damn thing flopping around with each step I take.

A pain in the ass that will be lucky to survive my current trek, much less the night ahead.

Dusk still more than two hours away, the sun sits several inches above the western bleachers. A spotlight just starting its descent, mercilessly pounding the interior of the stadium.

Golden rays that have the temperature hovering well above eighty, bathing me in sweat as I climb toward the press box at the top of the southern bleachers. Heavy droplets that stream along my bare arms and over my brows, dripping onto the aluminum under me.

Thin metal both absorbing and refracting the heat, their warmth passing up through the soles of my shoes as I continue my ascent. A hike up what is easily the largest of the four chunks of stadium seating available.

The home sideline, towering more than seventy rows above the field below, culminating with an enclosure stretching the length of the top. What Lynch referred to as the press box, which is where I guess journalists and television announcers all gather.

Optimal placement for a bird’s eye view, though somehow I can’t imagine a bunch of old guys in bad sports coats making this trek every week. A climb taking several minutes, leaving my new shirt plastered to my back by the time I pass through the lone door at the top of the stairs.

A solid metal pane separating the heat of late afternoon from what feels like an ice box inside. Air conditioning that is at least thirty degrees cooler than the outdoor temperature, setting my skin afire as it touches the heavy perspiration.

Pinpricks of sensation hurtle the length of me in response, dimpling my arms with goose pimples.

One more thing for the heaping pile of stuff pissing me off this afternoon.

“Help you?” the closer of the two men standing off to my right asks as I enter. Guys both positioned behind the built-in desk running the length of the room, looking out over the stadium below.

Their bodies turned inward, they each seem to have been studying a clipboard held between them, moving only their heads to glance my way.

“Looking for Greg Fryer.”

“And you are?” the same man answers. A short, squat guy with just a few sprigs of hair on his head that he is trying in vain to offset by a bushy broom of white growing from his top lip.

A question and a tone I don’t appreciate, saved from having to respond by the man at his side replying, “You’re the one Harley called in, right? Here to see about Blaze?”

Leaning forward around the bulging protrusion of the first man’s gut, he runs his gaze the length of me.

An initial assessment I match, recognizing in an instant the flattop he is wearing. The cut of his jaw.

Leathered skin of someone who has spent a lifetime outside, much of it in uniform, just as I once did.

“I am.”

Dipping his chin an inch, he returns to his previous position, hidden behind the much larger man in front of him.

“I think we’re all set here, Walt,” he says. “That all looks good for tonight.”

Means of dismissal that the man has the sense not to push on, merely nodding as he tucks the clipboard against the inside of his wrist, lowering it to his side.

Grunting a soft farewell, he offers the same to me as he passes, leaving out the same door I just came through.

An exit I wait for him to complete before extending my hand before me.

“Ham.”

“Fryer.” Meeting my grasp, he passes his gaze over my arms and face, ending with the hair shorn close on either side of my head. A quick assessment lasting only as long as the shake, ending with him asking, “Green or tan?”

Coded speak, recognizing a fellow veteran.

Words that tug the corner of my mouth up just slightly as I reply, “Sandbox, two tours. You?”

“Two each,” he answers.

“How long you been doing this?”

“Sixteen this fall,” Fryer replies. “The last six working with No Limits specifically.”

The last question I posed to Lewis and Bristol Lynch this morning was to ask who else knew about what happened in Phoenix. A painfully short list, involving basically only Duke Larson, the rovers who were in the area and showed up to see why the guard had stopped answering his walkie-talkie, and the man now in front of me.

Head of security for all of Blazing Limits, which was apparently the name assigned to the entire tour.

A mashup of the two acts, almost as subtle as the shirt I am now wearing.

“Ever any issues with them?” I ask. “Anything like this?”

“Yes and no,” Fryer answers. “Issues? Sure. These guys are aging rockstars who still want to believe it’s 1987, or even better, 1977.”

Lifting his brows, he tilts his head to the side, and says, “The drummer is a bit of a cokehead. The bassist loves his vodka. Every one of them has done some stupid shit in a hotel room or two.

“Anything like this? A threatening note left in a dressing room? Naw, that’s some Netflix-level stuff there.”

I’m not exactly sure what Netflix is, though I can infer enough from the context to pick up what he is getting at, relieving me of the need to ask about the letter G on the knife.

A lead-in to some other stuff I wanted to ask about anyway, now as good a time as any.

“You sound skeptical,” I reply.

Again, he tilts his head to the side. An ingrained response, now appearing twice in as many minutes.

Opening his mouth to reply, he seems to think better of it, pausing for a moment before trying again.

“I personally vet each guy who gets hired onto the permanent crew, but it’s just impossible to do that with every short timer in every stadium. The venues themselves handle all that, and unfortunately, a few slip through the cracks.”

Raising a hand, he continues, “Now, do I believe there was a note left in that girl’s dressing room? Yes. Do I also think I had multiple guys in the area who didn’t see a thing? And that nobody has seen the guy who was on the door at the time since?

“Also, yes.”

Voicing every last thought I’ve had in the last couple of hours, I let most of it pass without comment. Gleaning away the least essential for the time being, I focus on one line in particular.

“These guys who were in the area,” I reply. “You mind if I talk to them?”

Glancing out through the window lining the press box beside us, he scrunches his features slightly. Sucks in a sharp breath of air.

“Might be a little tight on time today, but I can set you up with Ernie and Luis before we get started in Lubbock tomorrow. If not, then we have a couple of days before we hit Dallas after that.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Blaze heard the comment from one of the guys on the crew on their way up a few minutes ago. An offhanded remark that was so faint, she couldn’t even discern who exactly said it.

A statement about how they could already tell that the place wasn’t nearly as big as where they’d been the last few nights.

An open-ended quip that could only mean that the energy wasn’t quite as strong.

The anticipation nowhere near as high.

In the moment, Blaze hadn’t bothered to correct them. Her mind already entrenched on where she was, what was about to happen, she didn’t want to redirect her thoughts in such a way.

Even if now she can’t help but hear the comment again in her mind as she stands on the front edge of the loose semicircle at the back of the stage. Weight balanced on both feet, she bounces in place, arms swinging free by her sides.

To say she didn’t notice the crowds in LA, or San Diego, or even Phoenix would be a lie. Thousands of people all coalescing into a single organism around her. A collective energy swirling around the interior of the stadiums.

Washing over them up on stage.

Elevating them to places they hadn’t been before.

At the same time, even if what waited behind them was but a fraction of that, she would feel the same exact way. Unbridled anticipation leaving her unable to stand still.

Unwilling to wipe the smile from her face.

Hundreds of times before, she has listened to interviews given by various public figures. Actors or athletes who talked about how much they loved what they did.

Each and every time, she understood what they meant, but she’d never quite agreed with it.

To say she merely loves standing on stage, performing the words she put to paper, would be a massive misnomer. It would be assigning an emotional response, when emotions are liable to change.

They are fickle.

The relationship she has with music goes so much further than that. It isn’t just something she feels, but something she is.

A part of her that she would gladly do every single night of her life, even if they never ascended past places like Riley’s.

Just give her a tune and a few people to listen, and she is there.

Hopefully, without things going the way they did last night.

“You guys remember when we were kids?” she asks. Words not meant for everybody already starting to congregate along the back of the stage, but just the guys on either side.

Chauncy going through his drills, loosening up his shoulders. Brecker standing with his eyes closed, face pointed toward the ceiling. Webb turning his head to either side, letting his hair swing to and fro.

Her bandmates. A bunch of midwestern kids who somehow made their way to each other, dreaming the whole time about places like LA or San Diego.

“Watching Looney Tunes cartoons on Saturday mornings?”

Flicking a glance at the three of them in order, Brecker is the first to reply. A simple smile and nod, sending her focus on to the next in order.

“Webb?”

“Hell yeah,” he answers. “Every Saturday, with a bowl of Cocoa Krispies.”

Chuckling softly, she shifts to her opposite side. “Chauncy? I know you do.”

“Was more of a Garfield man myself, but...”

Again, Blaze lets out a laugh. A few soft tones accompanying the smile that graces her features.

“My point is, I can remember sitting cross legged on the floor, week after week, hearing Bugs Bunny say he should have made a left turn in Albuquerque. To some little kid in Harristown, Pennsylvania, Albuquerque could have been in South America, or Australia, or the moon for all I knew.”

Sliding her gaze in either direction, she adds, “And now we’re here. We get to go out there and play our songs, in Albuquerque.

“How cool is that?”

By her side, Chauncy extends a hand. Resting it on her shoulder, he squeezes softly.

A few feet away, Brecker continues grinning. Webb shakes his head, already damp tendrils of hair swinging along his jaw line.

“You guys ready?” she asks.

A question evoking two more smiles, Webb the only to reply, offering another, “Hell yeah.”

Her own grin growing a bit wider, Blaze shifts her gaze to the others clustered nearby.

“Everybody ready to huddle up?” she calls, glancing over each of the faces in order. “What about the new girl? Hamm with two m’s?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“Incredible, isn’t it?”

Even without turning to look, I recognize the voice asking the question. I also recognize what she is alluding to.

A swelling fusion of adrenaline and anticipation that started with the group circle at the back of the stage, having grown with every moment since. Kinetic energy, feeding off of the firebrand standing front and center.

A supernova, having taken last night’s performance and raised it by a factor of a thousand.

So much so that I have twice already had a tingle run the length of my spine. Felt my weight rock up onto my toes, my weight rising and falling in place.

Responses usually evoked from stimulus of a very different kind.

Rising eagerness that I refuse to give in to as I stare out, watching the growing sea of humanity before me. More than twelve thousand people already filling the stadium, with at least as many still waiting to file inside.

What I’ve been told is a good bit less than what was on hand in Phoenix two nights ago.

Barely half of what we’ll be seeing tomorrow night in Texas.

“She’s good,” I concede, tilting my chin toward Blaze out in the center of the stage as Bristol Lynch comes up beside me, a walkie-talkie in her hand. A relocation from her spot on the opposite corner of the stage, standing shoulder to shoulder with Rumer Ripley through the first few songs. “But this is a nightmare.”

“A night...” Bristol begins, her dark hair whipping over her shoulder as she turns my way. “What do you mean?”

“Look how exposed she is. The crowd pushing in tighter and tighter to the stage on all sides.”

Lifting my gaze upward, I continue, “The sightlines for a shooter up high.”

Flicking a glance her way to finish, I add, “Hell, even someone just chucking something onto stage.”

No less than a dozen other examples I can provide, I stop there. My goal isn’t to terrify her more than what is obviously already present.

Sure as shit isn’t to insulate myself in case something does go down one of these nights.

It’s to illustrate the reality of the situation. The Herculean task she and Harley Lewis slid across the table this morning.

How lucky – no matter how much it probably doesn’t feel like it – they are that whatever warning was being sent two nights ago was just a note pinned to a table and not a more direct attack.

As I shared with Mikey earlier, I’m still not entirely sure what exactly it is I’m facing here. I don’t know quite what it is they are seeking from me, or even the full extent of what happened in Phoenix.

If the phantom victim that nobody saw at the time or since was actually a victim, or if it was all a ruse. A scare tactic before shaking Blaze or the record company down.

Hell, maybe just somebody wanting to play a prank.

Mess with the famous singer with the bright hair for fun.

What I do know is neither of the conversations I had this afternoon provided any of the answers I was looking for. Not Duke Larson sharing how the security team is a mix of traveling and locals, their respecting placements pretty much static from one night to the next.

Damned sure not Greg Fryer, who—for all his obvious military background and control in the present—is content to let each of the venues handle their own vetting. Background checks that can be fudged or circumvented entirely, letting God knows who get access.

Easy placement, right next to the very people they are supposed to be protecting.

“Do you...” she starts to ask. Two words she lets drift off, her bright lipstick turned down in a frown. “You don’t think...?”

Half questions that get no further, my attention drawn down to the crowd in front of the stage. A solid mass of people that has suddenly parted, making space for a couple of guys engaged in a tussle.

Arms locked on one another, their upper bodies twist a few inches to either side, shoving each other back and forth.

A proverbial storm’s eye in a sea of folks who have been dancing and sweating in the summer heat for the better part of an hour now.

All the makings for what could easily turn into something exactly like what happened at Riley’s last night.

“Shit,” I mutter, leaving her rooted in place as I start forward. “See what I mean?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The situation isn’t as bad as what happened last night.

Yet.

Right now, it is just two idiots in a shoving match. A couple guys who have probably had too much to drink, jockeying to get closer to the stage.

Or blocking each other’s view.

Or any of a thousand different stupid reasons why somebody would get feisty in a setting like this. A sure way to put an early end to what is supposed to be a fun night.

Kind of like a damned Amazon Prime driver showing up where they aren’t supposed to be.

The why of it, I don’t give a shit about. What’s more important is getting there and defusing it before it does escalate to what happened last night.

Before that same charge I recognized inside Riley’s enters the air, and twelve thousand people start getting rowdy.

A mass of humanity that is a far greater weapon than the gun stowed along my left ankle or the knife in my opposite back pocket, no matter the make or model.

Leaving Bristol standing along the edge of the stage, her mouth open to lob out another question about what I was seeing, I turn and head directly toward the back corner. Following the curtain as it wraps around to where the stage meets the concrete bleachers, I move just shy of a jog, careful not to draw attention from anyone who might be able to see me.

A quick walk covering the dozen or so yards in just a handful of strides, ending with me lowering myself into a crouch in the back corner of the stage. Damned lanyard swinging across my midsection, I drop my left hand to the planks of wood painted black.

A brace point, used to drop myself over the side into what Greg Fryer called No Man’s Land. A military term dating back to World War I.

Open space encircling the stage, separating it from the metal fence with the crowd pushed tight against it. The final barricade, leaving just a couple of feet for the handful of guards to roam.

What Fryer described as the largest and best of his staff, pacing their individual section of the stage, ensuring nobody comes any closer. Men like the one who visibly tenses as I land just a few feet away, his eyes going wide in confusion as he casts his gaze from me to the stage above.

“What the hell?!” he snaps, the words spilling out as he takes a step my direction, raising a pair of oversized fists before him. Hands wrapped in tan skin, matching the tribal tattoo etched the length of his arm and his Polynesian features.

Rather than trying to explain who I am or what’s going on over the wail of the band and the screams of the crowd around us, I grasp the badge swinging around my neck. Extending it before me with my right hand, I use my left to point back the opposite direction.

“Fight! With me, now!”

Needing no more than a quick glance from me to the badge and back, he nods. He lowers his hands before him as he takes a step forward, falling in behind me as I start the opposite direction.

A retracing of my previous path at a lower elevation, helped along by the springy playing surface underfoot.

Turf that helps to propel me forward as I slide past the metal fence working to hold back the crowd just a few feet away. People of all races and ages with their faces lifted upward, hands pointed towards the sky.

Fans with mouths open, singing along to the song or shouting their exultations for the band.

Following their lead, I cast my gaze up at the stage. A quick glance, not with any interest in where Blaze is or what song is playing, but to orient myself with where I was previously standing.

A landmark I use while increasing my pace, jogging over the last few yards.

Incoming approach that draws the attention of the next guard in order, his brows coming together as he stares at me and the enormous man at my back.

Silent questions I don’t bother trying to answer, pulling up just shy of him. Making a hard turn to my right, I raise both hands before me, waving back the pair of young women pressed tight to the fence.

Blondes with tiny skirts and bright makeup who both look as surprised as the guard I first dropped in on by my sudden appearance.

“Move, move, move!” I shout, continuing to wave my hands in their faces. A combination of sound and motion that finally manages to bust through their momentary paralysis, sliding them both to the side.

A parting down the middle, giving me just enough space to grasp the top rail of the fence and hoist myself over.

A quick vault, my feet leaving the ground for no more than an instant. A moment of weightless flight, landing on the far side of the barricade as the guard scrambles to keep up behind me.

Barking out orders at my rear, I can hear his deep bass reverberating as I slice my way forward, needing to only get through a couple of rows before bursting into the pocket of space I first spotted from the stage barely two minutes ago. A circle no more than a few feet across, rimmed with people turned inward.

Concertgoers who have completely forgotten what is happening onstage, their focus aimed at the two guys squared off from one another.

Both in their late twenties or early thirties, they each stand with snarls on their faces. The No Limits t-shirt one guy is wearing has been torn around the neck and sleeve.

The other one is wearing some kind of weird fishing vest twisted askew atop his shoulders.

Sliding my way directly between them, I hold up a hand in either direction. Flat palms that I put square in their faces and shout, “Enough! Now!”

Words of warning that resonate at least a little bit with Torn T-Shirt, his fists dropping by a couple of inches before him.

Caution that his friend the fisherman doesn’t seem to grasp, making the mistake of charging forward again, trying to force his way through me.

A dumbass move that earns him my elbow driven straight into his solar plexus. A sideways shot, forcing the air from his lungs as his top half pitches forward.

Uneven balance, making it easy for me to swing my leg in behind his, dropping him flat on his ass.

CHAPTER FORTY

After the cheap shot from the bitch with the crazy hair, it took Bertrand Davis several minutes to collect himself. Elbowed straight in the stomach, all the air was driven from his lungs.

A sudden loss of oxygen that simultaneously made him nauseous and caused his eyes to blur.

Left him wide open to being dropped flat on his back.

A complete scrambling of his system, rendering him unable to resist as he was hauled up by the sweaty brute with the sleeve of tattoos sticking out of a muscle shirt. The latest from an assembly line of overinflated assholes who seem to be waiting in every city, ready to patrol the stadium grounds.

Guys whose only real purpose is to keep real fans like Bertrand from getting too close and feeding their own egos. Siphoning off a bit of the prestige and glamour of the real star up onstage, as if standing in her orbit somehow imbues them with some importance.

Gasping and wheezing to catch his breath, his legs are now little more than jelly beneath him. Wobbly spindles leaving him like a baby colt just learning to walk.

An uneven gait made possible by the asshole at his backside with a handful of his vest. A makeshift handle he uses to keep Bertrand upright, ignoring the fact that the front zipper is resting across his throat.

The phone tucked into the chest pocket is threatening to spill out, almost certain to be lost in the throng of people pushing forward.

Individuals who aren’t nearly the fan he is, but have somehow been allowed to stay and watch.

“Alright,” Bertrand snaps, his voice barely audible over the crowd around them.

The pounding tone of Blaze’s voice still bursting forth at their back.

“Alright!” he yells a second time, swinging his arms out to either side. Quick whirlwind motions that draw nothing but air, causing his body to twist under the guard’s elevated grasp. “I’m cool! Get off me!”

Hands balled into fists, he swings them back the opposite direction, again shouting, “Dammit, I said-”

Halfway through his rotation, a thick hand wraps itself around his wrist. Catching it midair, it stops whatever momentum Bertrand had, the man’s palm sweaty against his skin.

“I don’t give a damn what you said,” the man grumbles, his voice much deeper than could possibly be real.

More posturing that causes the same feelings of vitriol to spike within Bertrand as he attempts to jerk his arm back.

Effort that achieves absolutely nothing, the man’s meaty paw holding his limb out parallel to the ground. A second point of contact he uses to shove Bertrand forward, working their way off the edge of the field and out onto the concrete beyond the home bleachers.

A steady march toward the chain-link fence encircling the place, the sound of Blaze’s voice growing fainter behind them with each step taken.

Two things that both register with Bertrand at once, his eyes going wide as again he tries to wrest his arm free.

“What the hell are you doing?! Get off me, man!”

On either side, thin lines of people have gathered. Late arrivals who haven’t made their way in yet, or who have already stepped out to hit the restroom or grab something more to drink.

Beverages like the beer one man balances on his palm, extending it in front of him, a smile on his face.

An offering that Bertrand swats away, sending pale liquid and foam across the pavement, igniting scads of comments and laughter in their wake.

A soundtrack for the many others who have their phones out, recording as a second guard falls in on the opposite side, helping to push him toward the gate.

“Come on,” Bertrand says, heat flushing his features as he twists to either side, trying to look back at the crowd already starting to dissipate.

People who got their show, already losing interest, oblivious to the injustice being done right in front of them.

“The show’s not over!”

“It is for you,” the new arrival replies, his grip tightening on Bertrand’s left arm as they head for the exit.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

At a glance, it is damned near impossible to tell which one of the people on either side of me is wound tighter. Nervous energy that seems to roll from them in waves, even if it has manifested in vastly different ways.

On my left, Bristol Lynch looks like she is trying to put her shoulders past her ears. Her entire upper body is so tense, I can barely see her neck.

Standing rigid as a board, the only thing moving is her eyes, flicking them from me to Duke Larson standing to my right.

Having not stopped moving since we got back to the dressing room after Blaze and her band ceded the stage, he shifts his weight to either side. His left hand flexes and unfurls by his side.

His right taps the handle of the collapsed baton against his leg.

Red blotches paint his cheeks. Same for a veneer of sweat on his bare arms as he makes a point of inspecting every single person passing by.

A constant flow of road crew and security personnel that I too am monitoring, just without being so damned obvious about it.

Not that I actually mind at the moment, his size and expression enough to keep most people moving past without so much as a second glance. Folks all with tasks to perform and places to be, the headlining act set to take the stage at any moment.

What I am told is the much larger of the two bands, though to look at the people on either side of me, one would never know it.

Personal investment that I appreciate, even if the way they show it may eventually be more of a hindrance than a help.

“Any problems back here?” I ask.

A question that pulls Larson’s attention my way, his hands and feet both pausing for an instant.

“Nothing,” he says. “Nobody’s been by without a badge, only people going in or out have been catering.”

“You go with them?”

“Sure did,” he answers. “No issues. In and out in five minutes flat.”

Outside of the small scuffle in the second row, there were no discernible incidents of any kind out front either. Despite the various scenarios I was outlining for Lynch earlier, nobody tried to rush the stage.

No one took a shot from afar.

Not even a single water bottle was tossed at Blaze’s feet.

Just the ignorant asshole in the fishing vest who had to be put down and then taken out by the massive guard arriving behind me. Johnny Superfan, loaded with cameras and the belief that he was wronged by what took place.

Just like they all are.

“How does it go from here?” I ask. “She done for the night?”

Glancing between each other, as if silently debating which should be the one to respond, I am forced to pose the question a second time. A repeat I don’t mind letting them know annoys the piss out of me, forcing me to pull my gaze away from the crowd filing past.

“Are we done here?”

“We are,” Lynch eventually answers. Her shoulders lowering no more than a millimeter, she adds, “Sometimes, they’ll have her come back out for a duet during the first encore, but that’s in the big cities.”

Flicking her gaze to the side, she adds, “And only when we don’t have to get straight on the road.”

Grunting softly, I ask, “How’s that work?”

“Depends on where we’re going,” Lynch replies. “Tonight we’re off to Lubbock, which is about five hours east of here, so just as soon as the band is showered and ready, we’ll head out.”

Running the math in my head, I nod.

Checking in somewhere in the middle of the night and sleeping in the next morning is a hell of a lot easier than trying to drag everybody out of bed at the crack of dawn.

“Everybody goes together?”

“Everybody you met last night,” Lynch says. “Me, Duke, Rumer, Blaze, and the band. We all travel on a charter bus, which I guess you got here too late to see.

“Road crew goes with the trucks. Security travels on their own, usually by van or rental car.”

Falling into none of those categories, I can’t pretend that a handful of hours to myself on the open road won’t be a good thing.

Time to come down off the bit of adrenaline that hit my system after pushing my way into the crowd. Clear my mind, think about everything that has occurred in the last day and change.

Maybe make a call or two.

Check in with Glenda. See if Mikey has anything new for me.

“Just give me the keys to the Jeep then,” I reply. “I’ll stick around for a while, make sure there are no other issues, then follow you guys over.”

In my periphery, I can see Lynch’s shoulders shoot back up into position. Her lips peel back, sucking in a sharp breath.

Harbingers of bad news that I’m not in the mood for.

“What?”

“The Jeep’s not with us,” she replies. “Those are courtesy vehicles that each of the venues supplies for us to use while we’re in town.”

Not bothering to wait for more that I know isn’t coming, I ask, “So how the hell am I getting there?”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

I can see the call pop up on the screen of my cellphone the instant it arrives. A sudden flash of white light from the empty seat beside me, reflecting against the darkened windows lining either side of the bus.

A beacon that probably wouldn’t be noticed amidst the raucous conversation going on in the back, but is easily recognizable from where I am sitting three seats from the driver.

The closest damn thing I could find to a bit of peace inside the bus.

A rolling metal tube of musical instruments and people still riding on the high from the concert. Twenty-somethings used to being up all night and still trying to prove they can hang in their new environment.

A desperate attempt to prove they belong in a rock-and-roll world, with all the various trappings to match.

Reaching out to tilt the phone my direction, I need only a glance to see the name splashed across the screen. A quick look confirming what I suspected before I press the red button at the bottom.

Sending it straight to voicemail, I take up the device in both hands, using my thumbs to tap out a message.

Can’t talk. On the bus.

Cutting short whatever message he might have been leaving, it takes only an instant for Mikey to reply. A single word, using coded speak from a different time and place.

Back during our initial stint working together, when we both wore a uniform and collected a paycheck from the same employer.

Clean?

Frosty.

Another throwback term letting him know everything is cool.

No incidents to report.

A response that he replies to initially with a simple thumb up, before adding, Speaking of which, we ran down everything we could about your girl. Chat rooms, fan sites, etc. Nothing violent. No obvious fanatics.

Gripping the phone in both hands, thumbs poised above the screen, I lift my gaze upward. Staring at the dark silhouette of the bus driver before me, I can see Bristol Lynch and Rumer Ripley grouped up in the front row.

A seat they relocated to just a couple of minutes ago, seeking a quick escape from everything going on in the back. Guitars and laughter and the rest, aided considerably by the bottles being passed around.

What I would guess to be beer from the smell of it, along with some whiskey as well.

Alcohol that was the first round, more recently added to by the scent of a joint or two.

Can you also look into the incident in PHX? Found body, anybody named Bill/Billy/William reported missing, etc.?

Just as fast as the previous message, Mikey hits me back with a second thumb up. Agreement to my request, followed by asking, What are you thinking?

“Hamm with two m’s.”

My focus aimed down at the screen in front of me, my entire body tenses as I jerk my focus up at the sound of the voice. Night vision wrecked by staring at the white background on the screen, I blink several times in order, waiting several moments for the figure standing in the aisle above me to come into focus.

A slow appearance, starting with the fiery hair encasing her head.

The baggy hooded sweatshirt she put on somewhere along the road, covering the Sex Pistols tank top she was wearing when we left the stadium.

“Sorry,” she says, a half-smile creasing her features. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Doing my best to match the expression, I shake off the apology.

“You’re good, just give me one second.”

Hearing her drop down into the seat on the opposite side of the aisle across from me, I lower my focus back to the phone. Attacking it with both hands, I type out, Call tmrw. Explain then.

Trusting that he will understand my sudden disappearance, I toss the phone back down onto the seat beside me.

“Sorry,” Blaze says again. Twisting her shoulders a few inches to the side, she glances back the length of the aisle and adds, “I can hang when they’re only passing around the bottles, but once they start toking up...”

Turning back to face forward, she settles in against the seat. Pulling her knees up, she presses them against the chair in front of her, tucking herself out of sight.

A pose not unlike one I’ve seen Amber assume too many times to count.

“Not your thing?” I ask.

“Not at all,” she answers. “It’s not really theirs either, they just kind of do it to help unwind on the road after a show.”

Sliding a hand from the pocket of her sweatshirt, she flutters her fingers just beneath her chin.

“I had this throat condition when I was a kid. Smoke of any kind really irritates it.”

“That can’t be good, given what you do for a living.”

“Crazy as it sounds, that’s actually kind of what’s given me a living,” she replies. “That rasp you sometimes hear? Lowered my voice an entire key.”

Stuffing her hand back into her pocket, she reclines her head, resting the side of it against the seatback.

“Speaking of which, what did you think tonight?”

Lifting my brows, I meet her gaze before glancing toward the front of the bus. A quick look, just long enough to see Lynch has resumed her previous rigid pose in the front seat.

Head cocked a couple of inches toward the aisle, she is clearly listening to every word said.

“I think I understand why your band needs to wind down a bit after all that,” I reply.

A smile gracing her features, Blaze lets out a soft chuckle.

“There is no energy like being up on that stage. You cannot help but feel alive.”

Her gaze fixed on me, the smile fades just a bit as she adds, “Though I do have to imagine that jumping off of it is quite a rush too.”

Clearly meant as a prompt, to that I say nothing, merely meeting her stare as she lifts her head upright. “Seriously, who are you, really?”

Maintaining my gaze for another moment, I flick it forward. A quick glance, confirming that Lynch’s chin has moved another inch to the side, openly ignoring whatever Ripley is blathering on about beside her.

Eavesdropping that I sidestep for the time being by returning my focus to Blaze and saying, “Word on the street is you’re a runner.”

“Oh?” she replies, her brows climbing in surprise. “You want to join me on the treadmill in the morning?”

“Hell, no,” I shoot back, adding a bit of a smile. “But I wouldn’t mind starting the day with some sunshine.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The driving arrangement is far from ideal.

More accurately, it flat out sucks.

A decision made for reasons well beyond comfort, ensuring that Esai Garcia, Francisco, and Luis can travel without worry of anybody else joining them. Three grown men – one of them extremely large – all wedged tight into the front end of a pickup truck.

A distant cry from what Esai envisioned when he was first given this assignment. Even further from how he would like to be seeing massive swaths of the country for the first time.

Not that there is a great deal for them to be seeing, most of their driving thus far done at night, the remainder across a chunk of barren sand.

Two of many things that already have his agitation with the entire situation mounting.

The condescending boss who seems to think he’s still a drill sergeant somewhere.

The pushy fans always jostling to get closer. A better look at the stage. A chance to reach out and brush the arm of some middle-aged guy with a bad dye job.

The fact that his damned ears have been ringing for what feels like days straight now.

Francisco’s farting.

Luis’s snoring.

His father refusing to have just done what he should have before any of this even started. An emphatic end to all of it, making sure that nothing like it ever happens again.

A whole host of shit that has him leaning against the driver’s side window, his right hand resting atop the wheel. Alternately clenching and releasing it, he can feel the muscles the length of his arm starting to burn.

Veins stand out plainly in the half-light being cast from the controls on the dash.

His two cohorts having finally fallen silent after devouring the fast-food dinner they picked up just outside of Albuquerque, he is finally free to sit and contemplate the events of the day. The message from his father that afternoon, and what took place thereafter at the stadium that night.

A sequence that, at a glance, doesn’t seem to have much direct correlation.

Nothing to prove that the old man’s trip to Sunburst Records achieved much beyond putting in a little facetime. Giving him the satisfaction of being proactive.

No doubt dressing up one of his largest servants and having him act like a heavy, putting the fear of God into some sniveling executive.

The same shit he has been pulling for decades, which is where Esai would just as soon leave most of it.

At the same time, it is hard to dismiss what did take place tonight. An event lasting no more than a couple of minutes, achieving a far greater import when paired with what happened at the bar twenty-four hours earlier.

Two scuffles in as many nights for the woman who was clearly brought on in the wake of the message he left in the dressing room in Phoenix. Extra muscle, dressed up to try and blend in with her surroundings.

A blunt instrument, meant to clear the way for the young woman with the equally bad hair up onstage.

Someone with an obvious level of skill, but a diminished amount of discretion, willing to mix it up with anyone who poses even the slightest bit of a threat.

A shoot-first mentality that Esai can’t help but think can be leveraged moving forward as he drives on into the night.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

For years, Blaze has been asking people to go for runs with her. A habit going back to when she first started out on the road, still a baby at the tender age of twenty.

Brimming with the energy of youth and the exuberance of being able to tour with her friends for the first time, it was how she chose to end every day. A means of burning off excess energy so she could actually grab a few hours of sleep before getting up to do it again the next day.

Her version of what her bandmates now do in the back of the bus or outside their motel rooms each night.

It didn’t matter that the shows they were doing were largely local. The crowds they were playing in front of wouldn’t fill a small high school gym.

Just getting to be onstage for the first time filled her with adrenaline that her young body didn’t know how to process.

Three solid years, that’s how she went at it. Countless venues in cities big and small. Places like Albuquerque she knew only through television.

Others, she had never even heard of.

Endless late-nights hitting the pavement, dragging along a rotating cast of people. Bandmates and assorted others along for the ride, most cycling off almost as fast as they jumped on.

Chauncy.

Duke Larson.

Even her cousin Bristol.

A dropping out of everybody possible, leaving her for a spell going at it alone. Nights with hip-hop music blasting through her headphones, the stars twinkling down from above.

An evening rite that she would just as soon continue, forced aside for a variety of reasons. Things all stemming from their recent ascension, ranging from scheduling to her own safety.

Issues she couldn’t logically argue against, no matter how much disdain she might have for treadmills like the one she was on a couple of days before. A rickety machine forcing her to breathe in stale air, staring back at her own reflection.

Things she can’t even pretend to be missing as she steps out from under the portico in front of the Best Western on the outskirts of Lubbock. Home for the next couple of nights, matching the Motel 6 in Albuquerque and whatever other similar chain establishments in the previous cities before that.

Places that were located only a few miles from the pricier digs where No Limits was staying geographically speaking, but were light years apart in just about every other way.

“Been a long time since anybody agreed to join me for a run,” Blaze says. Passing from the shade under the stucco structure covering the main entrance, she steps into the morning sunlight.

Bright rays that have the temperature already well into the seventies, promising a good sweat in the hour ahead.

Infinitely more onstage later tonight.

“Let alone asked me to go.”

A few feet to her side, the woman her cousin introduced as Hamm – with two m’s, a point she for some reason felt the need to really drive home – snorts softly. Arms raised to either side of her head, she pulls the hair left long on the top and back into a ponytail.

The same wide Mohawk she showed up with at Riley’s.

A distinctive feature that made it easy for Blaze to spot her working through the crowd last night to put down what could have turned into something more.

“I’d be surprised if most of the people from the bus last night are even awake,” Ham replies. “Let alone up for a run.”

Her turn to snort, Blaze answers, “That I can’t deny, though I don’t think that has anything to do with it.”

Finishing with her hair, Ham lets her hands fall to her sides.

“Color me shocked.”

Taking off at a diagonal across the parking lot, heading for the sidewalk lining the road the hotel is sitting on, Blaze lifts her face toward the sky, feeling the sun on her face.

“And in the famous west Texas heat, too. You must be a glutton for punishment.”

Again, the woman by her side smirks. “Shoot, this is nothing compared to what I’m used to.”

“Which is where again?” Blaze asks, casting a sideways glance.

A look that is met, the corners of her mouth turning upward in a faint smile. “Nice try.”

“Come on,” Blaze replies. “Who are you, really? And don’t pretend that you’re here to talk about t-shirts or posters after what I saw onstage the last two nights.”

Saying nothing in immediate reply, Ham with two m’s swings out behind her. A deliberate move, putting herself between Blaze and the street, before starting to jog.

An easy pace that Blaze matches, the two of them covering more than a block before Ham answers, “Tell you what, I’ll go one for one with you.”

“One for one?”

“You ask one, you answer one.”

“Deal,” Blaze replies.

“My name – my whole name – is Ham, with one m, and I am a security consultant,” Ham says. “That’s why I was brought in late, will probably roll off early.”

Flicking her gaze over from the sidewalk before them, several questions arrive at once. A good handful she has to parse through in order, taking care to ask only the one that is most important.

“Security consultant? Does that mean-”

“That means I’ve already answered one,” Ham inserts, cutting her off, despite Blaze’s best efforts. Casting her a quick look, she flashes a half smile before turning her attention back to the world around them.

Suburban fare, with businesses of various sorts lining either side of a street four lanes wide.

Two moving in either direction, allowing people to access the assorted restaurants and filling stations slipping past.

“Your turn,” she adds. “Had any issues since you’ve been on the road?”

“Issues?” Blaze asks, the warmth of the morning sun starting to pull sweat to the surface. “You mean besides the guy onstage at Riley’s or in the crowd last night?”

Taking a few more strides, she adds, “That doesn’t count as my question, by the way.”

The look growing to a full smile beside her, Ham replies, “Yes, besides those.”

“Then, no. Nothing,” Blaze answers. Spreading her hands out in front of her, she adds, “Corny as it sounds, this has all been a dream come true.”

Curling her hands back into loose fists, she returns them to her sides, the combined sounds of their feet slapping concrete providing a steady background rhythm to the vehicles speeding by.

“Of course, now that I think about it,” Blaze continues, “and I know why you’re really here, must be exactly the opposite for you.”

Leaving it open ended, when no response is immediately given, she adds, “Being out on the road, forced to tour with a band. Is this your definition of hell?”

Again, Ham snorts. “I mean, giant stadiums filled with tens of thousands of people aren’t ideal. Same for checking in and out of different hotels in different cities every night.

“But trust me, this is a long way from Hell.”

Sensing there is plenty more that could be added to that last line, Blaze opts against pushing.

Stories she has a feeling Ham isn’t apt to share.

Even less, that she wants to hear.

“Okay, one more,” Blaze presses. “Well, two, total, and then that’s it.”

Casting her a sideways look verging on a glare, sweat flashing across her forehead, Ham remains silent.

What Blaze takes to be an opening, prompting her to ask, “Had you ever heard of us before you showed up a couple days ago?”

“Actually, yes,” Ham replies, turning her focus back forward. “My niece and her friends love you. They’d flip if they knew where I am.”

“You have a niece?” Blaze spits, the words out of her before she even realizes it.

A blurted question, earning her another sideways look.

“Okay, no, that wasn’t the second question, I swear,” Blaze rattles off. Words spit out rapid fire, ending with her saying, “For that, I’ve got to ask – from one to another – about this hairstyle of yours.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

“Buen-” Delfina begins. The start of her native greeting, cut short in the first word.

A sign that she is still adjusting to life in her new country, though effort is being made.

“Good morning, Mr. Garcia,” she course corrects. Taking a single step forward, she clasps both hands before her. Pinched between her right index and middle finger is an envelope, the white rectangle blending with the apron she is wearing. “Sorry to bother you, but this just arrived.”

Reaching up, Manuel slides the pair of reading glasses he is wearing from his nose. Placing them upside down on the desk before him, he raises a hand, motioning her forward. “The mail doesn’t come for another two hours. What do you mean, just arrived?”

Bending at the waist to extend the envelope before her, Delfina inches forward. Stopping well short of the desk, she deposits the offering and replies, “A man in a suit knocked on the door and said this was for you.”

Moving only his eyes, Manuel glances down to the envelope resting on the edge of the desk. Rotated so it is facing him, his gaze dances across his name and address printed in the center.

The name and logo stamped in the upper left corner.

A quick look that causes his core to tighten, a bit of animosity flaring within.

“Thank you, Delfina.”

“Of course,” she replies. Bending forward a bit further at the waist, she begins, “Is there-”

“No,” he snaps, cutting her off without even bothering to take advantage of her pose.

The view it would afford him.

“That is all.”

Responding by simply pressing her lips together, Delfina is already retreating by the time she rises to full height. Moving in short shuffle steps, she backs out of the room, closing the door behind her as she goes.

A visit lasting no more than a few moments, inciting no less than a handful of reactions from Manuel.

Responses falling firmly on the negative end of the spectrum, even before reaching out and sliding the envelope his way.

Never before has he done business with or against the firm of Cohen, Webster, and Bartholomew, LLC, but already he has a pretty good notion of who they represent.

Why they are sending him a letter outside of the postal system just a day after his visit to Sunburst Records.

Suppositions that are proven correct as he retrieves his glasses and opens the envelope, extracting the single sheet of paper from within. A trifold document he scans twice in order, the first time to merely get an idea of what it says.

The second, to read each word carefully.

Examination taking only a couple of minutes before he drops the letter down on the desk before him, resisting the urge to wad it into a ball and cast it through the open door across from him.

Shred it into a thousand tiny pieces, and then torch them with one of the wooden matches usually reserved for his cigars.

Precursors to what he would love nothing more than to do to the people who sent it and the man they are working on behalf of.

Two nights ago, after what happened in Phoenix, Esai said that Sunburst Records would be reaching out. Whether that was true and the letter is a response to that, or Manuel’s own visit the previous afternoon, he can’t be certain.

What he does know is that no matter how he would have preferred to handle things, the inclusion of lawyers now makes it messy.

And he can sure as hell do messy.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Barely am I back through the door to my hotel room when I hear the sound of my phone buzzing atop the nightstand. A sound that immediately spikes a bit of annoyance within me, expecting it to be Bristol Lynch or Harley Lewis calling to find out where Blaze and I had gone.

What we talked about.

If I filled her in on what happened in Phoenix. If she is now terrified because of it.

Most importantly – at least to one of them - if the whole damn tour is now in danger.

A bunch of shit that I don’t want to bother with as I stalk across the room with sweat still stinging my eyes and snatch up the device. A reflexive grab that makes it only as far as seeing the name splashed across the screen before the acrimony within fades.

“Mikey.”

“Ham,” he replies. “You good?”

Knowing exactly what he means, I turn away from the bed. Heading for the bathroom, I take up a hand towel from the rack above the counter and pass it over my forehead. “Good. Just got back to the room after a run with Blaze.”

“In the west Texas heat?”

The comment is one similar to what he has tossed my way a thousand times before. Subtle mentions about a place or climate to let me know he is always aware of where I am.

A habit that has vacillated between being mildly annoying and infuriatingly grating over the years, though this time I let it pass.

He knows who I am with and what the tour schedule is. Figuring out that we are already in Lubbock for a show later tonight is not too much of a feat.

Ignoring the barb and its underlying question, I opt to go first. Backing up to the last time we spoke, I fill him in on the last twenty hours or so.

A quick overview he listens to in silence, needing only a moment or two once I’m done to process before asking, “What about the girl?”

Even without being more specific, I know who he is referring to, though I’m not sure I would quite classify her that way.

Not entirely, anyway.

In terms of being a musician, a businesswoman, a performer, she is as much an adult as anybody I’ve ever met. Savvy and oozing charisma, if I wasn’t looking her in the face, I would never guess she was only in her early twenties.

At the same time, there is a naiveté to her that surpasses even some of the younger ones under Glenda’s care. Wide-eyed optimism that explains at least a little bit of why Lynch would want to keep what happened in Phoenix from her.

Not to mention, it probably makes her even more of a target to zealots she might encounter out on the road.

“She knows I’m not here to do merchandising,” I reply.

The answer earns no immediate response from Mikey, allowing me to push forward about my conversation with Blaze on the bus that necessitated me disappearing so fast last night. The follow up that we just had while slapping the sidewalk, the two of us sweating our asses off under – as Mikey and Blaze have both now pointed out – the west Texas sun.

Twin conversations that I spent the majority of dodging questions. Ways to sidestep admitting what I didn’t know or what happened in Phoenix, without having to outright lie to her.

Evasion techniques that I wasn’t able to completely pull off once we got around to the topic of last night, forcing me to give up that I have a niece and that she loves Blaze’s music.

Admissions that I hated making, but that were sufficient to throw her off the much more pressing issue of her safety.

For now.

Listening in silence, it is not until I am done that Mikey replies, “Along those lines, like I said last night, we did a deep dive into her online presence, which was no small task. Fan groups, music sites, reaction videos.

“To borrow a phrase, I wouldn’t say she’s everywhere yet, but it’s on the list.”

After having seen her in action last night, I have no doubt.

“Anything worrisome?”

“There, no,” Mikey answers, “but Frost was able to uncover some stuff that was a bit more concerning in Phoenix.”

The hand towel pressed to the short hairs on the side of my scalp, I lower it to my side, connecting what was just said.

“Billy?”

“Walt Billingsley,” Mikey corrects. “Retired PPD, works security gigs at the stadium as a pension supplement. At least he did. His body was found in a Dumpster outside of Mesa last night.”

My grip tightening on the phone in my hand, I fill in the few gaps surrounding what he just shared.

The timing and placement of his body.

The nickname that was likely what Duke Larson heard, misnaming him as Billy.

Details that align in an instant, before I ask, “How?”

“Pneumothorax. Single puncture wound to the left lung.”

Again, more things come together in my mind. Disparate tidbits, like the mention of blood spatter on the wall beside the door to Blaze’s dressing room.

“Shit,” I mutter. “So not only was it real, but they definitely knew what they were doing.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

After I got off the phone with Mikey, my first task was to call down to the front desk and ask to be connected to the room of Duke Larson. Letting it ring half a dozen times, I dropped the receiver back into its cradle and took off without bothering to change out of my shorts and sports bra.

Towel still in hand, I headed straight down to the lobby and found him having breakfast with one of the guys from the band. The one with the shaved head who plays the drums, last seen tossing back beers in the rear of the bus last night.

A roving party that they both seemed to have already shrugged off. Just another night on the road put behind them as they sat hunched over loaded plates, taking down food while discussing something I couldn’t quite hear.

Conversation that died away as they saw me approach, turning in unison as I nodded at the drummer. A greeting I matched with Larson before informing him that he was to stay with Blaze whenever she headed over to the venue for soundcheck.

I had some other stuff I needed to track down throughout the day, but would circle back with him before the show tonight.

Instructions that he accepted with another nod, promising to go collect his things immediately and wait in the lobby until she came down, no matter how long it took.

A reaction that drew a raised eyebrow from his cohort, though nothing more. Silent questions I was sure would be launched the instant I walked away though, to his credit, he had the sense to keep them to himself in front of me.

Pushback that I was definitely not in the mood for and that would not have been well received.

Not after the information Mikey just passed over to me.

The litany of things I needed to get to in the hours ahead because of it.

Ending the conversation there, I swung through the buffet line just long enough to grab a muffin, a couple of hardboiled eggs, and some bananas that were more green than yellow. One paper cup of coffee that I killed on the spot, paired with a second to take back upstairs.

A makeshift meal nabbed more for expedience than taste, already starting in on it as I rode the elevator back upstairs. Breakfast taken down on the move, grabbing bites while showering and dressing.

Multitasking that I was able to pair with the fact that we would be in Lubbock for multiple nights. A nice shift from Albuquerque, meaning I didn’t have to pack everything for the road again, putting me back on the lobby floor just twenty minutes later.

A third of an hour during which a noticeable uptick in foot traffic had occurred, familiar faces starting to dot the floor. People from the band and crew trickling down from their rooms, preparing to head over to the venue.

The start of another long day, to match a handful behind them, and many more yet to come.

Posted up on a bench in the corner, I kept my phone out in front of me. A stage prop I held in both hands, my chin tilted down toward the darkened screen.

Wet hair left hanging over my shaved scalp on either side, I used it as a curtain, casting glances out at each person shuffling by. My second scan in the last sixteen hours, taking care to study each of the people as they passed.

Renewed scrutiny in the wake of what Mikey shared, ongoing until the person I was waiting for appeared.

“Rumer!” I call, stopping the young woman halfway across the stained carpet in the center of the lobby. Standard chain fare, to match the leather seats and the freestanding fireplace with faux stone wrapped around it.

An odd choice in centerpiece, standing dormant, just as I imagine it is ten months out of the year.

That damned Texas heat I keep hearing about and all that.

Eyes wide, it takes Rumer Ripley a moment to find me. Another for a smile to cross her lips.

“Good morning!”

A pair of leather bags draped over her left shoulder, the act of stopping seems to take some effort. The same leg swings out, offsetting the forward momentum of the visible bulk shoved into them.

Heft that I relieve her of, snatching the top two straps from her shoulder and slinging them over my own.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

“Thank you,” she says, the smile growing a bit broader as she shoves out a sigh. “You’d think after a week of this already I’d be better at streamlining, but I’m always afraid I’m going to need something and not have it.”

To that, I can’t help but smirk.

A semi-chuckle, bore from the same feeling I had while exiting the sunport in Albuquerque.

And jumping up on that stage at Riley’s.

“I know what you mean.”

“You heading over now?” she asks. Flipping her hand upward, she shows me the keyring threaded over her middle finger, a single key and fob flashing against her palm. “Bristol got me a loaner for the day if you want a lift.”

“That’d be great, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she says through the smile that seems to be permanently etched onto her features. A joyful demeanor that has her almost skipping as we step outside and swing around the side of the building, heading toward the bank of dark sedans lined up in a row.

Matching makes and models, looking like the back lot of a government agency somewhere.

The last thing Mikey asked me before we got off the phone a little bit ago was if I had any ideas on how to proceed now that we had confirmed that what happened in Phoenix was real. It wasn’t a prank by some local hire.

Sure as hell wasn’t a scare tactic.

The bloodstains on that knife and note were real, which had to mean that the letter inlaid on the knife handle was significant, as were the words scribbled out on the page.

Mention of a warning that nobody I’d spoken to yet knew anything about, forcing me to cast a wider net.

Actions more in line with the role of the investigator that I told Bristol Lynch and Harley Lewis they needed yesterday, no matter how outside of my comfort zone it might be.

A position needing precision that is definitely not my preferred approach, the few conversations I’ve already had testing the limits of my patience.

“Good morning, so far?” Ripley asks as we reach the vehicle in order. Dumping our respective items into the backseat, we both slide into the front.

“Good run with Blaze, grabbed some free food and a shower, so no complaints,” I reply, my tone a bit lighter than usual. Forced levity, in line with my second conversation of the day that kind of reminds me of my niece.

Youthful energy that I seem to be surrounded by these days.

“You?” I ask as she turns over the engine and eases out of the parking lot, following the same route Blaze and I ran this morning. Familiar buildings that pass by, my focus aimed straight ahead.

“Busy,” Ripley says, giving her head a shake. “Every day after a show, the record company wants a full report on everything. Crowd size, merchandise haul, production issues, all of it.”

“And have there been any?” I ask, my tone dropping just slightly.

A shift she seems to pick up on, glancing my way. “Any what? Production issues?”

“Or, just, issues in general?”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

The single word Rumer Ripley used to describe tonight’s venue summed it up about as well as any other she could have come up with. A lone term muttered after I explained to her why I was really here and we discussed how things had been going on the tour.

Her role with the record company.

Her observations, based on both crowd reactions and other members of the crew.

A conversation that didn’t tell me a whole lot, but did manage to take up the bulk of the drive across town. A talk ending as we made one last turn and found ourselves in front of the stadium where Blaze would be playing tonight.

A veritable monolith standing like a beacon on the edge of the city, prompting her to say the sole curse word of our limited interactions.

“Shit.”

Four letters strung together that kept running through my mind as I climbed from the ground level to the press box looking down from on high.

A vertical hike under midday sun that had increased the temperature by at least a dozen degrees since Blaze first commented on it a couple of hours ago.

Heat that had beads of sweat streaming down from my scalp, my saturated shirt clinging to my back. An ascent of more than double the previous afternoon in Albuquerque, purposely avoiding the elevators or the enclosed staircase underneath so I could get a full view of the place on my way up.

Vantages of varying heights, stopping every couple of dozen rows to peer out. Check on each of the security concerns I was mentioning to Bristol Lynch on the stage, from sightlines to foot traffic routes.

Where someone might go if they were looking to attack from afar this time.

Their best routes of entry and escape should they again go for something up close.

A slow and methodical site study performed despite the lactic acid seeping into my quads and calves. The burn of sweat in my eyes.

The taste of brine on my lips.

A host of things bringing Ripley’s assessment back to mind no less than a handful of times, appearing once more as I finally reached the top and paused just outside the enclosure at the top. A bank of suites behind mirrored glass that was easily many times larger than the night before.

Space enough not just for journalists and announcers to do their jobs, but for supporters with money to watch games – or concerts – in style. Private penthouses that Ripley explained to me would include a handful of special guests of the headlining act, complete with air conditioning and catering.

Turning my back to the glass behind me, I stared down, assessing things one last time. A perch well over a hundred feet above the ground, from which I could see the crew below working on final preparations to the stage and lights.

People no bigger than ants, scurrying back and forth.

Pinpricks on a green playing surface, all racing to get things put together. Today’s fight to beat the clock, only to tear it all down and do it again in the next city.

And again in the one after that.

An exercise in insanity that I left them to, my gaze shifting to the edifice of concrete and steel rising around them. An enclosed cylinder shooting straight out of the ground, racing toward the sky.

A structure that I was warned would be twice as large as the one in New Mexico, though from there appeared to be three or four times as large.

With at least as many security headaches to match.

That thought replacing the single word from Ripley in my mind, I headed inside, making my way through the tangle of hallways and offices comprising the enclosure above the stadium. A full building unto itself, taking more than ten minutes for me to eventually track down Greg Fryer.

A hunting exercise that paired with the damp clothes I was wearing to have me pretty well irritated by the time I found him.

Full out pissed after the additional fifteen minutes it took for him to call down on his walkie-talkie and have the man now seated across from me make his way up. One of the two rovers who were working the underside of the stadium in Phoenix who Fryer first mentioned yesterday.

A guy who seems to have had the good sense to take the elevators up to the room we are sitting in, the deep tan of his brow and the locks of blonde hair hanging across it unmarred by sweat.

Same for the collar of his black security t-shirt.

The cord of the lanyard hanging around his neck.

“How well did you know Walt Billingsley?” I ask. My first question after our initial greetings, during which he introduced himself as Ernie.

A nice enough kid who is closer to Blaze or even Ripley in age than myself, with an accent hinting at hailing from somewhere in the south.

Not deep, but maybe Arkansas or the state where we are currently sitting.

“Who?”

A poor omen for the conversation to come, I can feel my core already starting to clench.

“Walt Billingsley,” I reply. “The man who was assigned to Blaze’s dressing room door that night.”

Brows rising behind the tips of his blonde hair, he replies, “I didn’t even know that was his name. Only met him for a minute, and he said to call him Billy.”

Lifting his palms toward the ceiling, he drops them back between his legs just as fast.

“Beyond that, it was just what we call a rolling check-in. Each one of us has a number, and we go right through the order every thirty minutes. One passes to two, two passes to three, that kind of thing.”

Again, he turns his hands upward.

“Just so happened I was number seven that night, he was number eight. Pure dumb luck I was the one saw the blood on the wall or found the note inside.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Grasping the handle of his motel room door, Bertrand Davis leans out onto the sidewalk lining the front of the place. Cracked concrete stretching nearly forty yards in length, long enough to encompass the eight connected rooms on the east end of the parking lot.

A number matched by a wing mirroring it on the opposite side, the two arms separated by an office to the north and a kidney-shaped pool in the center. A shallow indentation in the parking lot, filled with water that has been stained brown by the dust caked across every surface, pushed there by the omnipresent prairie wind.

One of about a thousand different annoyances resting at the front of Bertrand’s mind, going back to the incident at the concert in Albuquerque last night.

The encounter with the maid at the previous motel.

Hell, even the mother and the two little girls in Phoenix two nights before that.

A string of events in the last couple of days that, for a brief time the night before, had given him pause. A moment of questioning, wondering if what he was doing was worth it.

So much preparation had gone into clearing his entire summer schedule. He had subleased his apartment. Taken an extended unpaid leave from the warehouse. Convinced his mother to watch his cat for him, despite her boyfriend’s alleged allergies.

A host of things that he had never thought twice about in the moment, but while sitting alone in his vehicle last night, staring at the stadium lights for the show he was supposed to be at, he couldn’t help but question it. Ask himself if it was all worth it.

If he, a grown-ass man, had become nothing more than a groupie.

Or, even worse, a stalker.

A whole handful of things that all seemed to be pointed in a decidedly negative direction, lingering until he pulled his cellphone from his vest pocket. Still recording from well before the tussle and his unceremonious ejection, he rewound the footage and watched what had taken place just a short time before.

Not the jackass a few seats over who was crowding into him, his phone raised overhead like some damn amateur. An oblivious idiot, unaware that he was pushing into Bertrand, ruining his recording.

Definitely not the woman with the weird hairstyle, as if she was trying to be some kind of knockoff Blaze herself.

Yet another security guard on a power trip, taking things past crowd control and into the realm of assault. A physical attack on his person, taken a step further by exercising the tiny scintilla of power she had and ejecting him from the place.

A warm handoff to the overgrown islander and his cohort by the front gate.

Guys whose lives peaked with high school football, fighting desperately to be under the bright lights again.

Going all the way to the start of Blaze taking the stage, he rewatched it back in its entirety. Every single minute, from the first chords that got a cheer from the modest crowd already inside to the roaring ovation after she finished the song she wrote for him.

Forty minutes, followed by the more than an hour they played in Phoenix.

Seventy minutes in both San Diego and Los Angeles.

Every single song sang on the No Limits tour thus far. Pointed viewing on his phone that lasted after the headlining band took the stage inside and ran through their entire show.

Even through the crowd spilling into the lot around him and making their way out, leaving him as one of the last people still onsite.

A lengthy stretch of time, the vast majority of which was spent smiling, despite all that had happened.

In that instant, Bertrand knew that what he was doing was right. While he had faced some travails, they were nothing more than rites of passage.

Obstacles for him to overcome, proving why he was selected for this.

How much sweeter it would be when he finally revealed himself to Blaze.

Starting up his Bronco and heading back to the motel, he knew he was much too wound up to possibly try to go to sleep. He also knew there was no way he wanted to spend another night in the shit box, no matter how many assurances the manager had given him that his room would not be disturbed again.

Collecting his things in just a matter of minutes, shortly before midnight, he found himself on the road headed east.

An overnight relocation sparing him more hours of staring at the same boring color scheme, getting him into Lubbock at exactly three o’clock.

A late arrival that the woman working the graveyard didn’t even raise an eyebrow at.

Blasé indifference that remained when he stated that he would be putting out the Do Not Disturb sign and expected it to be observed.

Instructions that he still now feels the need to ensure are being followed, scanning the lot one last time. A check for any maids who might be making a final pass, ignoring the placard hanging in plain sight.

Seeing nothing, he retreats back into the room.

His laptop already open on the desk in the corner, he snatches up the folder resting on the corner of the bed. Plain manila, hosting the collection of images to be taped up on the wall overlooking him as he works.

His muse, providing the inspiration that will drive him until it’s time to shower and head out for tonight’s show.

A planned afternoon, cut short by his cellphone springing to life on the dresser before him. An unexpected burst of sound, pushing forth the song that Blaze wrote for him.

Lyrics that again pull the smile to his face as he steps forward and glances at the screen.

A quick look, sapping any mirth he might feel as he accepts the call, raising the device to his ear.

“Hey there.”

“Do not ‘Hey there’ me,” the same voice he has been speaking to for weeks now says. “I heard what happened in Albuquerque last night.”

Pausing for only an instant, he adds, “More importantly, Blaze heard what happened.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

Esai Garcia can tell from his spot in the bleachers that something is wrong. Not from anything overt that Luis is doing, but for the fact that he isn’t doing anything unusual.

His arms aren’t swinging free by his hips. His head isn’t lolling to either side.

His body is rigid in a way Esai has rarely seen before, proving that something is awry.

Reclined with his back resting on the row behind him, his elbows propped out to either side, Esai watches Luis climb the steps from behind his mirrored sunglasses. Moving only his eyes, he waits long enough to ensure that his first impression is correct before hissing, “Francisco.”

A single word that draws the big man’s gaze over before being redirected by Esai tilting his chin forward a quarter inch.

A motion that Francisco follows, needing only an instant to pick up on it as well.

“Something’s up.”

Tilting his chin back down in agreement, Esai mutters, “Yup.”

“What the hell...?”

Saying nothing this time, Esai gives his head a quick shake. Leaving the conversation there, he flicks his gaze between Luis and the security director coming into view at the bottom of the bleachers.

The start of the same meeting they’ve had a handful of times already.

Bits of information that won’t amount to a damned thing, interspersed between more of his usual cheerleader schtick. Encouragement meant to rally the troops, trying to make them believe that what they are doing matters. The show could not go on without them.

More of the same old shit, likely to get the same old reactions.

Guys down front, believing they have the coolest job on the planet, bobbing their heads like dogs eager for a pat on the ass.

Older hands a little further up who love the life, but are over the pageantry and bullshit like being forced to sit out in the sun for these meetings every day.

And finally, guys like himself and Luis and Francisco tucked in the back. Short timers who just need a job to fill a gap or to pay a few bills.

In their case, make a massive statement before disappearing.

Varying levels of interest that the old man is oblivious to as he presents himself in front of the group, looking like he wants nothing more than to snap his heels together and salute. Conscript them all into service right here and now.

Just the latest reason why Esai is considering taking out the old man before they leave as a parting gift to everybody else.

“We’ve got a problem,” Luis hisses, sliding to a stop a few feet to Esai’s left. Words just barely audible, careful not to draw over the attention of any of the other corner dwellers in the back.

Pushing up from the bench he is leaning against, Esai asks, “What’s up?”

“I just spent the last twenty minutes getting my ass grilled about the other night.”

Brows rising just slightly, Esai’s first thought is to make sure that they got rid of the body. After loading it into the cargo box, they hid it until after the show before taking it far away from the stadium, dumping it where it wouldn’t be found.

Or at least if it was, it would never be tied back to any of them.

An initial question he knows better than to voice, having worked with them long enough to know they wouldn’t do something so stupid.

“By who?” he asks instead.

“That’s the thing,” Luis says, leaning in close as his voice drops a decibel. “The new chick, with the crazy hair.”

Flicking a finger straight ahead, he motions to the head of security at the bottom of the stairs. “Said the old guy put her onto me, as one of the rovers in the area the other night.”

Following Luis’s gesture, Esai puts his focus on the man down front. Letting his gaze blur, he watches as the man bandies about, not hearing a single word that is said.

More of the same old, pushed aside as he considers what was just shared.

There has never been any question that the woman showing up was in direct response to what happened in Phoenix. Where he may have messed up though, was in assuming she was simply hired muscle.

Extra security, dressed up to fit in.

“Cop?” he asks.

Scrunching the side of his face, even more lines appearing than usual, Luis answers, “Sure as hell didn’t seem like it. Private, maybe, but definitely not like any cop I’ve ever been around before.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

It isn’t anything either of the security guards said or did that bothers me. Both Ernie and Luis were open to talking to me. Neither offered any pushback nor gave any contradictory answers.

Each was friendly and open enough, in their own way.

On the surface, both went about as well as could be expected, the men’s stories in line with what Bristol Lynch and Harley Lewis both told me.

Duke Larson and Greg Fryer after that, as well as they knew it.

One of the guys was the first called to the scene when it was noticed that Walt Billingsley wasn’t answering his walkie-talkie. The other happened to be a fellow rover in the area who got there late enough to see a few extra people, but otherwise was far enough removed not to know a damned thing.

A perfectly reasonable reporting on all events.

Which is exactly why none of it is sitting right with me.

After finishing the second interview and cutting Luis free, I decided to linger a bit longer in the box Fryer had given me for conducting the interviews. A space with the benefit of climate control, though that was admittedly only the third or fourth reason for my opting to stick around.

The first is because it is an optimal vantage point to again survey the stadium. An elevated post, looking down on the next step in the daily transition process.

Those hours after the initial construction is set up, the crew ceding ground to those who will play a more active role tonight.

To one side, I can see Blaze and her band starting to go through their soundchecks on stage. All four of them back in shorts and running shoes, working with sound and instrument techs to get everything right.

Initial assessments before they start playing again here shortly.

The start of a marathon stretch of music, making it infinitely harder to hear a thing.

Off to my right, Fryer has started his daily security briefing with the few handfuls of guys already wearing their matching t-shirts. The permanent crew like Ernie and Luis, to be followed by the second wave incoming a bit later.

Local part-timers, likely picking up the work as a second job. People who need to finish with their primary source of income before heading over here to do some supplementing.

Between the two sides, the words Red Raiders are written in block letters across the end zone. At midfield are a pair of T’s, one overlaid onto the other.

Two bits of information that tell me precious little beyond what Rumer Ripley was able to share on the ride over.

Names that must be a hell of a draw given the box I am sitting in and the stadium I am staring at, but that mean not a damned thing to me.

The second – and infinitely more important – reason I have chosen to stick around up here for a few minutes is because it is one of the few private spots in the entire stadium. A carveout free of prying eyes or ears, allowing me to make a phone call and put it on speaker without risk of being overheard.

“Ham.”

“Mikey,” I reply. A single word of opening, followed by launching straight forth with all that has transpired since we last spoke.

A handful of conversations sparking many more questions than answers, which is exactly why I’m calling.

“This Fryer guy, you want us to look into him?” Mikey asks once I am finished.

A fair question, and one I considered for all of a millisecond after meeting the man yesterday.

“You can pull his service jacket if you want,” I reply, “but there’s no way. He takes his job – and just about everything else – way too seriously for that.”

Snorting softly, Mikey replies, “Wound tighter than a clock. Let me guess—Marines?”

“He didn’t say-”

“But he didn’t have to.”

“You got it,” I reply. “Still doesn’t mean somebody couldn’t have slipped something by him on the background check, though.”

“No, it does not,” Mikey agrees.

“Or, even more likely, that one of these scabs they picked up along the way didn’t manage to get in unnoticed.”

Grunting this time, Mikey asks, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I might have Bristol – Blaze’s manager – snap some pics with her phone of everybody she sees wearing a security t-shirt tonight.”

Picking up where I’m heading with this, Mikey says, “I’ll get a new burner set up right now and send you the number. Have her text over everything she has, I’ll have Frost run them down.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Striding through the bottom level of the Texas Tech football stadium, I can see the loose cluster of people gathered outside of Blaze’s dressing room. The vast majority of the people I have personally interacted with in the last couple of days, with the exceptions of the security staff and the person tucked behind the plain metal door behind them.

A final hour before she is set to hit the stage. Time used for warming up her throat or making subtle changes to her hair color or whatever the hell someone like her does before going out in front of forty thousand people.

A nightly rite that I would gladly swap for staring down a dozen guys like the asshole onstage with a knife at the bar a couple days ago.

Without question.

On the left is Harley Lewis. Wearing the same clothes as yesterday, he is gesturing about. Nonverbal instructions that stop as he sees me, allowing Duke Larson, Rumer Ripley, and Bristol to all look my way in unison.

A mixed crew of people needing varying amounts of the information I just received from Mikey. Data I will pass over in due time, parsing them each off individually to impart it.

For now, my focus is on the remainder of what I spoke to Mikey about. A much more immediate task, now that I know exactly what took place in Phoenix a couple of nights before.

The very real threat that it portends.

Nodding to Lewis as I close the gap between us, I cut my gaze toward Lynch. Dipping my chin her way as well, I ask, “A word?”

Seemingly caught off guard by the request, her eyes widen. Her jaw sags as she glances between myself and Lewis, eventually managing to get out, “Uh, yeah. Sure. We were almost done here anyway, right?”

“For sure,” Lewis says. “I’ll catch up with anything extra later on.”

Bobbing her head twice in understanding, Lynch peels herself away from the group. Jogging a few steps, she falls in beside me as we head back the opposite direction, passing under a handful of signs hanging down overhead.

Small placards announcing different seating sections right outside.

Sequential numbers in descending order that we follow, remaining silent until a good handful have passed by. A trek from section three-oh-one to two-nine-seven before I make a hard right into the closest tunnel.

A section chosen at random, stepping out into the stands to see the stage sitting off to our left.

The longest point of the field is right in front of us, extended out from the rear corner of the end zone just a few feet away.

“I’ve, uh, been meaning to track down a new shirt for you,” Lynch says in opening. “Just swing by any of the vendors outside-”

“This is fine,” I snap, cutting her off with a wave of my hand, what I am wearing not ranking even in the top ten of things I am concerned with right now. “You have your phone with you?”

For the second time in just a few minutes, one of my questions seems to catch her off guard. Her brows rise as her jaw sags open.

A pattern since we first met that is really starting to get on my nerves.

“Your phone!” I snap, resisting the urge to reach out and grab her by the shoulders. Give her a good shake.

Try to impart not just what I am saying, but how vital it could be moving forward.

A task I would do myself, if not needing to put my full attention on too many other things this evening.

“You have it?”

“Uh, yeah, I have it,” she answers. “You need-”

“I need you to take pictures of every single person you see wearing a security t-shirt tonight,” I insert, cutting her off. “Not just the people with lanyards, but anyone wearing a t-shirt. I don’t care if you know them, have been working with them since LA, doesn’t matter.

“We need to hit all of them.”

I know the scheme isn’t the most elegant, but this is what I’ve got.

As I’ve told these guys from the first word, I am not an investigator. I have no intention of building a case or taking anyone to court.

I’m just information gathering, after which I can determine a target and get to the kind of work I’m best at.

“But be discreet about it.”

Cutting my gaze to the field beside us, I can see a few guys matching what I just told her making a loop around the front of the stage. Men including the Pacific Islander I met in No Man’s Land last night, checking the security fence encircling the elevated platform.

“What do you want me to do with them?” Lynch manages to ask, pulling my attention back her way.

“I’m going to give you the number for a friend of mine. You send them to him, he and his partner will do the rest.”

Managing to lift her chin no more than a centimeter in a nod, she turns back toward the tunnel behind us. The start of a retreat making it no further than a step or two before she pauses.

“You really think it could-”

“Walt Billingsley’s body was found in a dumpster in Phoenix last night,” I say, cutting off the question I know was coming before she even gets it all the way out.

A response evoking the same response as Ernie earlier, right down to the raised brows and the lone word that passes her lips.

“Who?”

“The guard stationed exactly where you all were standing just now.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

“Is there a problem, sir?”

Until the voice pierces the warm evening air on the veranda overlooking the gardens of his hacienda, Manuel Garcia doesn’t even realize that he is not alone. An unexpected sound that snaps him from his revelry, causing him to blink repeatedly to clear his vision.

A sudden return to the moment, realizing that he has been staring at his plate. Unmoving, his knife and fork are clutched in either hand, though the piece of grilled steak before him is untouched.

For how long, he has no idea, his mind firmly planted on the events of the last couple of days.

Weeks, or months, even.

A sequence of events that should have never even occurred, much less played out the way they have.

Placing the utensils down, Manuel pushes a slow breath out through his nostrils. Taking up the linen napkin from his lap, he makes a show of wiping his clean, dry hands on it.

Deliberate movements, meant to buy himself a few extra seconds. A bit of time to tamp down the simmering rage that has been roiling through him since he opened the letter this morning.

The latest in a series of insults that have become too many to tolerate.

Far, far too many to ignore.

“No, Carlos,” Manuel says to the man standing in his periphery. Wearing his usual dinner jacket and slacks, his hands are clasped behind him. His hair, just starting to show signs of gray, is heavily oiled and slicked back.

Just as it has been every single day since he started working for Manuel well over a decade before.

“The steak is perfect, as usual,” he adds. Using his heels, he pushes his chair back a few inches. Placing his hands down on either arm, he shoves himself upright. “Just...distracted is all.”

Sliding away from the table, Manuel buttons his linen jacket over his midsection. Smoothing it flat against his stomach, he pauses and adds, “I’m going to take a walk. Could you keep it warm for me?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Rising from the outdoor dining table that he usually only utilizes in the spring and fall, before the humidity of summer or the chill of winter becomes too much, he strides forward to the railing encasing the veranda. Smooth stone that he places both palms atop, staring down over the landscaping below.

A lush spread that by day is alive with workers like Jesus, who accompanied him to Sunburst Records the day before.

Crews meticulously tending to every stray leaf and blade of grass, attacking them as if they have wronged them personally.

An approach Manuel would love nothing more than to take to Nik Doherty at this moment. Snatch up a pair of gardening shears and a hedge trimmer and really go to work on the man.

Make an example of him to anyone else who might be so stupid in the future.

Leaving the fingertips of his left hand atop the railing, Manuel turns to his right. Letting them drag across the smooth stone, he walks the length of the veranda and down the dozen or so steps leading to the cobbled path below.

A descent meant to make it just out of range of any staff who might be lingering above. People not deliberately eavesdropping, but who might overhear just the same.

Potential witnesses he will not abide as he slides his cellphone from his jacket pocket.

Bringing it to life, he scrolls through a couple of menus before finding what he wants and hitting send. An outgoing call lasting through just a single ring before being snuffed out, sent directly to voicemail.

An abrupt cutoff, spiking the animosity within even more.

A brief flare, lasting only until an incoming message arrives from his son a moment later.

Can’t talk, show just started. Green light?

Words that cause Manuel to smirk as he goes at the phone with both thumbs, typing out a quick response.

They wanted messy. Make a statement.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Bristol Lynch clutches the items in both hands so tight she can feel lactic acid building up in her forearms and biceps. A slow burn starting with her fingers wrapped around the devices like talons, keeping them pinned against her chest on either side.

In one hand is her usual walkie-talkie. The same make and model she started carrying when they went out on the road for real two years ago.

Places nowhere near this large, but certainly bigger than Riley’s a couple of nights ago. Spots where if she wanted anything, a simple yell would get it done.

Shouting that tonight would barely make it as far as Ham or Rumer Ripley framing her to either side. Women with vastly differing expressions on their faces, staring out at what is before them.

To her right, Ham wears a look that is almost a challenge. A dare to any one of the thousands packed tight to try something.

Make a move on Blaze – or even the stage – that she doesn’t approve of.

See what happens.

As for Ripley on the other side, she dons the same expression that she was wearing at the bar the other night. And in Phoenix the night before that.

A baseline state, mixing joy and awe in equal parts, with just a touch of childlike wonder.

Happiness that Bristol wishes she could join her in, staring out at the crowd. A mass to match Los Angeles on opening night in terms of both size and enthusiasm, their energy spurring Blaze in kind.

Frenetic movement that goes well beyond the simple Freddie Mercury Walk, approaching something Bristol has often called the epileptic chicken.

Excitement bordering on manic, leaving her hair dripping and her shirt clinging to her as she bounces around, a smile stretched from one ear to the other.

The poster child for all things musical performance that Bristol wishes she could put her focus on, her attention instead on the request Ham made an hour before. An ask instantly transporting Bristol back to that first moment inside Blaze’s dressing room three nights ago.

Sensory overload that came sweeping back, bringing with it everything from the sight of bright red blood staining the note to the metallic scent of blood in the air.

The initial desire to call the police and have them come swarming in.

To, at the very least, tell Blaze about what happened and let her decide how to best proceed.

The same list of thoughts and questions that have kept her awake for two nights in a row. A marathon stretch without sleep before finally succumbing to pure exhaustion the night before.

Sweet relief that she doubted would be in the cards for her on this particular evening.

Or any of those ahead in the foreseeable future.

In Bristol’s opposite hand is her cellphone. The personal device that she normally makes a point of leaving in the dressing room during shows, just to ensure that it isn’t a distraction.

Some random friend or acquaintance from the past sending her a text, or even her mother just calling to chat.

Contact that she could easily return after the fact, when she isn’t so busy.

When decisions don’t have to be made from one moment to the next.

Her phone’s camera up and active onscreen, already she has taken more than a dozen photos thus far. Surreptitious snapshots of anyone wearing a security t-shirt, whether she has ever seen them before or not.

Permanent tour guards or local one-offs, everybody getting the same treatment.

Images she has fired off the instant she has them, all without a single response from the other side. What could be a wrong number or a bottomless well somewhere, swallowing up everything she sends, never to be seen again.

Yet another fear for her to wrestle with, pushed aside as Ham shoots out a hand by her side. Grabbing Bristol between the wrist and elbow, she latches on, her grip like iron.

Initial contact to draw her attention, followed by firing her opposite hand out before her.

Index finger extended, she points to some precise location offstage, her gaze laser focused on it.

“You see that?”

Trying to following the woman’s stare, Bristol looks out into the vast sea of people, no one standing out any more than the rest.

“See what?”

“There, on the second row...” Ham says. The start of a reply, cut short as she releases Bristol’s arm and starts to move forward. “Shit, he’s got something in his vest!”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

For the second night in a row, I leave Bristol Lynch standing slack-jawed just off the edge of the stage.

This time though, my ass isn’t walking when I do it.

Sure as shit isn’t trying to hide behind a curtain as I go.

How the hell I missed the bastard that I first saw in a shoving match last night could be any of a dozen things. The elevated stage in the bigger stadium. The massive audience, already well above what we saw at capacity in Albuquerque.

My splitting attention between Blaze, the crowd, and the security guards posted at various places around the stadium. Muscled up guys all wearing the same basic t-shirt.

College football players or massive farm boys from the area added to the regulars I saw last night.

A constant scan, taking me on and off the stage at various points. Nonstop movement, meaning I went right past the prick in the vest at least a handful of times before he finally messed up, doing something to draw my attention.

A slow unzipping of the same damned fishnet garment, getting it almost to his waist before stopping to reach inside.

What the hell is in there, I don’t bother waiting to see. Just the same as I don’t attempt to slide down off the corner of the stage or to alert one of the security guards down front about what is happening.

Measures to keep from drawing attention that tonight are the least of my concerns.

Shoving off the ball of my right foot, I angle myself across the southern half of the stage. A rocket start, taking me on a direct route from where I am standing to the man again nested in the second row. A lone outlier not staring up at Blaze, his attention fixed on whatever he is attempting to unearth.

Within three strides, I am at full speed.

A hard charge with arms and legs churning, my fists curled into tight balls. My focus fixed on the man with his hand thrust down inside his vest, only nominally am I aware of the increased sound out on the stage.

Audible reverberations coming from every direction, from the percussive bass of the drums and wail of the guitars at my back, to the roar of the crowd up ahead.

An escalation in noise that pales next to the blinding glare of the lights overhead.

The heat coming down from them.

The kinetic energy brought on by all of that and my adrenaline surging into my system, seemingly supercharging me as I pound straight ahead. More than a dozen long strides at a diagonal across the stage, ending with me planting my foot just back from the edge of it.

One final point of contact before launching myself forward, hurling my body headfirst out into the crowd.

A faceless sea of people who all seem to cry out in unison as I land atop their upraised hands. Flat palms and eager fingers that pass over my body, treating me like some sort of damned crowd surfer.

A crazed fan or staff member getting caught up in the moment, trying to preserve some small part of it for myself.

Attention that I neither want nor need.

Forward momentum that I cannot abide, threatening to carry me past my target on the second row.

“Down! Down! Down!” I yell one time after another.

A single word shouted rapid fire, my arms swinging back and forth before me. An impromptu swimming motion, trying to push aside their hands.

Remove the artificial lift under me so I can drop back to the ground below.

“Now, dammit! Let me down!”

A little at a time, the platform beneath me begins to thin. People who either hear me yelling or have their hands swatted, pulling back their support.

A lack of critical mass needed to keep my weight aloft, allowing my bottom half to sag.

A slow return to earth that still takes several seconds longer than I would like, depositing me atop a pair of folding chairs in the fourth row. Seats that I doubt have been used since Blaze first hit the stage earlier, providing me with an elevated post.

A spot just above the crowd pushing in from either direction, shifting the chairs beneath me.

An uneven perch, used just long enough for me to scan in both directions.

Reorient myself to my new location.

Lock in on the bastard I vaulted down here to find.

A target that’s even easier to spot from behind, the solid tan back of his vest standing out plainly amidst the sea of colors and concert t-shirts around him. A drab smear in the middle of a vibrant crowd that I put my full focus on as I drop to the spongy turf.

A destination the overzealous fans holding me aloft overshot by two rows and ten lateral yards that I immediately start to fight my way toward. Leading with my elbows, I knife past the people I can.

Push right on through those I can’t.

A sideways battle against the crowd, taking no more than a dozen seconds for me to work my way even with the man.

One or two more for me to slide my way forward, kicking folding chairs out of my way as I go. The final obstacles between me and my target, reached at exactly the same time as he is at last able to wrench free whatever he has been hiding.

Final extraction, pulling his right hand across his body as his attention rises to the stage.

Upward focus that lasts but an instant as I grab his shoulder and jerk his ass back my direction.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

“You ruined last night for me!” the man yells. Words blasted out much louder than they need to be the instant he realizes that the concrete undercarriage of the stadium is acting like a sound tube.

Elevated acoustics, letting his high-pitched cries reverberate through the space, plainly audible above the ongoing sound of the music still playing outside.

A siren call for help that is not coming.

“Are you really going to do this again?!” he yells, his body writhing against the clamp that I have him in. Both arms twisted behind his back, held in place by my hands wrapped around his wrists.

Pincers with thumbs and forefingers resting along the median and ulnar nerves.

Control mechanisms that I use to steer him, shoving his ass forward.

“I have righ—” he begins again. Another in an unending tirade that I am more than over, cut off mid-word by my thumbs and fingers digging into the soft tissue on either side of his wrists.

Talons that press into his bony arms, replacing whatever else he has teed up with a pained whine.

A cry that accompanies his legs going weak beneath him, his weight sagging as he stumbles forward, fighting against gravity to stay upright.

“No, you don’t,” I hiss. Lessening my grasp, I jerk him back, pinning him against me as we come to an abrupt halt in the center of the walkway. “The only thing you have is luck that we’re in a stadium with forty thousand people instead of alone somewhere, or I’d show you what pain really is.”

Holding him tight for an extra moment, I make sure that the full weight of what I just said is imparted. That he does not just hear the iron in my voice, but can feel it in the vice grip I have on him.

Can sense exactly what I’d like to do to him right now.

How pissed I am about the bouquet of roses he threw in my face when I spun him around, more than a few petals still sticking to the sweat on my brow.

Remnants that ensure the damned scent clings to me just as strongly.

“Now move your ass,” I hiss, pushing forward with both fists to get him started again. A shove that thrusts his hips outward, another pained yelp escaping from his lips as he starts anew.

Heels dragging, he swings his head in either direction, as if looking for someone to call out to. An ally he can ask for help.

Even just someone with their cellphone handy who he can request take a photo or a video.

Aid that none of the few people in the underside of the vast structure has any interest in providing. All with their own shit to be doing right now, they scurry past.

Some cast us sideways glances as they go, their expressions ranging from shock to amusement.

Most have the good sense to stay far away, hugging the sides of the corridor, openly ignoring us.

Crew and staff that I mostly give the same treatment in return as I peer out over the man’s right shoulder. Continuing to drive him onward, I blink back the haze of anger and adrenaline threatening to envelop me, scanning the doors that slip by on either side.

An ongoing sweep, looking for somewhere to stow the bastard. Keep him on ice until I can figure out who he is.

What exactly he is after here.

A search lasting more than a handful of sections, taking us almost to the edge of the chunk of the stadium cordoned off for the bands and crew, before I spot what I am looking for. Another in a row of nondescript doors, this one thrust wide open and held in place by a janitor’s cart.

Standard fare, with a trash can resting on it and the handles of brooms and mops sticking up on the far side.

A roving cleaning station that an older man with twists of graying hair atop his head is actively loading with supplies taken from inside.

Paper towels and trash bags, signifying the place as nothing more than a storage closet.

“That door, it have a lock on it?” I ask, raising my voice to draw over the attention of the man in the solid gray jumpsuit.

A question that takes just a moment to register before he lowers his chin in a nod.

“Inside or out?”

“Outside,” he replies, his graveled voice much deeper than expected. Reaching for his hip, he tugs at an oversized keyring, pulling the retractable leash it is attached to out a few inches. “Key’s right here.”

“No! You can’t!” the man in front of me shouts, a hint of shrill creeping into his voice as he renews his struggling.

Another outburst that I put down by driving my foot into his hamstring, dropping him to a knee. A lowered elevation, making it easy to snatch the phone from the chest pocket of his vest.

“Hundred bucks to keep him here for a couple of hours?” I ask, glancing up at the janitor in front of me.

An offer he answers with a smirk, stating, “Two hundred, I’ll stand here with the key until you come back.”

“Deal.”

“What? Come on-” the man before me begins to protest. A final outburst that gets no further as I resume my clamp on his wrists, clenching tight as I heft his ass up off the floor.

A rise of no more than a foot, getting his legs up under him, before shoving him headlong into the storage closet. A room lined on three sides with metal shelving, all of them loaded with various cleaning products and supplies.

Goods just like what the man was loading his cart with when we walked up, nothing resembling a weapon of any kind.

As fine a place as any to leave his ass while I sort some stuff out.

What will hopefully be the last bit of sleuthing, done as I follow him as far as the threshold. Sliding my own phone from my back pocket, I extend it before me. Pausing just long enough for the man to turn back, his mouth open to complain some more, I snap a photo.

What will no doubt be a much quicker route to information than trying to ask him anything right now, I fire it off to Mikey and take a step back.

Swinging the door shut, I glance at the janitor watching everything, a bit of amusement on his features.

“Thanks.”

“Thank you,” he replies, raising a faux salute to his brow as I turn and head back the opposite direction.

A return to my previous post, making it no further than a couple of steps before the phone comes to life in my hand. Several quick pulses in order, drawing my focus down to see a familiar name splashed across the screen.

Damn near the only person in the world I would take a call from at the moment, I accept and press the device to my cheek.

“Ham.”

“Mikey,” I reply. “That was fast.”

“I just saw you sent something,” he replies. “Haven’t even opened it yet. This is about one of the pics your friend sent.

“We got a hit.”

My grip tightening on the phone in my hand, I ask, “What’s he look like?”

“Big guy,” Mikey replies. “Huge. Dark hair, crooked nose.”

Locking him in place in my mind, my pace quickens as I make my way forward, I ask, “Who is he?”

“I don’t know what he told Fryer, but his real name is Francisco Ruiz, from Miami. Rap sheet as long as my arm, most of it pretty ugly.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

All it took was a text message and a little bit of patience.

The first of those was easy enough. A single line that Esai Garcia had already typed out and saved to his drafts, ensuring it was ready the exact instant it was needed. A missive that he had already primed the recipient for earlier in the day, all but putting him on standby that it was incoming.

A simple phone call, telling the man that he needed to bring a gift as means of an apology. Penance that he should carry inside with him and present to Blaze during the concert.

An apology for what happened the night before in Albuquerque, the man all but shouting that he would do just that if it got him back in her good graces.

Manipulation at its finest.

The culmination of weeks of effort, encompassing both research and grooming.

Preparation and expense his father had disagreed with at the time, but would have to change his mind about now.

The second part of the equation was the aspect that was infinitely tougher. Forced waiting after Esai saw the hired muscle with the goofy hair go flying off the side of the stage.

A swan dive right into the crowd, aimed directly at their stooge.

The instant Esai saw her disappear into the pulsating mass of people in the pit beyond the stage, he had wanted to move. Fire off a second message, this one meant for Francisco and Luis.

Just a single word, telling them to get to the backstage area.

Abandon whatever posts they’d been pretending to man for the last week and converge on their target.

As strong as his every desire to do that was though, he had forced himself to wait. To pause, watching from the sidelines as the brief interaction played out down below.

What wasn’t even enough to be called an altercation, basically consisting of the guy throwing the flowers into the woman’s face before attempting to turn and flee.

Vain efforts that went about as well as the night before, getting him planted face down on the artificial turf. A hasty conclusion, followed by her jerking him to his feet and taking him away.

A slow exit fighting against the crowd, trying to shove him sideways the length of the row. Lateral motion across people always moving forward, pulled ahead by their hands outstretched before them.

Fans oblivious to what had just taken place a short distance away, their full attention aimed up at the stage, clogging the aisles. Human barricades that the woman was forced to shove the man through.

A prisoner’s march taking even longer than usual, after which Esai was finally able to put the back end of things into motion.

Send the message, telling the others that their window was open.

The bait had been taken. The woman was now sure to be locked up in a room backstage for the foreseeable future, clearing the way for what they were really after.

What they had been waiting on for days, all boiled down to a single word.

Now.

Assigned as a rover for the night, Esai stood tucked up along the side of the stage. Half hidden in the curtains, he was able to stare across the tangle of musical equipment filling the area immediately behind it.

An array of things waiting to go on with the main act, providing plenty of cover as he waited in the shadows, counting out the seconds. Five long minutes of forced inaction, watching his target from afar.

A point of focus, forcing himself not to move as he pulled on a set of black latex gloves like those he wore in Phoenix a couple of nights before.

Drew out a matching knife to the one he left pinned into the tabletop in Blaze’s dressing room.

Everything needed to make a statement that this time would not be missed.

Background preparation, so that he is now ready the instant the five-minute timer on his cellphone begins to buzz in his back pocket. Light vibrations that pass through his backside, serving as a starting gun.

A couple of quick pulses sending sensation the length of his spine as he begins to move, uncloaking himself from the heavy fabric of the curtains lining the stage.

The big reveal, adrenaline starting to seep through his system as he stalks around behind the equipment sitting silent. Chemical energy pushing him forward in long strides, his gaze fixed on the young woman barely a hundred feet away.

Eighty.

Sixty.

His grip so tight around the handle of the knife, he can feel the letter G against his fingertips, Esai makes it within forty feet of his goal.

But no further.

“Hey!”

Barked loud and sharp, it is just barely audible over the sound of the concert, though there is no doubt where the single word is aimed. Flying in from behind him, it stops him where he stands, his right foot still raised.

A pause mid-stride as recognition sets in, despite having never said a word to the woman before.

Someone who just minutes before he spotted pushing her way backstage, somehow already back as Esai turns to see her standing no more than twenty feet behind him.

The same knife she wrestled from the inflated asshole at the honkytonk two nights ago in her hand, every muscle and vein in her upper body is visible.

Striation that plainly flashes under the strobing lights from the stage, painting her features as she stares back at him.

Once, twice, words rise to Esai’s tongue. Threats or warning he pushes aside, just as he does any thought of wheeling and moving on his original target.

A consolation prize that can wait for the time being, his focus on the figure he has studied from afar for the last couple of days.

A woman brought in especially for this, meant to foil his plans.

That thought resting at the front of his mind, Esai pushes straight ahead. Covering the ground he just crossed in several long strides, he hefts the knife by his side. Tossing it up for just an instant, he flips his hand over, snatching the knife out of the air in a backhand grip.

A reverse hold, elongating his reach by several inches as he comes straight at her, ripping his arm across in a hard right hook. A shot aimed directly at center mass that she just manages to avoid, twisting her shoulders mere millimeters from the tip of his blade.

A near miss that Esai stops mid swing, jerking his arm back the opposite direction.

A scything blow leading with the point of his blade, driving it toward her shoulders and throat. A higher target intended to get her off her spot, making her dodge laterally.

Side to side movement, keeping her off balance, just the way it has dozens of opponents before.

An expected response that she doesn’t go for, instead dropping herself into a crouch as Esai’s arm goes sailing above her. Whipping hard through the air, his entire core is left exposed as she slides back the opposite direction, lashing out with her trail arm, swiping her knife across his ribs.

A drive-by shot carving along the length of the bones, igniting his body with electricity.

Fire that travels through his abdomen and up into his chest, pushed out his throat in an angry roar that is immediately swallowed up by the thunderous music pounding around them.

Audio that covers the sound of his voice, but can’t do much to camouflage the crescent of bright red droplets that hit the floor around him. Spatter that is initially flung outward, until gravity takes over and it begins to slide down his skin.

Damp warmth wraps around his side and across his stomach, pinning his cotton t-shirt to his torso as he takes three steps forward. A trio of quick paces, giving himself a bit of space.

Room to turn back the opposite direction, holding the knife out in front of him.

A point of contact he clenches as he stares at her, sucking in air through gritted teeth.

A quick reset, flipping their original positions. A standoff merely feet apart, the ground between them now liberally splashed with his blood.

Releasing his jaw just enough to push out another guttural cry, Esai shoves straight ahead. Knife still held in a backhand grip, he comes in the same way as before, unspooling it from his shoulder.

Another shot meant to look like centrifugal force is taking over, swung just far enough to elicit a reaction. A quick balk from the woman, getting her to shift her weight toward it.

The start of another counter that this time Esai is anticipating, stopping the knife midair and coming in from the opposite direction with a left hook. A hard punch that she just manages to move away from at the last minute, snapping her head down so that it glances up and off her forehead instead of smashing straight into her cheek.

A weak bruise, rather than an instant knockout.

A shot still hard enough to force her take to a step forward to maintain her balance, turning her full back to him.

A prime target, there and gone in an instant as she jerks her elbow straight back, driving the tip of it into Esai’s solar plexus. Contact flush with his stomach, setting the wound across his ribcage afire once more.

Tremors that work across his core, his entire upper body clenching as he snaps his right arm down, slicing the blade of his knife across the muscle belly of her left forearm.

A strike evening the score, adding her own blood to the kaleidoscope of droplets and smears across the floor.

Her turn to take a couple of steps away, looking to reset so they can go at it once more.

A third go round that never comes to pass, interrupted by Francisco finally getting his ass to the party.

Well over three hundred pounds of anger sprinting hard and slamming into her broadside, sending her flying through the air.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

I should have known that the bastard I was engaged with had his cronies somewhere close by.

Two days in a row, I’ve seen the three of them sitting together in the afternoon security briefings. A little group up in the top corner, with everybody else, but also apart.

A subset yesterday in Albuquerque that only grew tighter today after I spoke to Luis. An inadvertent warning that I didn’t piece together, my focus more on the blade of the knife the dark-haired asshole was swinging at me.

Someone unlike the drunken idiot at the bar the other night, who had actual training and knew what he was doing. Enough to have already drawn blood once, the slash across my forearm opening a wound that had wet heat sliding down my bare forearm.

Twin snakes running across my wrist, droplets flung to the ground with each step I took. Each flick of my arm as I held it out to the side, using it for balance as I went after the bastard with the A5 SPRY in my opposite hand.

Full focus on the opponent before me, leaving me completely exposed to the three-hundred-pound wrecking ball that crashed into me. A rolling mass of fat and muscle that I should have seen coming.

Hell, at the very least, I should have heard his ass rumbling across the concrete in my direction. Heavy footfalls that existed only on the periphery of my consciousness, barely audible over the concert going on nearby.

The flashing light strobing the air.

The blade just a few feet away.

An assortment of things fighting for my attention, leaving me completely exposed to the impending locomotive coming my way. A violent collision with a man more than twice my size, bearing a full head of steam.

Forced to say, I’m not sure which impact hurt more. The bulbous bastard slamming sideways into me, or the rolling gear box waiting to go on with No Limits that broke my fall.

Twin collisions within a moment of each other. Powerful crashes that I can now feel in every joint and along the length of my spine, sure to hurt even more once the adrenaline of the moment wears off.

Pain that will be a constant reminder of how damned stupid I was.

The mistake of thinking the more immediate threat was the only threat.

Opposite hip and elbow braced against the bare concrete, my back still pressed tight to the gear box behind me, I stare down at the bright red droplets dripping from the open slash on my arm. Misshapen circles arranged in a random pattern, each passing moment adding to the collection.

Fixed dots that I put my gaze on, watching as a fourth is added to the cluster.

And then a fifth.

An ongoing count that I have no interest in watching grow any higher as I slide my gaze upward. A shift of just a few inches, used to first scan the ground around me.

A quick check for the switchblade that was wrenched from my grasp when I slammed into the gear box, before lifting my focus once more to the swollen behemoth responsible for putting me on my ass.

A man who seems well aware of both the size disparity and our respective positions, his lips pulled back in a sneering grin as he starts my way.

A smile causing my molars to come together as I press my palm into the floor, pushing my top half upright as the lights from the stage just a few feet away pass over me. Multicolored hues, circling in time to Blaze belting out her latest song.

One more in a list that has to be dwindling, meaning I need to get rid of this fat asshole - this Francisco Ruiz from Miami – fast. And then his friend Luis.

And, finally, his buddy with the knife, all before she is done.

Watching him stalk my way, the oversized ham hocks doubling as hands curling up into fists by his side, I know not to move away just yet. Not to go scrambling to my feet, expending my energy going sideways, trying to retake my feet.

Gain a bit of separation between us.

Things that would only minimize the one thing I have working in my favor at the moment, even more than the Glock strapped to my left ankle.

Right now, he thinks he has the upper hand. An advantage not just in terms of pure size, but in our respective positions.

The fact that I am still on the ground, injured and unmoving from our collision.

Cut and bleeding from his cohort prior.

Circumstances that make me an easy prey as he stalks forward, coming in for the kill.

What his fat ass doesn’t consider for a second is that’s what I want him to do, merely lying in wait for him to get here.

Tracking his approach in my periphery, I rotate my upper body, placing my right hand down on the ground as well. Two points of contact before twisting my lower half up onto my knees.

A standard table post with my gaze aimed downward, watching from the corner of my eye as he closes the gap between us. Long strides that increase in speed as he comes nearer, seeing the flat of my back as a prime target.

A surface to be broken, enticing him to lift both fists high above his head.

Twin bludgeons he intends to bring straight down. Sledgehammer shots that will do what the gear box couldn’t, shattering my spine.

Incoming strikes he is on the cusp of unleashing as I shove myself laterally across the floor. A sideways push from all four knees and hands, sliding me over the brushed concrete.

Jerking my right arm across my body as I go, I drive my forearm out in a short arc, drilling it into the side of his knee as he approaches. A blow that isn’t enough to unhinge the massive joint, but is enough to lock it up, causing his entire body to stiffen for a moment.

Just enough time for me to twist at the waist, driving a left cross directly into his groin.

Shots landing within an instant of one another, pushing a pained howl from his diaphragm.

A deep rumble that sounds out as he jerks both his hands down, succumbing to his body’s natural inclination to protect itself. Cover up the source of injury, especially for places like the male genitalia.

Anatomical weaknesses effectively shutting him down for an instant, giving me the opening I need as I plant both sets of toes into the concrete and push myself forward. Momentum I use to rotate through, tucking my chin into a somersault.

A tight roll, bringing me up on my knees once more as I reach with both hands for the gun strapped to the outside of my ankle.

Right hand tugging up the denim covering it, the left goes straight for the grip. Wrenching it free, I twist back the opposite direction, extending it in both hands before me.

Optimal positioning to put a bullet right through the side of his skull as he stands pitched forward, just a few feet away.

An instant kill shot, if not for Luis finally making his appearance as well.

Watching everything play out as he charged in to join, he must have spotted me rolling away from his overgrown friend.

Seen me reach for the gun and start to twist my way back.

Events unfolding in plain sight, making it easy for him to time his arrival. A sudden appearance, opting against full body contact the way his friend did, instead going for a heel kick.

Lashing his foot out in front of him, he drives it across the center of the gun, pushing it wide to the right just as my finger tugs back on the trigger. Contact an instant before the muzzle flash erupts from the tip, blending with the assorted other colors swirling around us.

A signal for the round that is spit out in unison, slamming into the side of the gear box just a few feet away.

Hard sideways impact, wrenching the weapon from my hands as Luis’s momentum carries him on by. Forward progress that forces him to take a couple of hard steps, stomping his feet down into the concrete to stop himself.

Firm footing that he uses to brace himself, swinging back the opposite direction with a reverse punch.

A fist sent blindly back from his shoulder that is well above me. Staying tucked close to the ground, I wait for it to pass before pushing up and sending a palm strike into his solar plexus.

The firm base of my hand into the stomach carved of nothing but muscle and sinew, pushing the air from his underlying lungs.

A shot stemming any real shot of him swinging back the opposite direction, leaving his ribcage open for me to come in with a left hook behind it.

Bone on bone contact that folds him over an inch at the side, doing exactly as Francisco did and jerking his arm in as cover. A classic chicken wing pose as I pull back again, winding up for another left hook.

A strike straight for the hinge of his jawbone, looking to dislodge it from the rest of his skull.

A shot to effectively eliminate him from the fight, thwarted by the damned numbers game catching up with me once more.

The collision from Francisco this time isn’t a full body slam so much as a violent push. Both massive hands slapping into my shoulders blades and shoving to full extension, again lifting me from the ground.

Flight that isn’t nearly so pronounced, leaving me suspended weightless above the ground, but is enough to fling me into the drum set waiting to go on with No Limits. A complete assemblage with the bass as the centerpiece, several freestanding pieces surrounding.

Chunks of stainless steel that are sent toppling over as I crash into it, skittering across the concrete.

Metal projectiles that I pay no attention to as I land on my left side, smearing more blood across the floor. A hard landing setting my body afire, every joint protesting at once as I rest on my shoulder for an instant.

Eyes wide, I blink three times in order to clear my vision from the latest impact.

A pointed stare, putting my focus on the narrow strip of wood on the concrete in front of me. One of multiple drumsticks ready for use, the elongated shaft winnowed down to a point covered with a nylon tip.

A buffer meant to produce a specific sound that I have no use for, as much as the shaft it is attached to.

Sliding my right hand across the concrete, I grasp the stick and draw it my way. Clutching it in the middle, I apply sideways pressure, pressing the edge of the tip into the floor.

Angled tension that snaps the top away, leaving me with a jagged point.

A wooden shiv not quite matching what I’ve lost in the switchblade and the gun, but more than enough to get me past these two assholes.

Pushing myself up onto my knees, I rotate my focus back the opposite direction to see both Francisco and Luis stomping my direction.

The former, with his swollen hands balled into fists again.

The latter, having learned from our initial encounter, carries a microphone stand my way. The same tool I used at Riley’s a couple nights ago, grasping the center pole in both hands.

A wide grip that he uses to lift it overhead as he comes closer, looking to bring it smashing down over me.

A telegraphed plan telling me everything I need to know as I keep my hand wrapped tight around the makeshift weapon. Pushing myself up out of the center of the loose tangle of metal instrumentation, I grab the closest thing I can with my left hand.

A small seat that is nothing more than a single round pad affixed to a trio of metal support struts.

A projectile that will do little in the way of inflicting damage, but does everything I need it to as I fling it sideways across my body. Heaving it directly at Francisco, it ceases his forward momentum, forcing him to raise both hands to bat it away.

Freezing him in place, it serves the secondary purpose of jerking Luis’s attention that direction, the microphone stand held above his head.

Hands raised aloft, his entire torso and neck are left open as I spring toward him, bringing the shiv up in an underhanded strike. A hard swing starting just past my hip before jerking it up as fast as I can.

A wicked bowling toss with the drumstick held tight, impaling the sharpened point into the soft tissue under his jaw.

Driving it up through his throat and into the gray matter beyond, his eyes widen. His body stiffens, feet barely shuffling as he tries to stay upright.

A battle with gravity and a loss of motor function I leave him to, releasing my grip on the drumstick.

Continuing the upward path of my arm, I snatch the microphone stand from his failing hands.

Never once lowering it below shoulder height, I pivot back toward Francisco, whipping the weighted base through the air.

What is essentially an iron disc that does exactly what the bullet a couple of minutes ago was meant to, easily shattering the thin sidewall of his skull.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

It’s been quite a while since I felt this damn wired. Chemical energy surging through me, amplifying every thought and emotion by a factor of a thousand.

A natural cocktail roiling through my veins in the wake of the fight with the dark-haired man and Luis and their fat friend Francisco Ruiz. The spike of combat, compounded by the slash across my arm. The impact of the collision with the gear box.

The blaring music still playing less than a hundred feet away.

The roaring crowd beyond that.

The strobing lights roving across everything, painting the wreckage and carnage around me in a rainbow of different colors.

A psychedelic existence that I have to push through for the time being, getting rid of Luis and Francisco not meaning I am done yet.

Not by a long shot.

Still gripping the impromptu bludgeon of the microphone stand in hand, I am balanced on flexed knees. Eyes wide, I swing my gaze in either direction as my chest heaves, sucking in air.

Once, twice, I scan the area, looking for the man I first dueled with. The man with the knife matching the one that was impaled on the desk in Blaze’s dressing room a couple of nights before.

A bastard who has been lurking for days now, waiting for this moment.

Seeing nothing, I slowly bring myself up to full height. Rising a few inches at a time, I continue swinging my gaze in either direction, panning for any other assailants.

A fourth member of their party, looking to come charging in on me like fat boy a few minutes ago.

Hands both still wrapped around the metal pole of the microphone stand, I balance the uneven weight across my torso, ready to wield it in an instant. Seeing nothing, my focus then moves to the floor around me. Bare concrete that is liberally dotted with blood from no less than four different people.

Including myself.

Spots and smears of red that I swing my gaze across, finding what I am looking for tucked up tight to the wreckage that was the No Limits drum set. A tangle of steel and chrome that some tech is going to be plenty pissed about reassembling, but right now, I do not give a shit.

In fact, I almost dare them to say something.

Dropping the base of the microphone stand toward the floor, I stand it upright near the worst of the blood droplets staining the ground.

A planted flag, letting me know where to start with cleanup. Considerations for the very near future, my primary concern for the moment on picking up the A5 SPRY that is tucked up against the crumpled base of a snare drum.

Getting my ass back out front and making sure the guy with dark hair hasn’t returned.

Or worse, struck anybody else.

One step at a time, I head back toward the post I’ve been standing in for the last couple of nights. Right hand wrapped tight around the handle of the switchblade, I kept it flexed a few inches from my side.

My opposite hand is curled in a fist, a tendril of blood snaked across my wrist, dripping from my folded knuckles.

A state of heightened awareness pushing me through the maze of broken equipment. Movement made while continuing to swivel my gaze, watching for any sign of someone barreling in on me.

Full attention on my surroundings, abandoned the moment I reach the point where I first intercepted the man with the dark hair a short time ago.

A vantage affording me a full view of the far side of the backstage area, letting me see the small crowd that has gathered there.

A group that was previously just Bristol Lynch and Rumer Ripley, now swollen to include Duke Larson.

Harley Lewis.

Men standing with their backs to me, their heads pointed down at the ground.

Rigid poses I recognize in an instant, pushing myself into a full sprint. A hard charge aimed at them, arms both pumping as I cover the short distance between us.

No more than a dozen strides or more, ending with me tucking the knife down by my leg. Turning my shoulders sideways, I slide between them, skidding to a stop just shy of Ripley sprawled flat on the ground.

Her feet pointed toward me, she stares blankly up at the ceiling through glassy, narrowed eyes.

Her breathing is quick and shallow.

Signs of her body going into shock, beginning to shut down, due to the massive wound to her abdomen. A deep gouge carved into the soft flesh, around which deep crimson spreads steadily outward, plastering her shirt to her skin.

“Shit,” I mutter, pushing sideways off of my left foot. A quick thrust, sliding me up alongside her as I drop to my knees.

Pressing the release button on the side of the knife handle to close the blade, I tuck it into the back pocket of my jeans as I hit the floor.

A freeing of my hands so I can peel the ugly shirt Lynch gave me last night up over my head and press it tight to her stomach.

Jerking my head up to Lynch balanced on both knees across from me, her features ashen, I yell, “Have you called an ambulance?!”

Words that fail to penetrate, her gaze still pointed at Ripley between us.

Her own form of shock that will have to wait as I jerk my chin toward my shoulder and shout, “Larson?!”

“Yea...yes,” he says, appearing in my periphery. “I’m here.”

“There should be paramedics already onsite. Call them, go find them, whatever. Just get them here now!”

“Yep!” he says, turning and hauling ass away.

Departure to my right as I swing my attention back to the left. “Lewis!”

Waiting only until he takes a step forward into the edge of my field of vision, I snap, “Call Fryer, tell him to get his ass down here now. He’ll know what to do.

“After that, call Mikey and tell him we’re going to need a cleanup crew.”

PART 4

THE CONTRACT

CHAPTER SIXTY

In the last couple of hours, Bristol Lynch has replayed what happened backstage at the concert no less than forty times in her head. Complete start-to-finish passes that, over time, her subconscious has started to winnow down.

An excision of all connective tissue.

Anything that isn’t absolutely vital, leaving behind nothing more than a handful of apexes.

High points that have been mashed together, somehow giving the events an even more frenetic feel than what she actually witnessed just a short time before.

Ham spotting something in the crowd and going diving offstage. The short battle they had, ending in an explosion of flower petals before she grabbed the assailant and marched him away.

The moment of calm before the security guard showed up, wielding a knife. Ham returning to intercept him as he strode toward her and Rumer Ripley along the edge of the stage.

The fight that ensued. The escalation that took place when two more guards joined him.

That same guard with the dark hair going straight for Rumer, plunging his knife into her side before making his escape.

Ham killing the two guards and circling back to help Rumer.

There was plenty more that occurred before all that.

An infinite amount thereafter, leading to where she is now sitting.

Out of all of it though, those are the only parts she seems to be able to recall. Vivid snapshots that are nested at the front of her mind, melding her to the padded seat she is on.

Semi-paralysis as she stares straight ahead, barely even registering the facility around her. The emergency department at the University Health Sciences Center, rife with activity.

Physicians and nurses and a host of patients arriving with wounds and ailments of every sort.

Background noise she barely notices, her entire psyche stuck an hour in the past.

Having been back through her text history twice, Bristol knows for certain that the man with the knife wasn’t somebody she took a photo of earlier in the night. Beyond that though, who the guy was, she has no real idea.

Wearing a black security t-shirt, he could be a regular with the tour, or a hired hand brought on for the night. A Lubbock local, there and gone in a couple of hours or a plant, following them from city to city.

The same one responsible for what happened to the guard in Phoenix, or merely the latest pawn used in whatever scheme is playing out around them.

A game with an end goal Bristol can only guess at. Stakes that seem to be rising by the day, now responsible for the young woman fighting for her life nearby.

A girl even younger than herself or Blaze, sent out on the road as part of her first real job. What she hoped to be a steppingstone into a career in music management or producing.

Any of a thousand different goals and dreams that she practically gushed about the first time Bristol met her, bringing that same joy and optimism with her each and every morning.

A future that may or may not come to pass, as evidenced by the blood spatter dotting the front of Bristol’s skirt and boots.

The crimson smears along her bare knees and the backs of her hands.

Stains she doesn’t even remember getting, just as she can’t rightly recall the ambulance ride to the hospital.

Who directed her to the seat where she now finds herself.

Procedural details that her mind has blurred away, focusing only on those few highpoints from earlier in the night.

Extreme moments, dwarfing everything else.

“Ms. Lynch?”

Completely immersed in thought, barely do the words penetrate. Sounds that can be heard, though fail to register until they are repeated a second time.

And then a third.

The same words three times in a row, each delivered with a bit more volume. Extra inflection on the question mark at the end.

A trio of questions that finally manage to break through, drawing Bristol’s attention up to the thirty-something woman with auburn hair framing pale features. A striking color scheme, made more pronounced by the lavender scrubs she is wearing.

A clipboard clutched to her chest, she is bent forward at the waist, waiting until Bristol blinks herself back into the moment before continuing, “You arrived with Ms. Ripley, correct?”

“Yes!” Bristol spits back, the word much louder than intended as she shoots up out of her seat.

Handfuls of questions lined up in her mind, she brushes them aside, too terrified of what the answers might be.

“The doctor wanted me to let you know that they are just finishing up in the operating room,” the nurse replies. “It was very touch-and-go there for a while, but they were able to get her stabilized.

“Looks like she should pull through.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

The plan is one that Esai Garcia set up with Francisco and Luis before they even started out pretending to be security guards on the Blazing Limits tour. A predetermined escape and regroup in the event they had to evacuate quickly and got separated.

A failsafe that none of them believed would actually be necessary.

A concession to calm his old man’s nerves, put in place in case shit went sideways.

Just like it did tonight.

“One room with double beds,” the young woman says from behind the computer screen resting on the desk between them. A monitor that reflects from the fake diamond nested in her left nostril.

A bit of rebellion, offset by a pair of oversized glasses and straight dark hair tied back at the base of her skull.

A college-aged girl who either hasn’t yet figured out that she could be kind of pretty with some effort, or knows that and is trying to take her appearance the opposite direction.

Some kind of self-effacing, feminist bullshit that Esai does not care about in the slightest, his opinion of the entire gender circling the toilet at the moment.

Despisal brought on by the bitch with the weird hairstyle earlier. A woman he had seen do her thing with the drunken hillbilly at the bar the other night and against their hand-selected patsy in the crowd a couple of times, but didn’t foresee pulling off what she had behind the stage.

Crossing blades with him and not only living to tell about it, but even managing to leave him with a scar.

A permanent reminder of the night, now tucked away under the zip-up hoodie he is wearing. An item snatched from an errant table under the stadium as he made his escape, using it to cover the slash across his ribcage.

A wound of several inches, the resulting blood plastering his t-shirt to his skin.

An injury that is at the top of his to-do list, provided the young girl behind the counter ever finishes staring at the damned screen and gives him his key.

“Do you prefer ground floor, or something higher?”

“Ground,” Esai replies, pushing aside the sharp retort resting on his tongue. A barb about not giving a shit where she puts him, so long as she does it fast.

Words he wants to fling across the desk, pushed aside in the name of sticking to the story rehearsed with him and his friends.

The one in line with the fake ID resting on the chipped Formica counter. A Florida driver’s license with an address in Tampa, the name Arthur Estrada across the top.

One of a matching trio, the only difference between them being the photos of himself, Francisco, and Luis staring back on the front.

Fake IDs to fit the Mastercard with the same name that always resides in the glove box of their pickup. A fourth false identity, added to the three they used when they applied to join the tour.

An absolute last resort, making sure that they can all find each other after a scramble.

Given his preference, Esai would rather be back at the stadium at this very moment. Cloaked in his new sweatshirt, he would pull a ball cap or a beanie over his head.

Maybe even stop somewhere long enough to shave his face.

Just enough to alter his appearance so he could go back and track down his friends in person. See exactly what they did to the woman with the long Mohawk after they intercepted her.

Maybe even get in a few extra licks of his own, finishing what he started across her forearm.

A cautionary tale to be added to the story making its way back to Miami. Extra emphasis on the fact that just bringing in a bit of muscle was not going to make this go away.

If anything, it was only going to make it much, much worse.

For as badly as he might want it though, Esai knows he must stick to the plan. Get to the truck. Find the closest Red Roof Inn.

A national chain, available in tonight’s shithole Texas city, just as it was in New Mexico last night.

Phoenix two nights before that.

Secure a room on the main level, in case they need to make a hasty escape.

Hunker down and wait for the others to make contact, no matter how damn much it kills him.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Barely an hour removed from No Limits finishing up onstage for the night, most of the stadium has long since emptied. Even the idiots who thought that maybe, for some reason, there would be another encore have given up and drifted out.

A late exit that could have been from the clean-up crews starting to work their way through the stands with brooms and trash cans.

Or it could have been from the PA announcer coming over the loudspeakers and telling them that the gates would be closing soon.

Get the hell out.

Despite the relative desolation visible beyond the spotlit front edge of the stage, there is still a fair amount of activity behind it. Venue staff and tour employees, all buzzing about.

Local vendors wanting to finish and get home for the night.

Road crew looking to get everything packed up so they can head on to Dallas before morning.

The start of a long night ahead for many. A frantic rush to end one day and begin the next, providing the next best cover to complete solitude.

A roving crowd all intent on the six inches in front of their faces, none so much as glancing at the pair of late arrivals. Guys both standing several inches above six feet, donning black cargo pants and boots.

Variations of the same outfit Mikey is always wearing, making them easily recognizable to my eye in a moment, while at the same time serving to blend in with the others around them.

Just two more roadies in dark colors, here to help lug around some heavy stuff.

“Thanks for coming,” I say in greeting, extending a fist to the closest of the two.

An offering he reciprocates, adding a nod as he says, “Ham.”

In order, his colleague does the same, pressing his knuckles to mine before flicking his gaze at the assorted rush of activity nearby. An unspoken question I respond to by tilting my head to the side.

The start of a slow amble to the far corner of the backstage area, where a rolling gear box is resting. The same damn one I was tossed against earlier, so hard there is probably an imprint of my ass on the side.

Almost certainly a row of dimples corresponding to every bony ridge along my spine.

Never before have I met the two guys, though I’ve known plenty like them. Men on the payroll seemingly outside of every major city, serving as counterparts to those like the one I met out in the desert yesterday.

Help called in after the fact, to clear away whatever damage was inflicted by the hardware Baker was able to provide beforehand.

How the hell Mikey knows all of them, I don’t have the slightest. Same for whether they are under his employ directly, or he is simply tapped into some kind of larger network.

A freestanding organization meant to assist those like us, or maybe just former soldiers looking for freelance work.

Reasons that aren’t my chief concern right now, that being getting rid of any evidence of what happened backstage earlier. My own variation on what everyone else around us is going through, looking to wipe away what came prior so I can move on to what happens next.

Of which, there will be plenty.

Items resting toward the front of my mind, alternating with the persistent sting of the slash on my arm for the pole position.

“Alright,” I say, cutting my gaze past the men to the stage behind us. A quick glance to ensure nobody is too close to see or hear anything before flipping open the latch on the front of the gear box.

Lifting it no more than a couple of inches, I give them both a quick look at the contents.

Luis, folded up tight, the broken drumstick still protruding from the underside of his chin.

With him are the clothes I was wearing earlier. Jeans and the ridiculously loud sleeveless shirt, both liberally splashed with blood from Luis and Francisco.

The massive stain from Rumer Ripley.

A bit of my own too.

Large splotches that have all started to dry, sure to be crusted solid before morning.

In the wake of the backstage battle, I wanted nothing more than to take off after the first guy with the dark hair. The one responsible for the slash across my left forearm, currently wrapped in paper towels and hidden beneath the long sleeves I am wearing.

A clean finish to all three that made it as far as seeing the gathered crowd in the opposite corner.

Ripley splayed across the floor, everyone else too frozen to do a damned thing to help her.

Events forcing me to stop long enough that there was no longer any point in trying to track him down. His ass was in the wind.

Another thing for the list.

“Anything else?” the man on my right asks.

A question earning a grunt from me as I lower the top of the box back into position. Swinging around the side, I peel back the folds of the dark stage curtain bunched up tight behind it.

Flaps of heavy canvas used to hide the enormous body of Francisco Ruiz.

“There’s also this,” I mutter, staring down at the misshapen mound that was his head.

Before it met the base of that microphone stand, anyway.

“His ass was too damned big to get move on my own.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

“Did they make it?” Mikey asks. Jumping straight past any sort of greeting when he snatches up the phone after a single ring, he launches the question instead.

A deliberately vague ask that I understand just the same, replying, “Pulling away as we speak. Thank you.”

Grunting softly, he adds, “Any more problems?”

Turning away from the fading red taillights of the panel van carrying away the remains of Luis and Francisco Ruiz, I head back toward the same stadium exit that the three of us just used a short time before. An arch stretching more than fifteen feet in height, carved from the concrete band encircling the base of the structure.

Moving fast, I cut my gaze to either side, watching as the road crew streams in and out through the matching gates evenly spaced around the north end of the structure. Men and women who have done this a thousand times and act like it, all looking to get things disassembled and loaded as fast as possible.

A mindset I find myself sharing at the moment.

No matter how much shit I still need to do tonight.

“None that have surfaced,” I reply. “From the looks of things, it was a three-man band.”

Again, Mikey grunts in reply. “Then I guess that’s the place to begin. The picture on your second victim wasn’t in the system anywhere.

“We also ran a search on Francisco Ruiz and couldn’t find any obvious connections to somebody named Luis.”

Flicking my gaze to either side, I process what was just shared. A couple short sentences, telling me several things at once.

“Hey, Frost,” I begin, acknowledging who I know Mikey to be sitting there with. A young woman whose real name I don’t even know, her assumed handle a reference to her frosted hair buzzed short, serving as a stark contrast to her dark skin.

The person who would be doing the cyber digging on tonight’s two victims, as well as uncovering Walt Billingsley this morning.

The deep online dive into Blaze yesterday.

An electronic savant, serving as far and away the biggest upgrade since my return to work a couple of years ago.

“Hey, Ham,” she replies, her voice faint from her desk perch in the back corner of the office she shares with Mikey. The inner sanctum of his operation, tucked away deep inside the faux auto-body shop in Huntington Beach.

“Thanks for your help.”

“I just wish there was more.”

Grunting softly, I switch gears, headed to the second thing his initial burst of information told me. Focus on the smaller of the two bodies that were just loaded up, never to be seen again.

“Being nowhere in the system isn’t easy,” I reply. “If he’s clean, that probably means he’s international. No way he’s been here his whole life and doesn’t have any kind of footprint.”

“I agree,” Mikey says, “though I think the more likely is-”

“Fake ID,” I insert, already knowing where he is going with it. “Which is how he and Ruiz both got past Fryer’s background check.”

“Exactly,” Mikey replies. “We’ll go back to Ruiz and start working our way out, see what we can find. Maybe catch a social media post with a picture, or at least get a list of names we can start crosschecking.”

Grunting softly in reply, I pause a beat as two men amble past. Guys both who have stripped out of their t-shirts, bare chests flashing sweat as they push dollies loaded with cardboard boxes past.

Roadies who I have seen a handful of times with long hair and tattoos, a series of chains hanging around their necks.

Men moving fast, each nodding at me in turn as they go.

Silent greetings I match, waiting until the sound of metal wheels on concrete fades before continuing, “While you’re looking for Luis, keep an eye out for the first guy I fought too. Hispanic, late twenties or early thirties. Short dark hair.

“Clearly had some training, may or may not have served somewhere.” Pausing there, I scroll through what little I know about the man in my mind before adding, “Also, may or may not be the source of the letter G found on the knife in Blaze’s dressing room the other night.”

“You got it,” Mikey answers, inciting something low from Frost in the background. Some addition that I assume is of agreement, not bothering to ask for a repeat as I continue onward.

A slow walk beyond the stage where Mikey’s contacts and I were just working, heading on toward where this all really started a couple of hours ago.

A supply closet at the far opposite end of the backstage area, still several sections away.

“Tell me about the guy I sent you the picture of earlier.”

“Ah, yes,” Mikey replies. “Bertrand Davis.”

“Bertrand?”

“A man who puts the fan in fanatic,” Mikey says.

His last line before ceding the floor to Frost, who adds, “Davis runs far and away the largest online Facebook fan club there is. Fifteen thousand members strong, there isn’t a single post or comment he doesn’t usually respond to personally.”

Phone still pressed to my cheek, I push onward, going until I can spot the same old janitor I left hours ago still posted up in the hallway. Having found himself a chair somewhere, he is perched on it with legs extended.

Glasses resting on the tip of his nose, he is reading a newspaper, oblivious to anything else going on around him.

“Violent?” I ask.

“More combative than violent,” Frost replies. “It’s almost like he’s more protective of her than confrontational against the others, if that makes sense.”

Dipping my chin, I say, “It does. Personal life?”

“He was working at a warehouse in OKC, where he did have an apartment. Put both on ice last week,” Frost replies. “Far as I can tell, since then, this concert tour is his personal life.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Bertrand Davis can feel every heartbeat as it pushes blood through the sides of his hands. A spot on his body that he has never even thought about having veins before, only noticing them because of how swollen they both are.

Inflamed tissue from spending the last two hours beating on the metal door to the room he has been trapped in. Alternating ax handle blows, thumping against the steel painted matte black.

Efforts that have been paired with him screaming at the top of his lungs, calling out until his throat feels like sandpaper. His voice has been reduced to little more than a rasp. Effects magnified by the temperature inside the room and the fact that nobody has been by to offer him a glass of water or something to eat.

On the metal shelving units framing all three walls around him are nothing but paper towels and trash bags. Nowhere is there a place for him to sit, aside from plopping his ass down on the drain cap in the center of the floor.

Two nights in a row now, the concert has been cut short for him. A pair of incidents that were both massive misunderstandings at best.

Some kind of targeted discrimination, at worst.

One, an altercation that he wasn’t even the aggressor in. The other, a total overreaction on their part to him just trying to do what he was instructed.

Bring a peace offering after what had happened the night before.

A way of making amends that was taken away from him, no doubt making Blaze even angrier than she already was. What she would see as a second faux pas in as many nights, even though it wasn’t his fault.

After the woman with the weird Mohawk and ripped arms had physically violated him, tossing him into the storage closet like a piece of trash, he’d tried to state as much through the door. Repeated claims of innocence and requests for just a few minutes to explain.

To Blaze, or to someone on her team.

Anyone who would listen and understand that he wasn’t there to make trouble. He was a fan, in the purest sense of the word.

The president of her online Facebook community.

Maybe even something more, if the words to her music were to be believed.

In the wake of being unceremoniously forced inside the room like some kind of hostage, he’d stayed on his feet for more than two solid hours. The first part, he spent hoping that he might somehow regain his freedom in time to catch the remainder of Blaze’s show.

The rest, straining for any sounds above the low throb of No Limits music blaring from the stage. Bass hits and vibrations that he fought to listen through, saving what remained of his voice for anyone he heard happen by.

Bits of laughter or conversation or even the sound of a janitor’s cart rolling past.

Signs of life that would spur him to call out with renewed vigor.

Not that it mattered in the least, the closest response he ever got being the occasional deep chuckle of the janitor standing right outside. A man being paid to oversee Bertrand’s demise, and apparently getting a great deal of amusement from it.

A bastard who could go straight to Hell with the rest of them.

A man who was clearly enjoying what was going on, even his voice fading away more than twenty minutes earlier. A third of an hour, the time since spent with Bertrand sitting cross legged in the center of the floor.

“Please, let me out of here,” he whispers, even the faint words scraping along his raw throat. “You can’t keep me here forever.”

Glancing down at the swollen hands resting in his lap, he adds, “At least give me my damn phone back.”

The last words muttered so low he can barely hear them, in no way does he expect a reply.

Even less, for the door to swing inward, bright fluorescent light spilling across the floor. A blinding glare that causes him to recoil, feet scrabbling across the concrete as he pushes himself back into the shelves behind him.

Frantic fleeing, ending with the rear of his skull smacking against the bottom shelf.

Bone to metal contact that causes his eyes to water, a pained gasp sliding from his lips as he peers up at the woman with the weird hairstyle.

Someone who has changed both her clothes and her expression since he last saw her, face smudged with blood and bruising.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

A question that is at once both simple and confusing, it draws Bertrand’s brows together.

“What?”

“Why are you here?” she repeats. Taking a half step forward, she folds her arms over her torso, letting the door rest against her left shoulder. “Why are you in Lubbock tonight? Why were you in Albuquerque last night?”

“I...” Bertrand begins. A single word he lets fade before starting fresh with, “My name is⁠—”

“I know your name, Bertrand Davis. What I am asking is, why are you following Blaze?”

Folds of skin form around Bertrand’s eyes as he stares up at her, trying to comprehend what she is asking. Why she kept him locked in a storage closet all night, only to return with these sorts of questions.

“Following? I’m not following her. I’m a fan, I’m the president of her Facebook fan club. I was invited here.”

“Invited,” she repeats, seizing on the word. “By who?”

“The record company,” Bertrand replies. “The president, Nik Doherty. He emailed me personally a couple of weeks ago and asked if I would like to come on the road. Take pictures and videos, post them after each concert.”

Her brows rising just slightly, she asks, “The president reached out to you himself?”

“Yes! Set up the hotels and everything, all I had to cover was my own food and vehicle,” Bertrand fires back, the words pouring faster from him. “How the hell do you think I ended up with second row tickets every night?”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Blaze knew something was wrong the instant she walked off the stage. Realization that cut through the euphoria, instantly sapping the joy and adrenaline that had engulfed her as she wrapped up.

The second biggest show of the tour thus far, lagging behind only Los Angeles.

Sheer volume, multiplied by the rowdiness that only a west Texas audience could kick up. Beer and cowboy hats and boots and all the rest. A raucous time that was like taking the wildest honky-tonk she had ever been in and multiplying it by a factor of a thousand.

A childhood dream that saw her exit the stage with a megawatt grin, only to have it slowly recede as she found the spot just behind the curtain in the corner empty. A slot almost always filled by Bristol Lynch, vacant for the second time in the last four days.

A post that this time she would have thought would at least have Rumer Ripley or Harley Lewis in it.

Even the new girl, Ham with one m.

A rotating cast that was completely absent, this time replaced by Duke Larson.

A lone figure who was usually roaming the grounds, last night taking up a post outside of her dressing room. A new position held for only one night before evolving further to escorting her clear to the stage.

Apparently, staying there throughout the show as well.

Close presence, with the shy grin he usually wore around her noticeably gone. A swap from boyish joy to complete seriousness, taken all the way to extreme concern by the time she was finished.

Worry unlike anything she had seen from him before, with the corners of his mouth turned downward, his cheeks so bright they were almost glowing.

A noticeable shift, prompting her to ask what happened. The first of what would be no less fifty times in the couple of hours since.

A question that he refused to answer – just as he has every subsequent time – responding only by stepping out to the side. Using his body to shield her from the backstage area where No Limits’ gear was already set up, he steered her along the curtain and straight back into the concrete corridor encircling the stadium.

The start of what was nothing short of a sprint, leading her directly back to her room.

No compliments on a great show.

No notice of the crowd or the energy or any of it.

A change in demeanor that would have been impossible to miss, taken even further still as he escorted her inside. Closing and locking the door behind them, he continued to ignore her repeated questions.

Unending asks, going well beyond simply trying to find out what happened.

Inquiries packaged in every way possible, from why they had rushed back so fast to where everybody else had gone.

What was clearly bothering him.

A barrage of things that he refused to answer, each failed attempt spiking the wave of things Blaze was feeling. A total replacement of the euphoria of being out onstage just minutes before, swapping it with worry.

Frustration.

Anger.

A potent cocktail making it just shy of threatening to fire him, what finally got through being her expressed concern for Bristol. Familial worry that she knew would resonate with him, prompting him to answer, “Your cousin is fine.”

Word choice Blaze seized on, asking, “Does that mean somebody else isn’t?”

Recognizing in that moment that he had messed up, shared more than he wanted to, Duke told her to get changed.

Put her hair up under the bandana she’d been wearing a couple of nights before.

Instructions leaving her even more confused, until the instant they pulled into the parking lot right outside of the emergency department where they now find themselves. An entire wing in a complex even larger than the stadium they were just at, the waiting area loaded with no less than thirty people.

Folks of all ages and ethnicities who Blaze barely glances at, her focus going to her cousin sitting alone on a chair in the far back corner. Reclined in a seat, she stares straight ahead, gnawing at her left thumbnail.

A state of near catatonia that causes Blaze to increase her pace, breaking into a jog down the center of the waiting room.

Duke fighting to keep pace behind her, she weaves as straight a path as she can, sliding to a stop in front of her best friend.

Pulse spiking as she sees the crimson droplets across Bristol’s denim skirt and the smear of red on her bare knees, she drops into a crouch, framing herself in Bristol’s vacant stare.

A pose she holds, waiting as her cousin blinks herself back into the present, before whispering, “What happened?”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

After leaving Bertrand Davis still stowed in the supply room in the depths of the stadium, it took me two minutes to explain to the janitor outside the door where I was going and how long I would be gone. A total of what I guessed to be an hour, after which I would either be back to lean on him some more, or he could be cut loose for the night.

His story had checked out.

Any information he might be able to provide had been exhausted.

Instructions that the guy didn’t seem the least bit thrilled about, no doubt having sat and listened to Davis beat on the damn door every minute since I left the first time. Constant pounding, accompanied by the scratchy voice I was forced to sit in there and listen to.

Enough to annoy the hell out of anyone, though still a far cry from risking pissing me off any more than I already was. Ire that I wore plainly across my features, accentuated by a few stray stripes of blood.

Errant streaks from any of five different people, myself included.

Macabre warpaint I could see his gaze pass over before nodding in agreement, provided there was another hundred bucks involved to appease his wife for getting home so late.

Terms I agreed to without complaint, leaving him to return to his newspaper.

Once that was done, it took me another six minutes to find Harley Lewis and ask him for the keys to a courtesy vehicle. A request I’m sure he found confusing, though after what he witnessed earlier, he didn’t dare object to.

Acquiescence that meant twelve minutes after exiting the supply room, I was on the road, headed west from the stadium. A hasty departure made infinitely easier by the time that had passed since the concert ended. Enough for all but the most ardent of tailgaters to have cleared out, leaving the tangle of streets around the stadium mostly barren.

Desolation that held the further removed I got, aided considerably by the hour and the fact that it was a weeknight.

Advantages that I knew I wouldn’t be afforded in Dallas in a couple of days.

Provided that this all made it that far.

Another twelve minutes after pulling out of the lot behind the stadium, I can see the glowing signage of the motel where Davis is staying. A no-name joint several rungs down from the chains that we have been holed up in, blue letters against a lemon background announcing the place to be the Cozy Inn.

For the third letter, a trio of z’s are stacked one above the other, rotating each second to give the impression of sleeping.

A small addendum that looks to be the closest thing to an upgrade the place has seen since it first opened. A joint that was probably built as a stopover when Lubbock was still a dusty cattle town, the lot it sits on now worth far more than the business itself.

Easing into the parking lot, I slide between a pair of one-story structures extended straight back from the street. Matching wings made of brick that have been sun-blasted from dark red to pale pink, separated by a larger unit with several extra windows in the middle.

Tinted glass revealing a single lamp blazing within, six block letters displaying the word OFFICE in green neon above the door.

Letting the borrowed vehicle roll forward, I push my gaze to the right. A quick glance at the unit closest to the street, clocking the lone numeral affixed to the plain green door.

“There’s one,” I mutter, giving the gas a slight nudge. A little push, shoving past the next three units in order. Rooms that look to largely be vacant, only a single minivan parked in the stalls painted on the broken concrete.

An ancient vehicle with duct tape on the bumper and Nevada license plates that I swing in behind, using it for cover as I take up the key Davis handed over from the passenger seat beside me. An old school brass implement on a diamond-shaped keychain that rattles softly as I step out and make my way to the fifth door in line.

A key very much in line with the place.

A place very much in line with the man stowed away in the underbelly of the stadium.

Taking care to dodge the cone of orange light thrown outward from the security lamp in the center of the lot, I ease the key into the slot and step inside. Waiting until the door is closed behind me, I flip the switch on the wall, illuminating the room in the same filmy glow as that outside.

Pale light that fills the room as I give the place one quick sweep. A pass from left to right, taking in the standard motel arrangement going back decades to when this place was first built.

Bed and dresser.

Nightstand.

Table and chairs.

A handful of things in total, none of which look like they would pass a basic blacklight test. Items I register and dismiss in an instant, my gaze drawn to the massive display taped to the wall above the table.

Images of all things Blaze, from snapshots at live concerts to record albums and official band photos. A spread stretching several feet in either direction, its edges aligned into a perfect square.

Precision shared by the layout on the desk before it, the surface covered with a laptop computer and a handful of plain manilla folders.

Everything exactly as Bertrand Davis said it would be.

“You were right, Mikey,” I mutter, taking a step forward. “Man definitely puts the fan in fanatic.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Three consecutive attempts to get Bristol Lynch on the phone turned up absolutely nothing. One call made right after another from the parking lot of the motel where Bertrand Davis was staying, needing only to talk to her long enough to ask where the hell she was.

Where the ambulance had taken her and Rumer Ripley after the latter was loaded up and the former jumped in to join her.

Giving up after that, I had settled for a text message. Typing it out, I tossed the device into the middle console and started to push the courtesy vehicle back toward the stadium, each passing moment causing my ire to spike.

Not because I was pissed at her – her avoidance likely due to speaking with doctors or trying to contact Ripley’s family – but due to the situation as a whole.

A night that had gone to shit in just about every way possible, most noticeably that my primary lead had turned out to be nothing but a fanboy. A case of arrested development used as a distraction.

A ruse planted by whoever hired Francisco Ruiz and his friends that I had been dumb enough to jump after.

Leaning on the gas, intent on making my way back to the stadium and shaking down every person I found until somebody knew where the ambulance had gone, it was just by pure happenstance that I noticed the gleaming monolith where I now find myself. What has to be the second largest structure in the area, surpassed only by the stadium where I spent most of the day.

Two behemoths just a few miles apart, each standing out plainly against the darkened sky.

“Excuse me,” I say, pulling up alongside the front desk inside the University Health Sciences Center. A fixture in the middle of what looks more like a mall atrium than a hospital, with a glass ceiling several floors above and a damned waterfall echoing across the gleaming tile.

Background noise that the woman with tired eyes and a wrinkled uniform doesn’t seem to notice as she turns to look my way.

“Where’s the emergency room?”

Running her gaze the length of me, she smirks. “Room? Honey, I don’t know what little Podunk town you’re in from, but around here, we’ve got a whole department.”

I can feel the urge to reach across the desk spike within me. A desire to grab her by the front of that uniform and add a few more wrinkles to it as I pull her within an inch of my nose and let her know I’m not in the mood.

Or even better, take her by the mop of messy curls framing her head and introduce her cheek to the desk in front of her.

A nice friendly meeting from which she can look at the world through a sideways view and then decide if she still feels like being funny.

“Where’s the emergency department?”

Again, she gives me a once-over, her stare lingering for a moment on the crimson smudges on my face. The burgeoning bruises from the backstage brawl earlier. “You hurt?”

“Not me,” I reply. “Friend of mine. She was brought here by ambulance a little while ago.”

“Ah,” she says, her chin tilting back an inch or so. “Yeah, been one of those nights.”

Lifting a hand from the desk, she points over my shoulder and says, “If I were you, I’d go right back through that door you just came through. When you hit the sidewalk, hook a left, follow it all the way around. Can’t miss it.”

Using the same hand, she waves it across her body and adds, “Lot easier than trying to figure out all the hallways in this place.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, backing away before she is even finished. A quick exit from a conversation that is already much longer than I wanted, speed-walking across the main foyer.

A pace that increases as I step into the night air that is finally starting to cool, hitting the sidewalk at a jog.

Heightened speed that I maintain for several minutes, swinging up the eastern side of the sprawling structure.

Rounding the corner, I pick it up even further at the sight of the gleaming neon signage in the center of the north end. Lights of blue and white and red standing above a double set of sliding doors.

A signpost blazing through the darkness, attracting a fair number of people. Folks streaming in and out, making their way toward the parking lot that is more than half full, despite the hour.

Patients and their families who barely cast me a glance as I make my way over and fall in line alongside them.

The sick and weary trudging forward, forcing me to match their pace as we step into a waiting room stretched wide in both directions. An internal space to match the lot outside, well over half of the seats already taken.

Thirty or more people clumped up into groups of two or three. People huddled together, nursing some injury or praying against the worst.

Categories that Lynch decidedly falls into the latter of as I spot her sitting alone in the far back corner.

Much like the first time I met her just a couple of days ago, her head is lowered so that her chin almost touches her chest. Her hands are brought together in front of her.

This time, though, there is no phone clasped between them.

Her eyes are shut tight.

A pointed pose with her lips moving imperceptibly, maintained until I drop down onto the seat beside her.

Only then does she jerk herself upright, a hand raised to her chest as she sucks in deep breaths. Eyes wide, it is clear she has scads of questions to throw my way.

Asks we may or may not get to, after I’ve gotten through my list first.

“How’s she doing?”

It takes a moment for the words to register. Her mind to pivot from whatever religious icon she was just speaking to and past the obvious inquiries splayed across her face.

Namely, where the hell I came from.

Things she works through one at a time before eventually replying, “She’s, um, just finishing up in surgery. The nurse came out a little while ago and said they’ve got the bleeding stopped. She should pull through, but it will be a while before she’s completely out of the woods.”

The information about as good as can be expected after what we both saw backstage earlier, I merely nod.

“You?” I ask. “You okay?”

A cleft forms between her brows. Her blinking increases.

Signs of emotion, hinting at a response that isn’t quite what I had in mind.

“Physically, at least?”

Her nostrils flare as she sucks in a deep breath. Pushing it out slowly, she manages to nod, turning back to face forward beside me.

“He went right at her,” she whispers. “Really, didn’t even look at me. And I was standing right there.”

This afternoon, that alone would have raised my eyebrows.

At the very least, have spawned a handful of follow-up questions.

After the conversation with Davis and the trip by his motel room though, I can’t say it doesn’t make at least some sense, playing right into the loose theory I’m already putting together.

“You know anything about the record company sponsoring someone?” I ask instead.

“What do you mean?” she asks, turning her chin an inch my direction.

“Tickets, motel rooms, that kind of thing for some of the biggest fans.”

Snorting softly, Lynch answers, “Definitely not. Sunburst isn’t a terribly big company, so I know just having us on this tour is a stretch. That’s why No Limits stays at the Four Seasons, while we’re over at the Best Western.”

Thrusting her chin forward, she says, “A big part of what Rumer does is keeping meticulous track of the books.”

Fitting – at least somewhat – with the impression I got while riding to the stadium with her earlier, I ask, “What do you know about Nik Doherty?”

In my periphery, I can see her turn to glance my way. “He’s the president of Sunburst. Found Blaze, gave her a contract. Said he wanted her to help be the face of the place.

“Make Miami a music destination, like some of the other big cities.”

At mention of Miami, I can’t help but perk up.

Another connection to something said earlier in the night. Though this time I don’t get the chance to press further, cut short by Lynch snapping her focus back forward.

A sudden turn I follow to see Blaze and Duke Larson both making their way towards us, coffee cups in hand.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Just shy of two o’clock in the morning means it isn’t even midnight at Mikey’s place in Huntington Beach. An hour that I know means he is still working, hopefully with Frost still sitting nearby and Ramon – the shop’s only other permanent employee, and Frost’s boyfriend – guarding the door downstairs.

A fact confirmed by him snatching up the phone after just a single ring. A clear click, followed by another as he pushes me to the speakerphone and says, “Ham.”

“Mikey,” I reply. “Has Frost gone home for the night?”

“Not until you guys do,” Frost calls, her voice just slightly lower from her desk in the corner. “What do you need?”

“Favors from both of you.”

“Shoot,” Mikey answers.

More than an hour, I spent in the emergency department – as the self-important woman at the front desk so graciously pointed out – waiting room. Time enough to talk to Bristol Lynch, followed in order by Duke Larson.

And then Blaze.

Three radically different conversations, each one getting a little further removed from what went down backstage. People with assorted viewpoints and clearance levels, what I chose to share tailored to each one.

Discussions that all managed to pique the growing irritation I was feeling, leaving me wanting nothing more than to step away and clear my head. Find something to eat.

Mull over what the hell had happened.

What it all meant moving forward.

A needed break that was granted fifty minutes after arriving by the performing surgeon stepping out to inform us that while Rumer Ripley was through surgery, she was heavily sedated and would remain that way until at least morning.

We were all free to stay, but that the emergency department waiting room was as far as we were going for at least the next eight hours.

Probably longer.

Armed with that information, Lynch was still adamant about remaining in place as long as possible. Blaming herself for the way it all went down – not just tonight, but for the last few days - she insisted on being there when the young woman woke up.

No matter when it might be.

A pointed stand, steeped in the belief that she should have done something more. Somehow intervened, or maybe even stepped in to take the knife on behalf of Ripley.

Actions that we both knew wouldn’t have changed a damn thing – aside from maybe getting her killed – but that I didn’t try to push back on. If spending the night in a rigid chair was some form of atonement, so be it.

If it helped ease whatever guilt or grief she was carrying, even better.

Long ago I learned people can’t be told how to deal with the aftermath of a fight.

Especially when it’s their first time.

Acceptance that I wasn’t nearly so accommodating about when Blaze offered to stay with her.

Now that she knew exactly what was going on, it only took me pointing out that the waiting room was the worst possible spot she could be. A public place with a crowd that was always changing, many of which were already casting her sideways glances.

Looks ranging from curiosity to recognition, making her an easy target if the man with the dark hair or any other associates might make another run at them.

Reasoning she eventually caved to, no matter how much she clearly didn’t like it.

Leaving the keys to the vehicle they took to the hospital with Lynch, together she and Larson both piled in with me to head back to the hotel. A short trip, made a touch longer by a quick stop at a Whataburger drive-through for a couple of sacks of burgers to go.

A bit longer still for me as I swung by the front desk to get a tube of super glue.

Makeshift surgical adhesive, finally closing the wound on my left forearm. A lucky shot made more out of reflex than intention, just happening to slice sideways across the skin.

A horizontal bar, bisecting the vertical scar I picked up in Portland just six months ago.

What will one day be a cross of furrowed flesh, forever there to remind me about this whole shitty night.

“Frost, can you look into a girl named Rumer Ripley?” I begin.

“That’s the girl who got stabbed?” she asks.

“It is,” I reply, spelling out the first name. “Should be pretty easy. She’s just a kid working her first real job, but I want to make sure there isn’t something glaring I might be missing.”

Stopping there, I don’t bother pointing out the various things that have passed through my mind in the last hour.

Money woes. Family troubles.

A list of stuff I know I don’t need to voice, trusting that Frost will uncover whatever there is.

In the immediate wake of the attack, I thought Ripley was nothing more than a target of convenience. A pleasant young woman who made for easy prey, creating enough chaos that the bastard with dark hair could slip away unnoticed.

A point of view that remained even after the talk with Bertrand Davis and the visit by his room, seeing all of the faux correspondence between him and the CEO of Blaze’s record company.

Disparate details that didn’t start to come together until Bristol shared how the attacker went right after Ripley.

Who Nik Doherty is.

Where Sunburst Records is located, which just so happens to be the same city Francisco Ruiz resided in before his untimely demise.

The ongoing fact that nobody on tour has had any idea about the prior warning that the note was alluding to.

Connections arriving thick and fast, together becoming way too much to ignore.

Especially given the damned Amazon Prime driver had already consumed my allotment of random flukes for the week.

“What do you need from me?” Mikey asks, pulling me back to my original question.

“I need to head east tomorrow,” I reply, “and I can’t leave Blaze here with just the guy with a puppy dog crush.”

“Right,” Mikey says, grasping exactly what I’m alluding to. “I know just the people. Can be on the first plane out in the morning.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Esai Garcia is already on the road when the sun crests over the eastern horizon. Starting as a slow smudge fifteen minutes before seven, it slowly lightens the morning sky before bursting into view in front of him.

An orange spotlight piercing the semi-darkness, strong enough to force him to lower the visor above the steering wheel and grab up a pair of sunglasses from the dash. Movements that both tug at the wound stretched across his ribcage.

A slice that wasn’t as deep as he originally suspected once he got back to the room and took a closer look, but was much longer. More than four inches in total, likely needing twenty or more stitches to close.

Medical attention that he knew better than to seek out, doctors and nurses having an annoying habit of asking questions.

And an even more annoying habit of alerting law enforcement when the answers aren’t exactly what they want to hear.

Opting instead to swing by a twenty-four-hour pharmacy on the way out of town, a handful of Steri-Strips are currently holding it together. A quick fix that will likely cause the healing process to take longer than usual, but should keep the damned thing from leaking until he can finish what he needs to.

Get his ass back to Miami, where the family doc can close it up.

One more scar added to a growing collection, this one serving as a lifelong reminder of what took place the night before. Why he currently has plenty of space in the front of the cab, without Luis and especially Francisco wedged in beside him.

Two friends who he gave seven hours to make their way back to the Red Roof Inn before deciding to bail. A full six more than he knew was necessary, suspecting shortly after making it into his room last night that if they didn’t show within an hour, they weren’t going to.

Not because they were caught and hauled off to jail.

Because they were dead.

Their own encounters with the same woman he tangled with, both ending in a much different manner. A battle he would have loved nothing more than to go back and assist in, finishing what was started just a few moments before.

What would this time be a three-on-one melee, letting him slowly and methodically pick her apart. Take the cut that was already ripped into her left arm and add matching ones to her opposite arm.

Both of her legs.

Even a couple of slashes to her ribs, stretched even longer than the one currently creasing his left side.

A delicious outcome that he had originally intended to put off just long enough to finish what they were actually after. A quick strike at the corner of the stage where the band manager and his target were both standing.

Two ladies frozen in place, their fear rooting them to the floor, making for easy prey.

Momentary paralysis that others in the area didn’t seem to share. Drawn to the battle playing out a short distance away, their presence forced Esai to fall back after stabbing the young woman from the record company.

The start of a retreat still ongoing, each successive moment causing the animosity he carries to spiral upward. Hatred peaking each time he glances at the passenger seat beside him.

Draws in a deep breath, feeling a sharp jab at the tender flesh along his ribcage.

Like so many things in the last week – and the months before that – nothing that happened the night before was necessary. A gross overreaction, trying to make a statement in a time and place where it would have the most effect.

Singular focus meant to maximize the impact on a lone individual, rather than using that man and his company as an example for the greater community.

A refusal to lose even a dollar on one bad investment, instead of focusing on how to best profit from everything else moving forward.

One time after another, such notions return to Esai’s mind. Keystone ideas that he examines from every angle, coming up with precious few answers to any of them.

Even less, why his friends had to be sacrificed in pursuit of them.

Thoughts scrutinized for more than half of his journey east, watching the sun become a full orb on the horizon.

Climb a few inches into the sky.

Nature’s hourglass positioned directly in front of him, eventually nudging his mind on toward the more pressing matters for the day ahead.

A full list, including getting on to Dallas. Swapping the truck he is sitting in for something new.

How he will get into the stadium undetected the next night.

The best way to move invisibly once he does, no longer having Bertrand Davis to use as a distraction.

Background fodder, all interspersed between the much more important matter of what he will do to the woman with the Mohawk the next time he sees her.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

Bristol Lynch wouldn’t necessarily say that she slept. It was more like she passed out.

Her body’s involuntary reaction to the massive dump of adrenaline that hit her system after watching Ham and the fake security guards battle backstage. A shock in and of itself, taken infinitely further by the unexpected attack on Rumer Ripley and the ride to the hospital in the back of an ambulance and all the rest.

A night front-ended with extreme action, followed by being forced motionless as she sat in the emergency department waiting room. A space that somehow seemed to grow more crowded as the night wore on, various parties coming and going.

First her cousin and Duke Larson and Ham. People seeking information and wanting to check in on Rumer, before eventually they headed back to the hotel for the night.

A departure sometime in the hours after midnight, followed by waves of folks looking to utilize the hospital’s services. A full range, including people just like those they encountered at the honky-tonk in Albuquerque, arriving with similar injuries.

Harried parents bringing in sick children.

Even a few stoners showing up with what looked like chemical burns on their hands and necks.

A motley crew of characters who seemed to roll in each time she was on the verge of succumbing to slumber, eventually earning her the sympathy of the charge nurse overseeing the front desk. A woman who looked to need a nap almost as badly as Bristol, who told her she could sit by Rumer’s side if she promised not to wake her.

Not a word of encouragement or an accepted phone call.

Not even a squeeze of her hand.

Terms that Bristol accepted without question, spending the next hour or so perched on the edge of the padded seat, praying to every deity she could think of that the young girl would be okay.

That it wasn’t all her own fault for allowing Harley Lewis to talk her into calling Ham instead of the police a few nights earlier.

Self-flagellation that continued well into the wee hours before ultimately, mercifully, her faculties gave way. A sudden fall into darkness that was much more pronounced than the night before, tilting her back in her seat.

A state bordering on comatose, where she remained until the dayshift nurse arrived just minutes after seven to check on her patient.

A drive-by visit that only lasted a couple of minutes – just long enough to check the various monitors and machines, ensuring that Rumer hadn’t yet been awake – but was more than enough to put Bristol’s mind back into motion. A sudden return of every question she’d been contemplating throughout the night.

An additional twenty or thirty more that her subconscious had managed to conjure in the time since.

A total mass meaning there was no way that she could return to sleep, leaving her to do the next best thing and go in search of caffeine. Liquid energy that she took down in deep gulps, finishing one cup and working on her second while sitting tucked in the back corner of the basement cafeteria.

Enrobed in the hooded sweatshirt Blaze had given her, whatever lingering smears of blood that survived the night had been washed away. Her hair was pulled back and tied into a ponytail at the base of her skull.

An attempt at pulling herself together, not in any hope of making her presentable, but invisible.

Efforts that it seems must have worked, as not one person to come through since she sat down has so much as glanced at her sitting alone by the windows. Staff and visitors all in search of breakfast or coffee like herself, seeing and dismissing her silhouetted against the bright morning light outside.

An ideal means for her to sit with her cellphone out in front of her, counting minutes until the start of the business day on the east coast.

A pointed vigil, snapping up the device the instant the hour changes from eight to nine.

The number already punched in, she hits send, pressing the phone tight to her cheek. Bright red fingernails tapping against the tabletop, she counts off the number of ringtones, already bracing herself for the line to be sent to voicemail.

No less than her tenth such time since her conversation with Ham the night before, each previous attempt to reach Nik Doherty’s cellphone being routed straight to his inbox.

Virtual screening or his device being turned off, now forcing her to try the office line.

A generalized point of contact to let him know what happened and, hopefully, figure out a way to get in touch with Ripley’s family.

A last-ditch effort that, to her surprise, is snatched up after the fourth ring, a perky young voice answering, “Good morning, Sunburst Records.”

“Uh, Nik Doherty, please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Tell him it’s Bristol Lynch, it’s very urgent, and yes, I will hold for as long as it takes.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

As long as I’ve known Mikey – and in all of the various iterations – I’ve never seen him make a casual error. A slight miscalculation in planning or a random slip-up when speaking.

Last night when he said he knew just the people to help protect Blaze, I knew it wasn’t by mistake. Getting on that plane this morning would be at least two individuals headed to Lubbock to take my place.

Who they were, I didn’t care.

If they fit with the original request for a woman who could blend in seamlessly on the road, I also didn’t give a damn. Not in that moment, with a thousand other more pressing matters circling through my head.

To be honest, I haven’t much thought about it since either.

A simple statement that was heard, registered, and dismissed, right up until the moment I pull up to the curb outside of baggage claim at the Preston Smith International Airport. A place that at a glance looks older and smaller than the stadium I spent most of yesterday in, but is still well ahead of the sunport in New Mexico.

Standard fare that I glance over as I ease to a stop, shooting the guard in an orange vest on the curb a glare through the windshield.

A silent warning, making sure he knows better than to try and hurry me along.

In no way do I want to be here this morning, but I’ll be damned if he shuffles me off before I have what I’ve come to retrieve.

Last night after speaking with Mikey, my brain told me that I needed to shower and attempt to bed down for the night. Clean myself and my wound from the sweat and grime of the day, before banking rest that I would soon need.

Replenishment to be paired with another trip by the continental breakfast in the hotel lobby this morning. Food and coffee, helping me to return to a baseline state.

Status quo, preparing me for what I only had a rough outline on for the days ahead.

A plan for an ideal situation that my body rejected outright, much too amped from the night’s events and the hundreds of questions swirling through my mind to even consider slowing down.

Starting by making laps around the bed in my room, within minutes I gave up on that as well. Lacing up the same running shoes I wore with Blaze early that morning, I spent the better part of an hour working my way through the hotel hallways.

A serpentine pattern, starting on the top floor and slowly making my way down.

Constant movement over the patterned carpet on the floors, with only brief stops to speak with Duke Larson and Harley Lewis. Guys who seemed to be having some variation of the same response as myself, the former pacing between his room and Blaze’s, while Lewis was posted up on a threadbare sofa in the hotel lobby.

A paper cup that smelled more like whiskey than the coffee he claimed it was in hand, he was staring blankly out at the parking lot, his features seeming to have aged a decade since the last time I saw him backstage.

His own form of what Bristol Lynch was going through at the hospital, beating himself up over how things played out. No doubt, trying to figure out what he could have done differently.

Both in that moment, and going back days before.

Questions I left him to after just a few short minutes, confirming that he had neither seen nor heard anything unusual in the time he’d been sitting there.

Not that I put a great deal of stock in his response, his glazed countenance likely to have barely noticed a meteor strike right in front him.

Heading outside after, I spent another thirty minutes making loops around the hotel itself. Repeated passes along the road out front and through the parking lot behind, scrutinizing every vehicle I saw.

A constant scan that turned up nothing, putting me back in my room just in time to grab a couple of hours of fitful sleep. Rest grabbed from atop the covers and in full clothing, the Browning HI-Power and the recovered A5 SPRY both resting on the comforter beside me.

Suspended animation, my active mind resting just under the surface until the first stray beams of morning sun passed through the windows.

Nature’s alarm clock, restarting what I was doing just hours before. Nonstop activity of both my mind and body, this time including checking in with Mikey and Frost. Swinging down through the lobby for some protein and caffeine.

Packing my bag for my upcoming trip.

Busywork meant only to kill time until finding myself where I now sit. Using the mirrors, I scan the thin crowd of people exiting the sliding doors equally spaced the length of the curb.

My turn to be Bristol Lynch from a couple of days ago, sitting and waiting for help from afar.

A momentary chauffeur, only without standing right outside, staring intently at my phone.

Scrutiny I instead use to study each of the possible candidates making their way out. More of the usual fare matching those I arrived with a couple of days ago, making it obvious when the pair I am here to pick up eventually step outside.

Two young women who look to be twins moving in lockstep, drawing just as many stares as Blaze in the emergency department last night.

A sight that can’t help but make me smirk when I first see them, calling back to mind Mikey’s line about them fitting right in.

A statement applying reasonably well to standing on a concert stage, but sure as hell not a west Texas airport on a weekday morning.

Contemplating hitting the horn a single time to get their attention, I instead opt for sliding out from behind the wheel. Stepping into the heated air that smells mildly of gas and charred rubber, I lift my chin in greeting, meeting them on the curb by the rear bumper a moment later.

“You must be Ham,” the closer of the two says. Words with a slight inflection, to match the half smile on her counterpart’s face.

Features that look like they were sculpted of pure porcelain, framed by jet black hair hanging in a glossy curtain around the thin straps of their cropped tank tops.

Lifesize anime characters, both standing a couple of inches taller than myself.

“Mai Sasaki,” she adds, extending a fist before her. Waiting for me to meet her knuckles, she uses the same hand to motion to the woman by her side. “My sister Emi.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Emi says, her fist touching mine as well. “Thanks for the call.”

“Thanks for coming,” I reply. “Both of you. I know it was short notice.”

“No worries,” Emi says, waving a hand tipped with black fingernails between us. “That’s the job.”

“Speaking of which,” Mai adds. “What are we looking at here?”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

It was pretty clear that when Harley Lewis and Bristol Lynch first asked if there was anywhere private that the lot of us could go for an hour or so, that the reflexive reaction of the nurse they asked was a hard no. Coming onto shift no more than a couple of hours before, she had been gifted a packed house and was running around like mad, barking orders and issuing instructions.

A woman not quite as frazzled as us, but not far behind.

Trained to deny such requests, to tell us to seek out a corner of a waiting room or the parking lot, her response made it as far as seeing Blaze standing on the edge of the group.

Needing barely a double take to register exactly who was asking, she told us to give her five minutes to see what she could come up with.

Four minutes after that, we were all inside the small conference room where we now sit. A space that looks like it is meant for small consultations between patients and physicians, or for families much smaller than our group to sit and wait.

A square no larger than ten feet on either end, with a round table in the center. Four chairs surround it in even intervals, three of which are occupied by Blaze, Lynch, and Lewis.

The last remains empty, Duke Larson visibly uncomfortable at the idea of sitting while myself and the twins remain on our feet.

“Any word on Ripley?” I ask. The first to speak, breaking the silence and sparking a couple of sideways glances around the table.

Quick looks to see who would respond before Lynch answers, “Her nurse came by a little bit ago and said her vitals were getting better. Her doctor is supposed to come by mid-morning, once he’s out of surgery.”

Grunting softly, I reply, “She wake at all?”

“No,” Lynch replies, the tips of her hair dragging across the shoulders of a fresh t-shirt. A top to match the leggings she is wearing, brought over from the hotel by Blaze. “They’re keeping her pretty sedated for now.”

Grunting softly, I can’t help but recall the information Frost and Mikey shared about what happened to Walt Billingsley in Phoenix a couple of nights ago. The direct strike above his floating rib, perforating his lung, causing him to essentially drown in his own blood.

A heinous ending that Ripley was lucky to avoid.

If that’s even what happened, the girl not supposed to be killed, but to be made an example of.

“Okay,” I say, assuming the role of running the impromptu gathering for the next few minutes. A choice made as much for expediency as anything else, needing to get things going so I can head my ass to the airport soon.

Another long day, this one of a very different variety than those before.

“Let’s get right to it, then.”

Twisting my shoulders a few inches to the side, I nod to the ladies standing along the wall adjacent to mine.

“The person I’m referring to is Rumer Ripley. She is a tour liaison with the record company, and was the one who was attacked last night.”

In unison, they both nod, though neither says a word.

Movements that cause the bun piled high atop Mai’s head and the matching ponytail above Emi’s to visibly shift. New hairstyles to match the long sleeves they have both put on.

Looks that still don’t quite blend in, but are much closer than what they stepped off the plane with.

“Gathered here,” I continue, extending a finger before me, “we have Blaze, her band manager Bristol Lynch, tour manager Harley Lewis.”

Lifting my aim to Larson leaning against the last wall in the room without a door on it, I finish, “And Duke Larson, security.”

Again, they both nod, their dark eyes flicking from the table to me and back.

“Everyone, this is Emi and Mai Sasaki. They flew in at my request this morning, and will be filling my role for the next few days.”

Pausing just long enough for those seated to offer murmured hellos, I consider adding that they were also sent here by Mikey. That they are very good at what they do.

A bunch of puffery that they don’t need, nor should those around the table.

They all saw what happened last night.

And are now hearing that I vouch for their safety with the twins moving forward.

“I know you guys have a couple days before the show in Dallas, so I’ll step aside, let you all hash out how you want to spend it.”

Again, there are a couple of nods. A few muted words, not loud enough to be heard.

More signs of awkwardness and nerves, ending with Blaze raising her gaze to ask, “Where are you going?”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

“I know you guys dropped everything and flew all this way...” I begin. The start of what will be half explanation and half apology that Mai waves off, fluttering her painted nails between us.

Red, as compared to her sister’s black.

“We get it,” she replies.

The start of an answer that Emi finishes, adding, “When it comes to protection details, boring is better.”

“Exactly,” I reply.

The rest, I don’t bother verbalizing. Things that I’m sure they already know, such as the fact that two of the three men who came after Blaze last night are already dead.

If the third one was going to make a move, he likely would have last night at the hotel, or even outside in the hospital parking lot. He would have tried to take advantage of everybody scrambling, hoping to catch them before they could bring in reinforcements.

An ambush, in line with the attack on Walt Billingsley a few nights ago.

Beyond that, I also can’t imagine there will be another idiot like at the bar the other night. Some rube with too much alcohol in his system lashing against some perceived slight or hoping to get close to a big star.

Still, I can’t promise that none of that will happen.

Wouldn’t want to anyway, it far better for their guard to be up, rather than lulling them into a false sense of security.

Sliding along the side of the midsize SUV parked in the fourth row outside of the University Health Sciences Center, I pull open the rear passenger door. Reaching inside, I slide open the zipper on the same duffel bag I first brought down from Bozeman just a couple of days ago.

The first point of transit in a trip already encompassing far more than I ever imagined.

And about to loop in a whole lot more.

Reaching inside the bag, I extract the Browning HI-Power wrapped in a plain white hand towel. Camouflage swiped from the rack by the sink in my room that I keep wrapped tight around the barrel, pinching it shut with my thumb and forefinger.

“Browning,” I say, passing it across to Emi. “Full mag, suppressor on the barrel.”

Accepting the offering in silence, she tucks it down into the shoulder bag hanging by her side.

No facial reaction at all as she does so.

Not a single glance in either direction that might show up on a parking lot camera feed or catch the eye of someone passing by.

Lifting my left foot from the ground, I balance the ball of it on the bottom of the doorframe. Tugging up the leg of my jeans just a couple of inches, I pull apart the Velcro straps that have been wrapped around my ankle for the last couple of days.

Winding them around the holster with the Glock 43 stowed inside, I pass it across to Mai.

Like her sister, she takes it in silence, tucking it away within an instant of receiving it.

An exchange of what limited firepower I have, ending with me sliding the A5 SPRY from my back pocket. Palming it so only the bottom tip is visible, I offer it as well.

“I know you ladies are set on ceramics,” I say, referencing the blades they were able to get through security on their way here, “but this one’s pretty good. And I can’t take it with me anyway.”

Pausing just until Mai reaches for it as well, I add, “You both have my number. I know you’ve got this, but if things go sideways, or that guy shows his face again...”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Emi says, extending her fist.

A farewell that I match before meeting her sister’s in turn.

“You’ve got ours if shit gets crazy in Miami,” Mai says. Adding a small smile, she adds, “Been a while since we hit South Beach.”

Matching the smile, I take a step back. “I bet they love you over there.”

“They love us everywhere.”

Having no doubt about that, I end the exchange by tossing the keys to Emi. An offering she snatches out of the air, both of them staying with the vehicle as I turn toward Blaze standing a couple of stalls away.

Her hair back up under the black bandana from Riley’s, her arms are folded over her torso, despite the heat pushing well up into the eighties.

A defensive posture tight enough to roll her shoulders a couple of inches forward, maintained even as she takes a couple of steps, closing the gap between us.

Slow movements to match her stricken expression, both a far cry from the young woman I went running with just yesterday.

“I just want to say-” she begins. The start of an apology, or telling me to be careful, or some such other thing that I don’t want to hear.

For many reasons, most of all being that they aren’t hers to share.

She did nothing wrong, and she owes me nothing.

“This isn’t your fault,” I insert. Staring right at her, I make sure she heard me before adding, “Something’s going on here. I’m going to figure out what, and then I’m going to make it right.”

It is obvious there is more she wants to say. A continuation of whatever I cut off a moment ago, or something close to it.

Kindness or concern she doesn’t voice, instead taking another step forward. Unwrapping her arms from around herself, she wraps them around my shoulders.

“Just, make sure nothing like that in there happens to you too, huh?”

Lifting my hands from my sides, I pat her once on the back.

“It won’t,” I reply. Releasing the embrace, I take a step back and add, “You remember the other night, in the bus, when you were telling me about how the whole world comes alive when you’re up on that stage?”

Pausing just until I receive a nod in reply, I finish, “Well, this is my stage.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

Manuel Garcia’s mother always said that morning was her favorite time of the day. That first hour or two, when most of the world was either still in bed or getting a slow start. Dew still rested on everything, reflecting the first rays of dawn.

Making the world look all shiny and new.

An approach that Manuel always thought was her way of trying to put a positive spin on their situation. A way of making sure that her son didn’t only see the negatives of growing up in Guatemala.

Forced optimism that he cast aside long ago in the name of realism.

Never once, no matter how hard she tried, was Manuel unaware of the hellhole where he was raised. Just like now he doesn’t care how much water vapor might cover things in the morning, he still sees the shit that rests beneath it.

A veneer that he prefers to watch burn off, taking with it any false pretenses. False hopes.

Wishful thinking.

For Manuel, his favorite time has always been the early afternoon. Those first few hours after lunch, when everything is clear. The sun is at its highest. Quitting time is still a long way off.

Those moments when people have just eaten and are most alert, so that they can best see him coming.

They know exactly what their fate is.

And that there isn’t a damned thing any of them can do to stop it.

“Just like last time, Mr. Garcia?” Jesus asks. Having swapped out the dark sport coat from a couple of days before, today he is dressed in light gray.

A simple exchange, shifting his entire look.

A final stab at using optics, after which Manuel will be forced to call in help of a much different nature.

“Just like last time,” Manuel confirms, the heels of his dress shoes clicking against the concrete walk. Small taps that are just audible over the sound of birds nested in the trees on the front lawn of Sunburst Records.

The faint call of music playing from the camouflaged speakers hidden throughout the landscaping.

Bright flowers in full bloom that he has no doubt the air is redolent with, even if he cannot smell a thing over the cigar folded between the fingers of his right hand. One chosen especially for moments like this, hand rolled with double the usual amount of tobacco.

A potent load, causing the tendril of pale smoke rising from the tip to swirl up and over him.

An aroma he intends to bless their destination with, any restraint that was present on their last trip long since passed.

Raising it to his lips, he watches as Jesus increases his pace just slightly. A couple of jogging steps that Manuel uses as a signal, drawing in several deep puffs.

Intakes of oxygen causing the tip to glow bright red, filling his lungs with its acrid taste.

A slow burn that he holds for several seconds, waiting until he is over the threshold and back on the dark marble foyer of the building before expelling it before him. Swinging his chin from left to right, he pushes it out in a plume, engulfing the main entrance in a cloud.

A thick haze that he allows to linger, hanging in the air for several seconds, before stepping through.

A purposeful entrance that has done its job, pulling the young woman up from her seat behind the desk. The forced smile from previous visits long gone, she stares at him with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says, speaking before Manuel has said a word. “But Mr. Doherty is out today.”

Noting her choice of words, Manuel simply nods. Raising the cigar once more, he takes another extended drag, pushing it straight out before him.

Vapor aimed directly at the young woman, engulfing her workstation before turning on a heel. Exiting back through the same door held wide by Jesus, he makes it barely to the top step before pulling his cellphone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

By the time he reaches the ground, it is pressed to his cheek, ringtone sounding out in his ear.

“Yeah?” Esai answers. A single clipped word, hinting that he is with others and cannot speak freely.

“Where are you?” Manuel asks, striding directly to the end of the walkway and making a right onto the sidewalk running the length of the building.

“Dallas,” Esai replies. “About to swap the truck.”

Cigar still tucked between the index and middle finger of his opposite hand, Manuel swings it out to the side, nearly clipping Jesus keeping pace a step behind him.

“Forget the truck and get on a plane,” Manuel says. “I need you here.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Three quick taps in order, each with a metallic ring to it. The faint contact of metal and wood, as if the knocking is being done with the tip of a key.

An implement much like the one on the cheap keychain that Bertrand Davis was handed when he checked in well after two a.m. the night before. An arrival so late he almost argued that he should be given the room for free, counting it as a very early check-in for the night ahead.

Logic that he knew the cross-eyed young woman behind the counter would not understand – nor, likely, the language it was spoken in – and he didn’t have the energy to fight over.

Not after the couple of nights he’d had.

“Housekeeping!” a heavily accented voice to match the overnight clerk calls.

“No!” Bertrand replies from his place sprawled out across the top of the bed. A spot he has been in since arriving some hours earlier, bothering only to remove his shoes before flopping straight back onto the rock-hard mattress.

An unceremonious landing that he was pretty sure kicked up a plume of dust around him, though he couldn’t bring himself to care. Nowhere near sufficient to stave off slumber, his eyes drifted shut without him brushing his teeth.

Taking a shower.

Taping up a single photo to the wall above the dresser.

“You need towels?”

“I need sleep!” Bertrand snaps back, lifting his head from the lumpy sandbag doubling as a pillow. “Go away!”

His chin pinned to his chest, he remains in the same position for several moments. Head cocked an inch to the side, he listens as the woman mutters in her native tongue.

No doubt some sort of profanity-laced incantation, swallowed up in the next instant by the moan of the wheels on her cart.

Her clunky shoes scrape across concrete as she moves on to the next room in order. Some other poor bastard about to have their morning ruined.

His third sour encounter in as many days.

Three motels in three cities, all seeming to hire from the same staffing agency. A place where speaking English or following simple instructions are not only non-requirements, but seemed to be frowned upon.

Albuquerque, Lubbock, and now Wichita Falls, a site nowhere near the No Limits tour, chosen completely at random in the middle of the night. A place picked for nothing but signage along the road and the weariness fast creeping up in the wee hours of the morning, promising a place for him to get off the road.

Grab a bit of rest.

Some coffee and food in the morning.

A spot where he could regroup after the events of the night. Try to make sense of everything moving forward.

What exactly happened after his brief conversation with the Mohawked woman who twice assaulted him during a concert, Bertrand still has not a clue. After she burst into the small supply closet hours removed from locking him in there and stole the key to his motel room, she disappeared, never to be seen again.

Half an hour later, the same grizzled janitor who spent most of the night chuckling at his misfortune opened the door.

Thanked him for the three hundred bucks.

Told him he could head on back to his room, the rest of his things would be waiting there.

Words that were proven true an additional half an hour after that as Bertrand returned to the battered old motel to find the door unlocked, the key and his phone both resting on the dresser. Items that looked like they had never been touched, along with the rest of his things, the lone exception being the stack of papers stacked neatly beside his laptop.

Printouts of various emails and itineraries between himself and Nik Doherty, proving exactly what he told her. Evidence clearing his name, after which she had vanished.

A presence there and gone, hopefully never to be seen again.

Not that it mattered in the slightest.

Just knowing that she had been there, that he had spent the entire night locked in a closet because of her, was enough for Bertrand. Grabbing his stuff and throwing it together even faster than the night before, he was back out the door just a few minutes after arriving.

A couple more after that, he was on the freeway headed east, some snacks from the filling station where he stopped on the way out of town on the passenger seat by his side. Candy and chips that he added to the pure frustration roiling through him, using the potent combination as fuel.

Energy to push much later than he would have otherwise, getting not just away from Lubbock, but from the path he knew the tour would be taking.

A move to the north, made with every intention of abandoning things altogether. Simply heading home to Oklahoma City, putting the remainder of the tickets up for sale, and trying to cobble his old life back together.

A plan that made it the better part of a hundred miles before the initial surge of protein and sugar started to wane. A dip in energy, at which point he made the decision to pull off for the night.

Maybe even another.

As long as was necessary to consider how he should handle things moving forward.

And most of all, how Blaze would want him to handle them, despite all that had happened.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

There is no direct flight from Lubbock to Miami.

What there is has worked out even better for me.

Starting not far from the spot where I picked up Emi and Mai Sasaki earlier, my trip began with a short hop down to Houston. A flight of barely ninety minutes, followed by an equal stretch of time during which I didn’t even have to deplane.

A short layover before connecting on to Miami, giving me six uninterrupted hours stretched out in the back of the plane. Time enough to make up for the night’s sleep that I lost last night. Slumber that my body was much more receptive to after the events of the morning, knowing that Blaze and the others were being looked after.

And, more importantly, that I had some idea of where I was headed next.

A means of flipping the script, going from playing catch up to trying to get out in front.

Predator, rather than prey.

Adding the loss of an hour from jumping time zones, my plane touched down in Florida fifteen minutes shy of four o’clock. Late afternoon, affording me just a small window of time before the close of business.

An even smaller one before traffic starts to thicken up.

Considerations that both pass through my mind as I speed-walk my way through the Miami International Airport, resisting the urge to move into an open jog. A heightened pace that will not only earn me the ire of more than a few of the bleary-eyed travelers zombie shuffling their way to the exits, but will likely also get me noticed by the hundreds of cameras staring down from on high.

Attention I cannot afford, which is the same reason why my hair is down despite the heat I know is waiting outside. Covering my shaved scalp on either side, it frames the pair of cheap sunglasses over my eyes.

Same for the long-sleeve t-shirt I am wearing, using it to mask the bandage wrapped around the wound glued together on my left arm.

The tanned skin and musculature that might also draw a few unwanted stares.

A look lending itself more to a local returning after some time away, rather than someone showing up for the first time. Tourists in garish Aloha shirts and flip flops, their pasty skin soon to be baked to match the red carpet on the floors.

Moving slow and talking much too loud, none of them so much as glance my way as I weave past them, making it all the way to the exit just seven minutes after stepping off the plane.

Another ten beyond that, I find myself in the short-term parking tower just south of the terminal. A vertical concrete structure sheltered from the sun of South Florida, but still susceptible to the brutal humidity.

My third distinct weather zone in as many days, trading the chill of Montana and the dry heat of the desert for the tropical Hell that is wrapped around me like a wet towel.

Moisture content sufficient to fog the lenses of my glasses.

Cause heavy droplets of sweat to line my brow.

Annoyances that I am forced to endure until I find what I am looking for and am on my way, each adding to the budding sense of urgency and anticipation already working through me. The same feelings I felt while crouched along the driveway back home a few nights ago, staring at the Amazon Prime driver, silently willing him to do something stupid.

My baseline state, now aimed at the man with dark hair and whoever sent him.

Phone palmed by my side, I flash the screen upward every few seconds, checking the message Mikey sent while I was in the air. A simple line of text, containing only three numbers.

A trio of two-digit signifiers, each corresponding to a floor, row, and stall number inside the garage.

Coded coordinates, ending with a nondescript midsize Ford SUV. A vehicle with a few years on the tires, the black paint bearing a handful of scratches and nicks.

On the front windshield are a pair of small chips, caused by projectiles flung by passing vehicles.

A sticker hailing the Miami Dolphins clings to the rear bumper. A small pine tree air freshener hangs from the rearview mirror.

All of the necessary items making it completely invisible. One of a hundred just like it inside the garage.

A thousand or more on the roads just outside.

Perfect cover that I can’t help but appreciate as I drop my bag on the ground by the rear bumper. Sliding along the side, I pull open the flap on the gas tank just long enough to grab the key fob that has been stowed there.

Keyless ignition inlaid with a trio of buttons, good for locking, unlocking, and opening the hatch.

Options I consider for only an instant before hitting the middle one. Hearing an audible click, I raise the rear hatch, my gaze landing on the pair of black duffel bags already waiting for me.

A matching set that I place my own much smaller bag down next to, using both hands to peel back their zippers.

A quick peek inside, confirming that the full list of supplies has already been acquired, saving me the time of making a trip out to whoever is Miami’s version of Baker.

And even more, sparing me the feeling of nakedness I had when I first showed up in Albuquerque.

“Thank you, Mikey.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

The hour I had when I first got to the short-term lot of the Miami International Airport is already down to fifteen minutes. The first five were used seeking out the SUV Mikey arranged for me and inspecting the goods loaded into the back. Five more to get out of the sprawling monstrosity that is the greater airport complex. A tangle of roadways and roundabouts, all liberally sprinkled with stop signs and overhead lights.

Enough damn pauses that never did the speedometer get up above fifteen miles an hour before I was forced to hit the brakes and start over.

A pattern that was enough on its own to piss me off, even without the sense of urgency that had been budding since the moment I landed in Florida. Growing anticipation that only got worse as it took more than a half hour to navigate the six miles from the airport to Sunburst Records.

A slog on what could generously be called a freeway, the damned thing resembling more of a parking lot.

The end-of-work crowd all fighting to get an early jump, effectively snarling things to little more than a crawl. Time spent inching along as I alternated my gaze between the clock and the front windshield, already missing the open roads of the west.

Massive sprawling spaces that were largely untouched, as opposed to the dense block of urbanity tucked up tight against the ocean.

Several million people wedged into an area that was meant to hold a fraction of that, causing my frustration to spike as I chewed through my remaining time. Slow movement claiming the lion’s share of what I had left before now finally depositing me on the fringes of Coral Gables.

Standing on the edge of a parking lot with more than a few stalls already empty from employees having fled early, before me is a brick building rising a single story in height.

A lack of vertical space that is made up for by expansion in both directions, stretching more than a hundred yards in length.

Distance that is extended out from where I am standing on the northern end, framed on the front by the street I just took to get here. Two lanes moving in either direction, separated by a median filled with a row of towering palm trees.

Sweeping fronds that dot the sidewalk with oversized splotches of shade, but can’t do a damned thing about the humidity.

Damp heat that has finally caused me to abandon the disguise I arrived with, my bare arms flashing under the afternoon glare. Sweat still lines my brow, despite my hair being swept back up behind my head.

What I tell myself are simply minor inconveniences, the record company as good a place as any to start.

A business found in the same city Francisco Ruiz was from, connecting Blaze and Rumer Ripley and even Bertrand Davis with a man named Nik Doherty.

Someone who may or may not have been given a warning days before the incident in Phoenix by someone whose name starts with the letter G.

And – according to Bristol Lynch – may already be on the run.

Taking off at the same pace I used in the airport terminal earlier, I make my way along the front of the building. Moving in and out of the offered bits of shade, I cast my gaze sideways, surveying the structure as it passes on my left.

A basic design that could be anything from a fire station to a schoolhouse, the only thing to really give away what happens inside being the posters covering most of the windows.

Album covers from bands I’ve never heard of.

Solo artists and clusters of young people all trying way too hard to be cool.

Fit some sort of image.

Designs even worse than the shirt Bristol Lynch gave to me in Albuquerque, culminating with a pair of matching images of the young woman I first met in the corner booth of Riley’s a couple of nights ago. A simple design of Blaze sitting sideways, the base of a guitar resting vertically across her thighs.

Head leaning inward so it touches the neck of the instrument, it is all done in black and white, the lone exception being her bright locks.

Flaming red and orange that practically jump off the poster, serving as twin greeters for the establishment.

Far and away the best damn thing I’ve seen all week, reaffirming why nobody thought to push back when Bristol Lynch first told them I was there to help with merchandising.

Hopping up the handful of steps leading to the front door, I step inside onto a foyer of black marble. A dark color scheme providing the base, offset by the bare brick framing the entryway and the desk sitting a dozen feet back from the door.

A piece outlined with gold plating, matching the lettering above another print of Blaze on the wall behind it.

A sleek, elegant motif, making the smell of cigar smoke in the air all the more noticeable.

“Good afternoon,” a young woman not much older than Ripley says from behind the desk. Wearing a polka dot dress, her blonde curls are pulled up into a loose tangle behind her head.

Crimson lips outline blinding white teeth.

Already on her feet, it looks like she is making plans to join her departed colleagues as she stuffs items into the bag resting on her chair. “May I help you?”

“Nik Doherty, please.”

Smile dimming just slightly, she replies, “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it’s urgent.”

“I’m very sorry, but Mr. Doherty is actually out of the office today. Is there something I can help you with?”

Why she felt the need to ask if I had an appointment if the man isn’t even in today, I do not know.

A question I don’t bother asking, just as I don’t attempt to respond to the one she just posed as I turn and head straight back through the front door.

A total time inside of no more than a minute or two, ending with me stepping back out into the late afternoon heat. Resuming the same speed as before, I slide my phone from my back pocket.

Retracing my steps along the sidewalk, I tap at the screen a couple of times, already having it pressed to my face before I even reach the parking lot.

Enhanced pace, matching the frustration continuing to spike within.

“Ham,” Mikey answers after a single ring.

His standard opening that I don’t match, this time going straight to, “I need an address.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

I know all the reasons why flying out first thing this morning – or even late last night – wasn’t feasible.

I needed to wait and see if Rumer Ripley was going to wake up. I had to ensure that the guy who stabbed her wasn’t still in the area, looking to circle back on Blaze or Bristol Lynch or any of the others.

And there was no way in hell I could leave Duke Larson in charge of their safety until the twins arrived.

Even knowing all that, I can’t help but be pissed about how things have played out. A loss of hours that not only has given Nik Doherty a head start on disappearing, but has dropped my ass into a major city at exactly rush hour.

Head-to-tail traffic that means for as long as it took me to get from the airport to the record company, it takes twice that for me to reach the address that Frost was able to dig up for me.

Almost ninety minutes to cover a dozen miles before exiting the freeway again, most of that spent gripping the steering wheel tight, my mind conjuring scads of new questions I have no way of answering. Everything from where Doherty might be to even if his convenient absence was his own doing.

If I will ever find him, or be left stumbling through the dark, hoping that the knife-wielding prick from last night shows himself again at some point.

If what happened to Ripley wasn’t a message just to Doherty, but part of a wider plot to wipe out everybody connected.

Outside, the world transitions from highway to exit hub to a state of tropical suburbia as I drive. Single and two-story homes, the vast majority with stucco exteriors painted light colors, their roofs lined with red tile.

Ceramic pieces formed into miniature arches that cascade from apexes down to gutters, reflecting the early evening sun. The start of the final countdown toward darkness, bathing everything in a golden hue.

In the yards, towering palm trees dot bright green lawns. Patches of grass have been meticulously maintained, framed by landscaping beds filled with bright flowers.

Largely uniform looks, as if every house employs the same crew, or has been forced into compliance by some overbearing homeowner’s association.

“In four hundred feet, turn right,” the mechanized female voice announces from the middle console beside me.

Instructions I follow, waiting only until she adds, “Your destination will be on the left,” before reaching out and squeezing the buttons on either side of the phone.

Silencing the grating voice, I lift my gaze as directed, spotting what I am looking for sitting on a corner lot up ahead. Placement giving it road frontage both on the road I am currently on, and with a cross street running along the northern boundary.

Two roadways, providing extra lawn space around a house that is easily one of the largest in the area. What looks like an original for the neighborhood, erected before many of the smaller ones were added to fill in any gaps.

Architectural details that I see and dismiss in an instant, my focus going to the blinds all pulled shut over the windows. The trio of garage doors that are also closed, not a vehicle to be seen on the concrete drive.

A noted lack of life within the home itself, offset by the oversized SUV resting on the curb across the street. A hulking vehicular monstrosity with tinted windows, behind which I can see a pair of silhouettes as I hook a quick left onto the cross street, knowing better than to get too close.

Two goons who are obviously casing the place, the driver plainly visible in the rearview mirror as I slowly roll through the intersection.

Confirmation both that I was right to start with Doherty, and that his ass is already in the wind.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

The ruse is one I’ve used many times before, in places as far flung from where I now stand as Las Vegas or even Portland. Dots all over the map, serving as testament to how universal the ploy is.

How little notice it gets, no matter the neighborhood.

With each step I take along the concrete sidewalk, I can feel the hard edge of the switchblade knife tucked into my sock. A weapon chosen not because of any newfound fondness after carrying one across half the country, but because it is the easiest to conceal in my current state.

A weighted presence that I show no external sign of as I loop my way through the neighborhood surrounding Nik Doherty’s house.

To the average passerby, I am just another suburban resident getting in some exercise after work. A quick hit of endorphins before dark, followed by heading home to cook dinner or help the kids with homework or whatever other story anybody who happens to spot me might want to attribute.

An assumed identity, in line with the spandex pants and sports bra I am wearing. The buds tucked into both ears, though there is no sound to disrupt my hearing.

The bare forearm, stripped of its dressing, and the headband wrapped around my skull, hiding the shaved scalp on either side.

Key identifiers that the man with dark hair who got away last night might have reported back, or simply that whoever I might encounter in the next few minutes may remember.

Window dressing making me virtually invisible as I lope along at an even pace, passing back by the same houses I drove past just a couple of minutes ago. More formed by the same cookie cutter, all appearing to have been built at the same time, by the same company.

An assembly-line approach that saw some new developer buy up a parcel of land, section it off, and turn it over as fast as possible.

Another shared commonality with those other cities, the only differences being the materials used and the plants lining the exteriors. Details that slip past on either side as I make my way down the street parallel to the one I first drove in on.

A mirrored copy just one block over, headed toward the cross street I turned on connecting them.

One final leg of my journey, chosen deliberately to keep me from being seen by the massive SUV resting on the curb across the street. A lookout in obvious sight, their focus aimed at the front door and driveway.

Low-level flunkies who have probably been out there for hours, and are well past boredom.

Men who know that nobody is inside.

Probably also know that Doherty and his family aren’t likely coming back anytime soon, if at all.

Guys already talking about what to get for dinner or debating who their celebrity crush is. Maybe listening to some ballgame on the radio.

Any of a hundred other things, keeping them from seeing me make the corner on the cross street a block over. A quick turn that I follow for no more than twenty yards before hooking another left into the driveway of the home behind Doherty’s.

Two similar structures sitting back-to-back, each facing out onto their respective streets.

Properties that connect along their longest boundary, backyards separated by nothing more than a row of hedges. Waist-high plants with small white flowers in full bloom, the faint buzzing of bees just barely audible.

Background noise there and gone in an instant as I slip through a thin spot in the row, padding my way across the thick lawn underfoot. Grass that is almost as buoyant as the stadium fields I was on a couple of days ago, carrying me up a small slope toward the deck jutting from the rear of the house.

A wooden rectangle with a hot tub on one end, a built-in grill on the other.

Bookends for solid planks stained dark, the space in between liberally sprinkled with children’s toys. A tricycle and a couple of rubber balls and even a hula hoop, all done in shades of pink.

An idyllic snapshot of suburban life, if not for the shards of glass dotting the floorboards around the French doors leading into the house.

Misshapen pieces cast in a wide arc, many having fallen and exploded outward.

Chunks all corresponding to the missing pane next to the doorknob in the center. A gap that is maybe a foot tall in height and half that across, serving as the only hole in my own reflection staring back at me.

A viewing portal, through which I can see the kitchen beyond. A space I imagine is usually kept as pristine as the grass I just walked across, now littered with upturned chairs.

Across the floor can be seen mail and assorted garbage.

Signs of a recent search, telling me that the men on the front curb have already been through the place and didn’t find anything of note. Not just no signs of Doherty or his family, but no clear leads on where they might be.

Dead ends, forcing them into the position of sitting out front, hoping for a miracle.

A position I am fortunate not to share with them, Doherty the most direct source of the information I need, but far from the only one.

CHAPTER EIGHTY

Esai Garcia knew better than to say anything to his father on the phone earlier. Standing in the chop shop outside of Dallas, there were at least three sets of eyes and ears on him at the time.

No telling how many on his father four states away.

A combination meaning that everything – on his side, at least – was communicated in small words and grunts. The bare minimum needed to let it be known that he understood and was on his way.

Even if he wasn’t the least bit happy about it.

Retiring what he was doing in the moment, Esai informed the garage that it was their lucky day. All they needed to do was get him to the airport and they could keep the truck.

Use it as it their own. Strip it down for parts.

He didn’t give a shit.

If in their position, he likely would have been wary as hell. A guy he had never seen before showing up out of the blue, looking to unload a vehicle and get back to the coast as soon as possible, he would assume the worst.

Illicit drugs were lining the door panels.

It had been spotted as the getaway vehicle in a crime.

Hell, that it was registered to someone who was now dead, heinously murdered in what would soon be an active investigation.

Concerns that seemed to be noticeably lacking as the trio of guys all exchanged a glance. One quick look, as if checking to make sure they had heard correctly, before they all claimed they would be the one to give him a lift.

Offers that soon escalated to shouting, on the verge of becoming physical combat before finally he had to step in, again pointing out that none of them got the damned thing if he didn’t get to the airport on time.

One more headache, tacked onto a couple of days that had been filled with them. Obstacles and pitfalls he had spent most of the flight stewing over, none more glaring than what happened the night before.

The fight he could feel each time he shifted in his seat.

What came after that he was reminded of with every random thought he reflexively looked to pass on to Luis and Francisco.

“Welcome to the Miami International-” the same computer-generated voice Esai has heard no less than a dozen times since deplaning begins to say again. One more rehash of the same tired diatribe, cut mercifully short as he steps through the sliding glass doors outside of the terminal.

An exit that parts through the middle, bringing with it a rush of super moist air.

Damp heat that doesn’t swirl around him the way the dry desert air did, but rather slams into him. A wet wall hitting him square in the face, dappling his brow with sweat droplets.

One more thing pissing him off as he steps out onto the curb, a lone bag draped over his shoulder. The same duffel he was dragging across the western half of the country, filled with things he has no intention of keeping.

Security t-shirts and denim pants, all serving as nothing more than cover. A means to keep him from being a traveler with no luggage, loaded with garments used as filler, wrapped around the knife that was used in the attack the night before.

An item he dared not leave behind, and couldn’t carry onto the plane with him.

Needing only a quick glance, Esai sees what he is looking for parked at the far end of the curb. The ride that was chosen deliberately to be distinctive, plainly standing out amidst the many vehicles pulling up or away outside of the terminal.

Starting to lift his arm to flag it down, he gets no further than raising his hand to his shoulder before it starts to tug at the strips along his ribs. With it comes a sharp barb, causing him to jerk it down just as fast.

A hot iron into his side, sparking yet more ire as he lifts his chin instead.

Having traveled more than thirteen hundred miles, Esai makes no effort to cover the last fifty yards. Fixed in place, he waits as the monstrosity pulls away from the curb, merging with the traffic slowly moving past.

A roving visual pushing the wrath he is carrying higher, the entire day feeling like yet another unnecessary venture.

His father, insisting on always doing things the hard way.

Making no effort to keep such thoughts hidden from his features, Esai waits as the Escalade trudges forward, sliding to a stop in front of him. Resisting the urge to climb directly into the passenger seat, he circles around the back and drops down into the chair behind the driver.

A quick onboarding before they are off again, his father’s faithful sidekick Ramiro at the wheel nosing them back out into traffic.

Remaining silent as Esai gets settled in his seat, his father glances at the bag resting on the floorboard between them. A starting point, followed by tracing his gaze the full length of Esai.

“Good flight?”

Turning to match the old man’s stare, Esai says, “I wasn’t done there.”

“You are for now,” Manuel answers. Rotating back to face forward, he adds, “Besides, by the time we’re done here, there won’t be anything left to do out there.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

Just because the only weapon I brought with me is the switchblade that was stowed in my sock doesn’t mean it is the only weapon available to me.

Not in a house this size, fully stocked with everything that is usually found in a suburban home. Everything from kitchen knives to blunt objects, all within easy reach.

A host of items I would be an idiot not to take advantage of, knowing that two guys are no doubt heading my direction after I switched on the lamp in the living room window.

A signal fire, calling them inside.

Who the hell they are or who sent them, I have no clue.

Information I intend to extract soon enough.

What I do know is their intentions, looking to match Nik Doherty with what was done to Rumer Ripley last night.

A continuation of whatever warning was issued in Blaze’s dressing room in Phoenix a few nights ago.

Counting off seconds in my head, I lower myself into a crouch. Knees just inches from the floor, I duckwalk my way out of the living room, careful to keep from creating a visible silhouette behind the thin curtains covering the windows.

Nothing to give away my positioning.

Let the incoming attackers know where I am or what I might be planning.

Retracing my steps from just a few seconds ago, I make sure I am well past the open doorway to the living room before rising to full height. The familiar rush of adrenaline already starting to seep into my system, I lift my pace to a jog, making my way back down the hallway serving as the central corridor for the house.

A thoroughfare lined with matted prints and framed photographs, their details only vaguely discernible in the half light.

Growing shadows I have every intention of utilizing as I fly past a couple of doors on either side. Entries to smaller spaces like bath and laundry rooms that I shoot right by.

Same for the staircase leading up to the second floor, making it almost all the way to the smaller sitting room surrounding the front entrance before breaking off my route.

Hooking a hard left, I pass through a second open doorway carved out of the wall. Stepping over the various items strewn across the floor by the men currently stomping toward the front door, I slip into the kitchen.

Pausing between the refrigerator and the island in the center of it, I cast my gaze about, considering my options.

A quick look, my focus landing first on the butcher block resting on the counter. An enticing choice that practically calls to me, though I am forced to cast it aside.

If merely killing their asses was my goal, then it would be top of the list.

As is, I need them alive.

Knowing that, I instead shift my attention to the rack of cooking utensils hanging above the island. A metal grate affixed directly to the ceiling, the handles of pots and pans of various sizes all looped over the hooks positioned in even intervals.

Matching pieces made of copper and steel that I pass my focus over.

Items that aren’t quite dense enough to ensure disabling someone, pushed aside just as fast.

Instant dismissal, shoving my attention toward the items covering the floor. Everything that had previously been tucked into the drawers and cabinets lining the walls, from spices and silverware to cookie sheets.

Stuff that clearly was never going to be hiding anything of importance, the men outside intent on making a mess of the house. Frustration release, or simply some way of feeling important.

Badasses trashing an empty home.

An exercise in absurdity that this time works against them, revealing what I am looking for nested at the bottom of the pile in front of the stove. A tangle of metal and wood, under which rests a rolling pin.

A lengthy cylinder of solid marble, a single wooden dowel threaded through the center serving as a handle.

“Nice,” I can’t help but hiss, a thin smile tracing my lips as I crouch down beside it. Keeping it pressed flat to the floor, I slide it straight toward me, taking care not to upset the mess balanced precariously upon it.

Extraction that takes just a couple of extra seconds, by the end of which I can hear the sound of someone approaching from out back.

Heavy footfalls landing on deck floorboards, using the same route I did.

The same one that they used before that.

Incoming targets that shove a concentrated burst of adrenaline into my system as I raised my backside a couple of inches. Just far enough that I can pick my way through the debris littering the polished tile, going no more than a couple of steps before coming to a stop behind the island.

Lowering myself back into a crouch, I bypass the wooden handle on the rolling pin for the bottom of it.

A more solid base that I clench tight, my head cocked as I listen to the sound of glass crunching underfoot outside.

The moan of the metal hinges as the back door is pushed inward.

Papers being shoved about from what sounds like just a lone person stepping inside, making their way toward me.

A host of sounds that allow me to track their progress, forcing myself to remain completely motionless as they inch their way forward. One step at a time, bringing them ever closer to where I am hiding.

A slow approach that borders on torturous, taking the better part of a full minute before the rubber tread of a work boot appears before me. A visible target that I unleash on, lashing out with the rolling pin.

Aimed no more than a foot above the boot, I keep it parallel to the floor, swinging it as hard as I can.

A strike coming in well below eye level that the man never sees coming, feeling only the vicious contact of marble and bone. A one-sided collision that the stone easily wins, snapping the man’s fibula and folding the lower half of his leg back.

A loss of support that pitches the rest of his body forward, a pained cry erupting from his lips as he topples to the ground.

A shrill, animalistic call that reverberates through the kitchen as his heft lands hard on the ground, the vibration of his impact traveling up through the soles of my shoes.

More than two hundred and fifty pounds in a freefall, his chest and palms both slapping down onto the scattered papers and knickknacks, sending the gun he was holding skittering across the floor.

Snapping myself up from a crouch to a squat beside him, I don’t even wait for him to come to a complete stop. Jerking the rolling pin up to my shoulder, I bring it forward a second time, swinging it the same as I would my beloved combat tomahawk.

A shot aimed directly behind his right ear, putting an end to his injured howl and driving him face first into the floor.

The end of one threat, giving me no more than a moment before the second one shows up, the front door exploding open behind me.

A thunderous entry coming from the wrong direction, punctuated by a handful of suppressed rounds slamming into the interior of the home.

Shots scattered at random, leaving me no choice but to dive forward.

Snatch up his partner’s gun from the floor beside me.

And fire.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

The idea of turning the light on to pull them inside was to incapacitate their asses. Get them to come in together through the back door, where I could use a surprise attack on the first one.

Knock him cold before they even knew I was there, and then go one-on-one with his partner using non-lethal weapons to render him unconscious as well.

After that, my intention was to tie them up, go retrieve the SUV, and bring it back in an hour when it was fully dark outside.

A plan that was working plenty well on the first goon, thwarted by his trigger-happy partner. A guy who apparently had decided to peek in through the front windows instead of coming around to the back.

Who also didn’t understand that lying in wait for someone was meant to be a quiet job, as was going through the front door in a standard suburban neighborhood.

Concerns that he seemed to be completely void of, bulldozing his way straight in and proceeding to start firing bullets at random.

Easily his greatest faux pas of all, managing to put a round through the crown of his partner’s skull and forcing me to cut his ass down in the middle of the front foyer.

A total mess, keeping me from getting what I need and saving them a lot of pain.

Excruciating agony that I would love nothing more than to be imparting on them right now as I stride down the driveway toward the curb. Knife pulled free from my sock, it is gripped tight in my left hand, pressed flush against my thigh as I go.

Rotating my gaze in either direction, I watch for any new vehicles sitting on the curb. Any neighbors who might have heard what happened, despite the elongated tip of the sound suppressor on the gun he was carrying.

A weapon I considered grabbing for only an instant before deciding to leave it behind, along with the wiped-down pistol I used.

Two more items for whatever law enforcement eventually shows up to try to decipher, along with the fact that the only cellphone between them was completely void of any saved contacts, outgoing calls, or messages.

Neither of them carried any ID.

Two ghosts who will leave some poor detective as confused as I am right now about who sent them.

What the hell the letter G inlaid on that knife handle means.

Questions I am no closer to answering, the only remaining option for information I have being the monstrosity sitting across the street. A vehicle woefully out of place, sure to draw attention in the very near future.

An ever-closing window, which is why I have the keys tucked up tight to my opposite leg. Swiped from Mr. Trigger Happy, they are wrapped in a dishtowel, the cotton cloth separating my thumb from the fob underneath.

A thin material through which I can plainly feel the lock and unlock buttons, making it easy for me to press the top one as I step out into the street.

A lone tap causing the parking lights to flash.

A single beep to sound out.

Sights and sounds that cause me to suck in a sharp breath, though otherwise I give no indication I even notice them. Nothing for anybody who might be looking to pick up on as I make my way closer and extend the same hand, using the dishtowel on the handle.

Tugging it open, I slide behind the wheel, counting seconds in my head.

A constant monitoring of the clock, knowing I have no more than a minute to check things over before getting my ass out of here.

Two at most.

Pulling the door just shy of the latch catching beside me, I drop the keys on my lap and swap the dishtowel over into my right hand. Wrapping it around my fingers, I start with the middle console, lifting it just long enough to give a quick look.

A check that reveals nothing more than a couple of napkins and receipts. Fast-food transactions paid in cash, providing me nothing of use.

More dead ends that cause my molars to come together as I lean across, going next for the glove compartment.

A hunt for a registration. Proof of insurance.

Even a title.

Anything that may give me a name or address.

Paperwork that is noticeably absent, nothing but the owner’s manual and some more napkins present. Remnants hinting this was far from the first stakeout these two have been on, whoever hired them likely making a business out of leaning on people.

Shoving the glove compartment shut, I use the towel one last time to take the keys back up from my lap. Tucking the entire wad into my palm, I fold my fingers down over them as I push back out into the gathering darkness.

Careful not to touch anything, I use my hip to push the door shut. Turning the opposite direction from where the massive vehicle is pointed, I walk back to the corner and make a right on the cross street.

Following the north end of Nik Doherty’s property, I keep my pace even. Forcing myself not to break into a sprint, or – more preferably – to raise my head and bellow toward the sky, I walk the length of his yard.

Past the row of hedges I split just fifteen minutes ago.

By the driveway and home of the neighbor abutting his backyard.

Landmarks I check off in my periphery, going all the way to the corner before hooking one final right. Lifting my speed to a jog, I resume the same even stride as before, making it back to my own SUV barely five minutes later.

Flinging the knife and the keys into the passenger footwell, I snatch up my phone from the middle console. Thumbing it to life, I tap out a few quick commands, using the stolen hand towel to wipe my face as the call connects.

“Ham.”

“Mikey,” I reply. “Doherty’s was a dead end. Quite literally.”

Grunting softly, he asks, “Him and his family?”

“Two goons who were sitting on the place.”

Again, he grunts. “Cleanup?”

“No,” I repeat, “but I do need you and Frost to find any sort of backup location that Doherty might be using. Family property, hotel room, anything.”

“I’m on it,” Frost calls from the background, “but it might take a little while.”

“That’s okay,” I say, reaching out and pressing the pushbutton ignition. “I’ve got one more thing to try first.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

Manuel Garcia knows his son well enough to know that there are two things at play right now.

One, that Esai is supremely pissed.

And two, he isn’t being entirely forthright with how things played out in Lubbock.

How exactly those two things intertwine, Manuel isn’t sure. A problem for another time, to be dealt with after addressing two much more important facts.

Manuel is also pissed.

And he knows exactly what he intends to do about it.

Sitting in his usual spot in the rear passenger seat of the Escalade, Manuel has a cigar laced between the middle and index finger of his right hand. Opting against lighting it just yet – such pleasures to be saved for after victory has been achieved – he instead rolls it back and forth across his knuckles.

Even passes from one side to the next, interspersed with only the occasional pause to lift it to his face. Inhale the deep scent, letting it fill his head.

A poor substitute for the taste inflating his lungs, but all that he is willing to allow for the time being.

His weight balanced on his right haunch, the same elbow rests against the rear windowsill. Gaze aimed out above it, he studies the front façade of the same structure he has visited a handful of times in the past couple of months.

Twice in just the last few days.

A place that he had a feeling would be their ultimate destination the instant he picked his son up from the airport, needing to only wait for a couple of things to occur first. Confirmation a little bit ago from his team sitting on Doherty’s house that the man and his family were all gone.

And for the arrival of darkness, cloaking their return to Sunburst Records.

The place that was Doherty’s pride and joy, the man having prattled on at length the first time they spoke about how he founded it. Built it from the ground up. Intended to put Miami on the musical map one day, hoping to match it against Los Angeles and Detroit and even Nashville.

Foolish optimism that Manuel had let him bandy about, never once pointing out that for all his grandiose plans, there he was, hat in hand, begging for money.

A woe-is-me tale that he seems to have now conveniently forgotten, along with the full terms of their deal.

The repercussions that would follow should he try to wriggle his way out of it.

For as angry as he was walking out of Sunburst that afternoon after being told that Doherty was nowhere to be found, he cannot pretend that it wasn’t for the best. They might have to take a bit more time tracking the man down now, but once they do, it will come with the benefit of being far removed from the public eye.

It will also have the man’s family present.

Two things that will make what Manuel has planned for him infinitely easier.

A slow and painstaking process to both ensure that he is made whole, and that nothing like this ever happens again.

Twisting his left wrist up from his thigh, Manuel glances at the dial on his watch. A quick look to see how much time has elapsed, pulled short by Ramiro grunting softly from behind the steering wheel.

His preferred method of communication, drawing Manuel’s focus upward.

A quick look just long enough to see the man’s profile silhouetted against the windshield, his gaze aimed out the passenger window. A pointed stare that Manuel follows, shifting his gaze to the main entrance in time to see Esai spilling down the front steps.

Stairs he takes two and three at a time before hitting the walkway and jogging toward them. A pace just shy of a sprint, maintained until he swings out of sight, looping around the backend of the Escalade.

A moment later, he pulls open the back door, sliding onto the bench seat beside Manuel.

Drawing in deep breaths, he says nothing, hands both balled up on his lap.

Twin fists, the left one empty, the right clutching a lone piece of paper rolled up tight, the end jutting out above his curled fingers.

“Any problems?” Manuel asks, flicking his gaze from his son to the paper and back.

An open-ended question that Esai answers in the negative, offering a quick shake of the head.

“No, but we should get the hell out of here,” he says. Glancing across, he adds, “There’s about to be a whole lot of attention around here soon.”

Understanding the implication perfectly well, Manuel feels either corner of his mouth pull upward. “Ramiro.”

Adding nothing more, he waits as the SUV begins to move, pulling away from the curb and out onto the street before thrusting his chin toward his son’s closed hand. “I assume you found something?”

Again saying nothing, Esai raises his fist. Rotating it so his palm faces upward, he loosens his grip, allowing Manuel to extract the lone item held within.

Sliding it free, he unfurls it from either end to find not a document, but a photograph.

An older image of a cabin set in what looks like the swamp, the color on it having faded with age.

“What am I looking at?” Manuel asks.

“Turn it over.”

Doing as instructed, the smile that was present just a moment before returns. Much more pronounced this time, he lowers the image to his lap, reaching to the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

Extracting his cellphone, he goes straight to his recent call log. Scrolling right past Jesus—the time for his particular brand of assistance well past—Manuel goes well on down, tapping on a listing he hasn’t needed to use in quite some time.

One that still answers after only a single ring, no matter how long it has been.

“Sir.”

“You and the boys feeling like getting some exercise tonight?” Manuel asks.

A question he can envision bringing a smile to the man’s face as he replies, “Always.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

Three days ago, Blaze would have never thought twice about the twins hanging around. With their look and the bubbly personalities they seem capable of turning on and off in an instant, she would have assumed the same as she did of Ham with one m.

They were just there to help with marketing.

Or merchandising.

Or any of a hundred different things that would have flitted right past Blaze as she was too busy doing her own thing. Too much focus on the shows and the crowds to realize what was really happening around her.

The danger that she was putting others in.

Now barely ten hours after meeting them for the first time, all she can see is when one of them passes by the open door to Rumer Ripley’s room. Pokes their head in to make sure everything is okay.

Follows them down to the cafeteria where she and Bristol Lynch now sit, Mai content to roam, pretending to go back and forth for various items from the serving area, while Emi is posted up a couple of tables away, jabbing aimlessly at her phone.

Two women whose eyes never stop darting about, seeking out any one of the thousand possible things that could go wrong.

Events like those the night before, likely contributed to by something Blaze was doing without even realizing it.

“Any word from the record company?” Blaze asks.

Raising her gaze from the barely touched salad before her, she sees her cousin give a quick shake of her head.

“Nothing since that first call this morning,” Bristol replies.

“Which you said was...”

“Weird, to say the least.”

Lowering her attention back to her plate, Blaze jabs at a couple of errant pieces of lettuce, capping them with a chunk of chicken breast.

“Weird how?”

“Just, like...” Bristol replies, her voice trailing away as she tries to find the words. A search causing her eyes to narrow, her head tilting an inch to the side. “Like he couldn’t get off the phone fast enough.”

“Like he didn’t care?”

“More like he was scared.”

Feeling her eyebrows rise, Blaze leans back in her seat, her mind drifting to the east.

The first time she met Nik Doherty was after a show they did at a small venue in Fort Lauderdale a couple of years before. In his mid-thirties at the time, he was a bit older than most who were in the crowd that night, but not so much he stood out.

He was also dressed a little nicer than many who had showed up in board shorts and sandals, but again, not enough that he looked out of place.

Certainly not like a record executive when he patiently waited his turn after the show, watching everybody else seeking autographs and selfies. Fans not quite ready for the night to end, lingering for more than an hour once they were done.

A crowd that he waited out, ensuring the place was almost barren, before he made his way forward.

And effectively changed Blaze’s life – and the lives of her cousin, Chauncy, Brecker, and Webb – forever.

In the time since, Blaze has met with Doherty a couple of dozen times. Initial interactions when they were hammering out a contract. Studio sessions recording new music for the first time.

Promotional gigs in various cities.

Shows across Florida and the eastern seaboard.

A great many hours spent together, during which she has seen him exuberant. Reflective. Confused. Frustrated.

Even flat pissed.

But never anything approaching scared.

“Scared?” Blaze asks, her brows coming together. “That’s...”

Letting her voice trail, she starts anew, saying, “Nik’s not a big guy, but he’s not a pushover.”

Again, her cousin shakes her head. “Nope.”

Scads of questions resting on the tip of her tongue, Blaze opts to swallow them down. Stuff she knows her cousin either doesn’t have answers to, or simply doesn’t want to talk about.

Her continued state of near catatonia, ever since she arrived at the hospital last night.

The throes of self-loathing, each minute without an improvement from Rumer making it a bit worse.

“Any word from Harley?”

Tilting her chin forward, a few stray hairs sweeping forward over her shoulders, Bristol replies, “He called to check in a little while ago. Asked about Rumer.”

Lifting her gaze to meet Blaze’s, she adds, “If you’ve made a decision about Dallas.”

In unison, Blaze can feel her brows rise as her jaw sags. Hints of surprise on the front end, mixed with the default setting of starting to respond to the question on the back.

Automated reactions, both cut short without a sound escaping her.

No comment on his calling to check in on Rumer.

Certainly, no answer for how she will handle the show coming up in a couple of nights.

“Or the rest of the tour yet,” Bristol adds.

Her lips parting a bit more, Blaze lets out a sigh. Dropping the fork she is holding, she leans back in her chair.

Folds her arms across her torso.

“How’d he sound?”

“He wasn’t pushy, if that’s what you mean,” Bristol replies. “Just...kind of needs to know.”

For the last eighteen hours, Blaze has thought of nothing else. A constant battle between the guilt she feels for last night and the responsibility she has to the others on the tour.

The many things she wasn’t aware of and the many more she should have been.

A miasma of thoughts completely reframing what she thought she’d wanted for so long.

A host of things she never gets to voice, her gaze drawn to Emi snapping up out of her chair at the neighboring table. Mai ceasing her latest revolution of the cafeteria, taking up a post by her side.

Coordinated movements to match Bristol stiffening in her seat across from Blaze.

A trio of reactions that Blaze follows, turning to see Duke Larson heading their way.

Cheeks flushed bright red, he draws in deep breaths, as if he has been sprinting, waiting until just a few feet separates them before managing to push out, “She’s awake.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

Right now, I’m not sure who I’m more pissed at.

The two bastards who were staking out Nik Doherty’s place and came bursting inside at the first sign of life. A pair of heavies carrying automatic weapons, looking to mow down the head of a tiny music company for some as-yet-still-unknown reason.

The trio of henchmen who came before them, necessitating my being in Florida at all. Francisco Ruiz and Luis and the guy I battled with backstage, the remnants of which are still plainly visible across my left arm.

The asshole at the top of the food chain, sending them all out to do his bidding, whoever the hell he might be.

Or - sitting in the prime spot on the list - myself, for letting what should have been a fairly simple affair at the house go sideways. A plan that would have given me all the information I need, foiled by a damned stray bullet.

A shot fired at random as the trigger-happy goon sprayed the place down, apparently thinking that anybody inside was an enemy who had to be eliminated.

The classic guns-blazing approach, leaving me with no choice but to take his ass out. Elimination of the only two breathing leads I had, along with forcing me out of Doherty’s house a little quicker than I would have liked.

An entire sidebar that managed to produce nothing but two dead bodies and an hour of wasted time.

Back behind the wheel of the SUV, I have reverted to the attire I was wearing before swinging by Doherty’s house. A change of clothing made in the bathroom of the Burger King I stopped at earlier, wanting to get out of the jogging apparel and into something a little more tactical.

Items with a covered waistband and baggy sleeves, capable of concealing a weapon if need be.

A pitstop that I also paired with picking up a couple of cheeseburgers and a large coffee, taking all three to go as I headed back out to the SUV. Fuel that I consumed while sitting in the parking lot, putting it all down in just a few minutes before tossing the garbage and getting back on the road.

Sustenance for what could be a very long night ahead.

Or an extremely short one, if my next stop and Frost’s digging aren’t able to produce anything.

Two last resorts, after which I have zero idea what I might do, short of going to the last known address for Ruiz to start banging on doors.

A slow and likely violent process that I would like to avoid for a variety of reasons.

None more so than the fact that whoever is behind this seems to be moving quickly.

The better part of two hours removed from the painful slog that was making my way from Sunburst Records to the Doherty house earlier, most of the traffic that was clogging the road has dissipated. A thinning of the evening crowd, letting me bring the SUV up to the limit for the majority of the trip.

Cruising speed, taking me the length of Coral Gables in just over ten minutes. Time spent with the radio off and the windows down, night air swirling around me.

What should have been a pleasant evening drive, if not for the sheer vitriol hurtling through me.

Frustration that spikes higher as the first low whine of sirens catches my ear. A persistent moan floating on the breeze pushing through the SUV, seeming to grow steadily louder with each mile that passes under my tires.

A sound I recognize in an instant, causing my entire core to clench tight.

Foreboding that grows even stronger as the sight of flickering lights rising in the distance becomes visible. Hues of varying colors flashing against the darkened night sky as I exit off the freeway, winding my way through the same network of streets I traveled four hours earlier.

A route that looks markedly different than on my previous pass, most of the businesses that were alive with activity now closed for the night.

Bank branches and library outposts with the lights off, reduced to nothing more than nondescript buildings as they slip by on either side.

Background viewing that I give barely a glance, instead following the visual and auditory cues outside. Lights and sirens both growing stronger, each passing moment reinforcing what I already suspect.

The feeling of dread that is confirmed as I take one last turn onto the street that was my intended destination.

What was a bucolic suburban neighborhood road earlier, now completely choked off by a half dozen fire trucks all wedged in at various angles.

More than twice that number in police cruisers setting up a perimeter around them.

First responders, all brought in response to the massive blaze currently engulfing Sunburst Records.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

Whatever timeline the assholes I’ve been chasing are working under, it is accelerating.

Fast.

Four nights ago, it started as a warning in Phoenix. The killing of an unknown security guard and the leaving of a bloody knife and a note behind.

A means of getting their attention that escalated into making a three-man assault just a few nights later. Hell, maybe even what happened on the stage at Riley’s in Albuquerque.

An abandonment of secrecy, going right for it with plenty of witnesses around.

A pattern that has grown even further, with them leaving carloads of goons sitting in plain sight outside of Nik Doherty’s house.

Even burning the whole damn record company he owns to the ground.

Who these people are or why they seem so pissed at Doherty, Sunburst Records, and their most prized client, I have not a clue. Just the same as I have no way of knowing for certain that the address Frost was able to unearth for me is the right one.

If Nik Doherty will even be there when I arrive or be able to answer all the questions I have for his ass.

What I do know is that they are not going to stop. Whatever has them going at a breakneck pace isn’t something they are going to simply let go of.

They are going to continue to pound away, thrashing about until everything and everybody associated with the situation is gone.

Tucked up tight behind the steering wheel of the SUV, I flick my gaze between the phone resting in the mount secured to the dash and the road ahead. A constant back and forth that is shit for my night vision, but at the moment, that is far from my biggest concern.

Leaning forward so only my bottom touches the seat, the wheel is just inches from my chest.

Both hands are wrapped tight around it, squeezing so hard I can feel each heartbeat passing through the wound on my arm.

A heightening of the adrenaline pushing through my system in the wake of the fight earlier, spiking every chemical response in my body even higher. An escalated state, making each headlight whipping past on the highway seem brighter.

The sound of the wind pouring in through the open window beside me louder.

Even the smell of the swamp carried on it that much sharper as I drive further inland, pushing due west across the lower part of the state. A direction that is decidedly the opposite of where most people travel, each moment putting the ocean a bit further into the rearview.

Distance that can’t quite come fast enough as I continue leaning on the accelerator, hoping not only that I am heading the right direction, but that I am not too late. Whoever was at Sunburst earlier found the same address Frost did, using fire to ensure nobody else was able to figure out where they’re headed next.

A forensic countermeasure of sorts, meant to make sure they get there first.

And that nobody ever finds what happens once they do.

According to Frost, the place I am heading to was left to Doherty’s wife in her uncle’s will. What sounds like a modest fishing cabin and getaway, tucked up on the outskirts of the Everglades.

A place that was in her family for several generations, shared between him and her father before his death several years before.

The sole real estate holding for either of the Doherty’s outside of the house I’ve already been to, hidden well beyond the edge of the city.

As good a place as any for them to go beyond simply getting in their car and heading north. Paying cash for shitty motels, or driving on through the night.

Constant movement that won’t put me face to face with them, but also likely won’t get them caught.

A roving target that I can’t imagine whoever burned down the company is intent on chasing after, meaning they must have some sort of concrete heading to justify torching the place and risking Doherty never returning.

An impending destination where I can intercept them.

Eliminate them.

And then worry about tracking down Doherty after the fact.

Speedometer pinned at fifteen miles above the limit, I continue to flick my gaze between the phone and the road up ahead. Two points that I rotate regularly, calculating time and distance in my head, while occasionally throwing a glance at the rearview mirror.

A constant scan for any headlights that might appear.

People moving fast, heading in the same direction I am.

An ongoing vigil revealing nothing as I exit off the freeway twenty miles east of the greater Miami sprawl. Space enough that the residual glow of the city has faded from the night sky behind me.

The first in a series of turns, each representing a step down in both the size of the road I am on and the speed I am able to travel.

A shift from the multi-lane freeway to a two-way state route pushing north.

A smaller road named after whatever family was the first to settle the area over a century ago headed further inland still.

Finally, a single unmarked lane winding its way through the dense forest abutting the swampland comprising the interior part of the state. Thick trees pushing tight up to the side of the road, interspersed with little pockets of water.

Shallows with the moon reflecting bright, slipping by on either side as I continue to push on. Forward progress, my active mind split between the screen on the dash beside me and mental images of what I might arrive to find.

How many men whoever is chasing Doherty might have brought, all of them standing there waiting for me if the place is empty.

What carnage they might have wrought if it isn’t.

Keeping the accelerator pushed down as fast as the narrow road will allow until just a quarter mile separates me from my destination, I begrudgingly lift my foot. Allowing momentum to push me forward, I follow the small bend in the road, waiting until the very last moment before tapping the brakes.

Slowing just enough to make the turn, I work the steering wheel hand over hand, passing from pavement onto the soft dirt of a winding track. A makeshift driveway consisting of twin ruts spaced a couple of feet apart, carving its way through heavy timber.

Trees with limbs outstretched overhead, bunches of Spanish moss hanging down.

Further reinforcement of every swamp stereotype, the only things missing being the rounded humps of alligator heads sticking up out of the water or the occasional snake writhing its way up a tree trunk.

Details I do not bother trying to pick out as I cut the headlights on the SUV, nudging the gas just slightly. Rolling slowly through the heavy forestation, with each passing moment I can feel the adrenaline seeping into my system grow more pronounced.

A steady uptick, matched by my pulse thrumming through my temples.

Releasing my right hand from the steering wheel, I extend my arm to the side, passing my fingertips over the grips of both the Browning HI-Power and the combat tomahawk Mikey was sure to have in the duffel bags in the back.

Weapons that I make sure are within easy reach as I round one last turn in the drive before my destination comes into view.

A single-story cabin nestled tight to the swamp out back, light pouring from the windows lining the porch, a lone Range Rover parked out front.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

I don’t like coming in hot like this.

There is no perverse pleasure in proving that I am strong enough to kick through a wooden door. I don’t get a thrill from seeing Nik Doherty and his wife both recoil in their seats.

I sure as hell don’t enjoy hearing their daughter screech from her spot on the floor, looking up at me like some kind of damned swamp monster.

What I like even less, though, is having my ass shot. Calling out and trying to identify myself and giving Doherty plenty of time to snatch up the rifle leaning against the wall beside him.

A man whose house I have been inside of and office I have been by twice. A reasonable amount of background information, dovetailing exactly with the man now sitting in the armchair across from me.

A guy in his mid-to-late thirties, with light brown hair and a pale complexion. Square shoulders. Thin arms protruding from a plain black t-shirt.

Someone I can tell at a glance is a family man. A music man.

He is not a fighter in the slightest.

At least, not a physical one.

Any handling he does of a weapon is likely to end badly for everybody.

“Don’t,” I say. A single word, paired with tucking my right arm behind my back. A reach for the Browning HI-Power that is stowed there, deliberately kept out of sight for the sake of his wife and daughter.

A weapon I will not hesitate to pull if he makes me.

Instructions he seems to grasp even without me sliding my gaze to the rifle leaning against the wall, his hands instead rising a couple of inches from his thighs.

A pose of surrender that is matched by his wife beside him, her features visibly quivering. Dark, round eyes that are already getting teary, framed by matching hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.

Latin features befitting most people in the greater Miami area, only mildly diluted in the little girl on the floor in front of them.

“Please,” the woman manages to squeak.

A plea that I ignore for the time being, crossing diagonally across the center of the room. Footfalls that land heavy on the floorboards as I skirt the loop rug in the center, each one causing Doherty’s wife to visibly flinch.

Reflexive movements that force her shoulders a bit closer to her ears.

Her eyes to slide shut, folds of skin forming at either corner as she clamps them tight.

Classic defense poses, offset by her husband tracking my every movement. An open stare, following me around the edge of the room as I take up the rifle from its spot against the wall.

An aging Springfield that – based on the man before me and the cabin we are in – was probably part of his wife’s inheritance as well.

Grasping it only by the barrel, I move it beyond arm’s reach, placing it back down by the front picture window as I flick a quick look outside. A glance at the uneven trees illuminated by the light spilling out, everything – including my SUV - beyond cloaked in shadow.

Darkness I was able to use to get close without being noticed, making it all the way to the front porch unseen.

An approach so I could assess exactly what I was walking up to, who else might have been by, before revealing myself.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” I say, sliding my focus back their way. “I’ve spent all damn night trying to find you.”

In order, Doherty lowers his hands a few inches. His wife’s shoulders drop an equal amount, though still her eyes remain shut.

“You’ve been trying to find us?” Doherty asks.

“I’ve been by your house, which has been tossed,” I reply, omitting the part about the pair of bodies currently splayed across their kitchen floor.

Again, for the sake of the little girl clinging to her mother’s legs between us.

“And your office, which is burning to the ground as we speak.”

Much like bursting in through the front door, I don’t enjoy sharing this kind of information. I need them to know, though, that this is serious.

Whoever is after them is coming hard and fast.

“Which is exactly what is going to happen here if we don’t move.”

Still working to process what I just shared, Doherty’s jaw wags twice. Attempts to formulate a reply that go nowhere, each one pulling a bit more color from his features.

Weak stabs at a response as his hands drop the rest of the way to his legs. “You’re not with Garcia?”

“Who the hell is Garcia?”

“Manuel Garcia. The lecherous gangster I unknowingly did some business with.”

A handful more questions lined up in my head, I stop short of asking them, my mind instead going back to that first conversation I had with Bristol Lynch and Harley Lewis in Albuquerque. An initial talk while sitting in a shitty Motel 6 conference room, looking at the bloodstained note that had been left in Phoenix.

The knife with the letter G in the handle that had pinned it to the desk in Blaze’s dressing room.

“Young guy, thirties, dark hair?”

“That’s his son,” Doherty says, shaking his head. “Esai. Manuel is the old man. The patriarch of the family.”

Much like just a few moments before, scads of questions come to mind. Dozens of different things about who the Garcias are and what they’re after.

How much firepower they will send in the name of getting it.

Shit that can all wait, the internal clock that first began when I tore away from Sunburst Records earlier continuing to tick off minutes in my mind.

“We need to move,” I reply. “Manuel, Esai, whoever. I can guarantee they’re on their way.”

Rotating my gaze away from Doherty, I turn to peer back out the front window.

A quick glance, needing no more than an instant to see the flicker of headlights moving through the trees framing the drive outside.

“Check that – they’re already here.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

“Kill the lights,” Esai Garcia says from the rear driver’s side seat of the Escalade. Leaning inward at the waist, he stares out the front windshield, watching as the twin high beams bounce over the rutted dirt trail they are on.

A twisting lane through thick timber draped in Spanish moss. Trees pushing tight on either side, blotting out any hint of moonlight from above.

A place that is probably a decent getaway by day, but at night looks like something ripped directly from the set of some horror movie.

As ideal a spot as he can conjure to end the bullshit of the last week.

“No,” his father says from the seat beside him. “I want that sniveling shit to see us coming.”

Gripping either side of the driver’s seat in front of him, Esai’s fingers curl inward. Talons clutching the soft leather, clinging tight enough to turn the nail beds white.

More than a week now, his father has made things more difficult. An insistence on always making a point, keeping up appearances for an audience that doesn’t exist.

Performative measures that he can’t seem to grasp pale next to them achieving their desired outcome.

In the days ahead, nobody they do business with will care that Nik Doherty saw them coming. They won’t give a shit if he was scared and crying like a child, or gunned down in his bed while he sleeps.

All they will hear about is what happens when someone tries to renege on a deal with the Garcias.

Once, twice, the words rise to Esai’s tongue. Warnings he wants nothing more than to fling across the narrow gap between them, finally voicing every thought he’s had stretching clear back to Los Angeles.

The start of this entire mess, costing him his two friends and the wound across his ribcage.

Words that never quite make it all the way out, his focus instead drawn to a sight up ahead. An unexpected visual, framed in the bouncing front beams of the Escalade.

“Two vehicles?” he asks, feeling his brows come together.

A moment of confusion his father replies to with, “Two people, two vehicles. One for him and one for his wife.”

Once more, the urge to cast the old man a sideways glare arises. A look to match the various thoughts he was just having, and the many more before that.

His father’s insistence on always seeing what he wants to, rather than what is actually there.

“No way,” Esai hisses instead, his gaze remaining fixed on the cars before them. Vehicles framed in the front headlights of their Escalade, and the matching one behind it.

Reinforcements kept on standby for moments just like this.

Times when dressing up a landscaper and having him scare someone won’t quite get it done.

Four powerful high beams in total, they spotlight a pristine Range Rover and a midsize SUV with at least seventy thousand miles under the hood. A mismatched pair, all but destroying the narrative his father just suggested.

“No way he rushes his family out to the swamp to hide, and then has them drive separate. Especially in that piece of shit.

“Something’s not right.”

“Right?” his father spits from the seat beside him. “Nothing about this situation is right. That’s why we’re here.”

Waving the damned unlit cigar he has been clutching since they left the airport earlier, he adds, “Who gives a shit if they brought two cars? That’s why we brought two as well.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

Never has Bristol Lynch considered herself a runner. Even back in high school, when she played volleyball in the fall and cheered during basketball season, she never felt any sort of affinity for extended cardio.

A necessary evil maybe, but nothing like the love affair her cousin has with pounding the pavement. Endless miles she insisted Bristol join her for, despite every protest.

Repetitive activity that is her definition of Hell. A nightmare of boredom to be avoided at all costs, even if it means an extra pound or two around her midsection.

Despite all that, the instant Duke Larson said that Rumer Ripley was awake, Bristol tore out of her seat. Sending the metal-and-plastic chair she was sitting in caroming out behind her, she shot up from the table and across the hospital cafeteria.

No care for who might be watching.

What they may think.

She also gave no pause for the boots still adorning her feet. Clunky things that were definitely more for form than function, feeling like ankle weights as she pounded at a diagonal across the open space.

The start of a sprint that continued out into the hall and up the stairwell, ignoring the sideways comments she elicited. The shouted cries from nurses and janitors, imploring her to slow down.

Admonishment that she completely bypassed, her singular focus on getting to the small room on the third floor of the facility. The place where she spent the night and most of the day, hoping, praying that her friend would be safe.

That she would open her eyes and let Bristol know that she was okay.

That it wasn’t her fault.

By the time she reached the third set of steps inside the vertical concrete tube, she could feel her legs starting to burn.

Once she made it to the door with the massive number three stamped on it in green paint, her lungs were on fire as well.

Anatomical indicators, pairing with the warmth flushing her features. The moisture rising to her eyes.

Natural reactions that only grew stronger as she raced down the final hallway to her destination, peaking about the time she made the doorway for the room at the end of the hall. A small space with lights extinguished, the only illumination provided by the screens on the various monitors along the back of the room.

Displays for the assortment of machines keeping tabs on the young woman reclined in the bed, her features just barely visible in the half-light.

Pale skin, framing a pair of eyes that for the first time since standing alongside the stage the night before, were open.

No more than slits, but still enough to reveal the whites framing deep brown.

“Hey there,” Bristol manages to whisper. Words thick from the emotion flushing her features.

The fight to regain control of her breathing.

A battle causing her chest to rise and fall in equal time, bringing a sheen of sweat to her face. Perspiration she wipes at with both hands, taking a sideways step toward the same chair that has been her home for much of the last day.

Lowering herself down onto the edge of it, she reaches out, clasping both of Ripley’s hands in her own. “How you feeling?”

Barely are the words out before the pounding of additional footsteps can be heard from the hallway. Shoes slapping against tile, punctuated by a couple of additional admonishments.

Voices from the same staff who scolded Bristol, along with a few others.

Additional hospital personnel along with – from the sounds of it – some family members as well. People posted up along the hallway, there to visit their own loved ones.

Words of caution that the others ignore just as Bristol had, the first to pop through the door being Blaze. Eyes wide, she moves sideways along the foot of the bed, making room for Larson beside her.

A mismatched pair taking up what little space there is on the south end of the room, leaving the twins to post up in the doorway.

One staring in and the other out, neither so much as drawing in a fast breath from the sudden sprint through the massive facility.

Nobody saying a word, Bristol turns her attention back to the bed, watching as Ripley takes in each of the new arrivals one at a time. A sudden appearance leaving her with an expression mixed of both surprise and confusion, trying to make sense of everything in front of her.

Where she is.

How she got here.

A litany of questions that visibly pass over her features, ending with her gaze landing on Emi and Mai Sasaki in the doorway.

“Who are they?” she asks, her attention sliding to Bristol by her side. “Where’s Ham?”

CHAPTER NINETY

When I first saw the flash of light piercing through the woods along the lane to the cabin, my initial reaction was to get my ass out front. Find a close tree to hide behind. Maybe even crawl under the porch and wait for whoever was inside to get out and come closer.

Options that I dismissed just as fast for a variety of reasons, ranging from the bases of many of the closer trees being too skinny to fully hide me to God knows what kinds of reptiles might also be curled up in the cool mud under the front floorboards.

Legit concerns that paled as the lights came closer, splitting from two to four.

A second set, denoting a pair of vehicles approaching.

Expanded numbers that would almost certainly be used to surround the place. Either stand and fire on it from all directions, ripping it to shreds with high-powered rifles, or do something to force the Doherty family outside.

Torch it, the way they did Sunburst Records.

Make them come out to where Manuel Garcia and his henchmen were waiting to really inflict maximum pain.

A host of options that I could not let come to pass, meaning I needed to be somewhere with clear lines of sight in all directions, and at least some modicum of mobility.

Twin goals, the first of which could only be accomplished by gaining elevation. Finding a spot where I could see at least the majority of Garcia’s squad.

A mandate leaving me with only a couple of options.

Climbing a tree or getting my ass up onto the roof.

Two choices, only one of which met my second requirement for some freedom of movement.

It is clear that the cabin is exactly as Frost described it after digging through the inheritance records of Doherty’s wife. An old family site used primarily for hunting or fishing, designed in a utilitarian manner.

Most cabins I’ve been to were erected as getaways. Perhaps even rental properties, meant to generate secondary income.

Places standing two stories in height, with a pitched roof and log furniture and all the rest. Designs ripped from magazines, meant to fit some sort of preexisting ideal.

Pretension that this place is decidedly without, standing only a single story in height. A basic design that is laid out in a rectangular fashion, the entire front half comprised of the living room where I was just standing.

An open space stretched the full width of the cabin, the back half split evenly between a connected kitchen and a bedroom with bath carved out in the final quadrant.

The sole space in the entire house with walls, which is exactly where we sent Doherty’s wife and daughter, telling them both to climb into the bathtub and do not get out until one of us came for them.

Orders they accepted without pushback, much the same as Doherty himself when I placed him in the lone closet in the front room. A tiny addition in the corner loaded with old coats and rain slickers that he is now crouched in the bottom of, the barrel of the rifle extended through the accordion doors left open no more than a couple of inches.

Just enough space to see the front door across the way, his orders to fire on anybody who passes over the threshold.

Directions that I gave without exception - not even for me - knowing that it’s a hell of a lot easier to keep my ass away from that door than it is to have him make any snap decisions.

Thinking will only muddle things up.

Point and shoot.

Nothing more.

Of all the design features that have lent themselves favorably to our situation, none are better than the place where I currently find myself. A flat metal roof that was installed decades ago, extended over the matching porches on the front and back.

Left for years in the damp heat, it is now matted with a thick layer of moss. Lichens that cling to the rusted steel, providing natural sound proofing as I move about above.

A soft surface swallowing up any sound, making it easy to move by toes and forearms, tracking the movements of the men who come spilling out of the twin SUVs parked nose-to-tail behind Doherty’s Range Rover and my borrowed ride.

Oversized vehicles much like the one that was parked outside of Doherty’s home, these two both carrying crews of a larger size.

Three in the first one, including a driver and the Garcias.

Esai standing along the right front headlight, and who I assume to be Manuel flanking him on the opposite side.

A trio who exit the vehicle and step just to the edge of the light being thrust out by their headlamps, but come no further. The overseers, rooted in place as a quartet of men dressed in black slide by on either side.

Foot soldiers who stop for only an instant to get their marching orders from the old man before starting to move again. Handguns extended at arm’s length before them, their shadows stripe the ground, cutting through the harsh glare of the headlights.

A bright spotlight, clearly meant to make a point.

Ensure that Doherty and his family can see them coming.

My fingers curling inward, tips digging into the soft moss beneath me, I watch as the group advances. Moving four across, they march directly toward the porch lining the front, their pace slowing as they get closer.

Only then do they begin to fan out, those on either side swinging wide.

Sentries meant to flank the place, no doubt coming together on the back door while the remaining two take up posts directly in front of the porch.

A coordinated entry given their smaller arms, meant to burst in on both ends. Cut off any route of escape for Doherty and his family, just as they did with the driveway.

Indicators confirming my earlier belief that Garcia has no intention of making this quick or easy for the man he has been circling for days now.

Jaw clenching as I stare at the man and his son who I will get to soon enough, I raise my backside a couple of inches from the roof. Lifting my core just above the moss, I slide in the opposite direction, backing away until I can no longer see the two henchmen out front, their silhouettes hidden by the roof overhanging the porch.

A slow retreat, swallowing the Range Rover and my SUV from view as well, leaving only the bright glare of the newly arrived vehicles and their owners in sight at the back.

A lasting visual I lock into place as I rotate to face the rear of the structure. A slow turn keeping my torso just above the moss before pushing on, bringing myself within a couple of feet of the edge of the roof.

A hidden vantage, where I drop flat to my stomach, watching as the men who were sent around either side come into view.

Moving on bent knees, they trace their weapons across the back of the cabin, neither so much as glancing up at the rounded shadow peering down from above.

Reaching to the small of my back, I extract the Browning HI-Power with my left hand. The combat tomahawk comes out on the other side.

Silently bringing them forward, I place them down upon the moss, watching as the man on the right releases a hand from the underside of his weapon. Little more than a darkened outline in the thin light passing through the curtains lining the rear windows, he raises a single finger.

A silent signal to his partner, followed by pointing at the door beneath me.

A plan of entry, fitting exactly what I expected.

The instant his colleague nods in agreement and starts to rotate to the side, coming in behind him, I press both elbows down into the lichens. Using them as leverage points, I draw my knees up under me.

Sweat dripping from my nose and chin, the scent of loam fills my nostrils. Hyper keen senses, in line with the enormous amount of chemicals surging through my body.

That same ingrained response from the honkytonk the other night, amplified by a factor of a thousand.

Keeping my back rounded, making myself as small as possible, I wait as the first man moves out of sight beneath me. Moving a few inches at a time, he heads for the door, his partner following in order.

A procession stopping with the second man just a couple steps back from the edge of the roof, resting right on the cusp of my field of vision.

A motionless target, his full attention aimed at the door leading to the Dohertys inside.

An attacker who has no idea that he is firmly in my crosshairs, drawing the short straw of being the first target for me to begin unleashing some of the wrath I have been carrying for days on end now.

Pressing my toes into the cushioned moss atop the roof, I rock my weight back onto my heels. Building just a bit of momentum, I move back the opposite direction, shoving down hard off the balls of my feet.

Using every bit of coiled energy in my legs, I vault forward, thrusting away from the roof. Pushing out and up, I launch myself into the night sky, hanging suspended above the earth.

Weightless flight as I am propelled past where the man is standing, waiting until gravity begins to take over before twisting in midair.

A half rotation, going just far enough so that I am facing back toward the rear of the house.

Semi-revolution with the tomahawk cocked back above my head, using the momentum of my fall to drive it downward.

An aerial assault the man barely even sees coming, looking up only in time for the razored edge of the tomahawk to drive through the exposed side of his neck. A blow assisted by gravity and the pure angst rippling through me, burying the blade clear to the shaft, cleaving through his windpipe and spinal column.

A shot that nearly removes his entire head from his body as I land on the soft dirt behind him.

Releasing my grip on the weapon, I go with the momentum of the fall, rolling out to the side.

One full rotation before popping up onto a knee, my opposite leg extended at an angle beside me to keep me from going any further as I raise the Browning and fire three times in order.

Shots muffled by the sound of the suppressor threaded down on the end.

Small pops, completely swallowed up by the thunderous explosion of the rifle on the other side of the door.

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

Unlike my first entrance into the house barely twenty minutes ago, my second one isn’t nearly so violent. Fully expecting to be coming in through the back door, I had already disengaged the deadbolt before climbing up onto the roof.

Even twisted the handle, resting the latch against the doorframe.

Anticipatory preparation, letting only the weight of the door hold it in place, providing virtually no resistance as I shove my way inside.

Not that it would matter, the amount of hatred and adrenaline hurtling through me enough to knock the damned thing down even if it was made of solid steel.

Despite the Springfield rifle Doherty was holed up with capable of firing five rounds, I’ve only heard a single shot. A lone blast from his hiding spot in the closet, after which a cacophony of noises erupted.

The front door slamming back into the wall.

The pained cries of whoever was on the receiving end of that bullet.

Heavy footsteps thumping against the floorboards on the porch.

Angry voices shouting and cursing back and forth.

Sounds that I use to draw me forward, thrusting out the flat top of the combat tomahawk in my right hand before me. A blade still wet with the blood of their cohort, slamming flush against the back door.

Flinging it wide, I am provided a clear viewing lane down the center of the cabin. A direct line of sight through the kitchen and past the sofa dividing the space in half, revealing one man sprawled out on the floor.

Weight balanced on his right hip, the same leg is extended at an angle beneath him. A shattered limb, painted red with blood spreading outward from a wound across his thigh.

Heavy droplets leak onto the floor under him, resting for no more than an instant before getting smeared into the hardwood as he fights to drag himself away from the closet.

Features pinched up in pain, his left arm is extended out over his head, reaching for the gun that he must have dropped when the bullet struck him.

Foreground activity, backed up by his colleague appearing in the doorway, raising his weapon before him.

A prime target for Doherty to fire on a second time, though there is no bark of the rifle. No sharp report of a gunshot, reverberating through the structure.

Most likely the first time he has ever shot at a living thing – much less a human – I can imagine that Doherty is currently frozen stiff in the bottom of the closet. Eyes and mouth all open wide, he is sitting there clutching the rifle.

A standard response, seen a hundred times, in a hundred different settings.

Everyone from soldiers facing initial combat to people just like Doherty. Civilians who have probably never thrown a punch, let alone discharged a weapon at an enemy.

System overload, bringing on temporary paralysis as he tries to process it.

Mental machinations that I am decades past bothering with.

Striding through the middle of the structure, pure reflex kicks in. Snapping the tomahawk in my right hand to my shoulder, I take one shuffle step ahead.

Just a tiny bit of momentum before launching it straight out. A snap movement made from pure muscle memory, flinging it across a distance of no more than twenty feet.

A short span that would be almost impossible to miss, the blade completing one full revolution before burying itself into the chest of the man framed in the doorway. A direct strike with enough force to pierce through his sternum, the razored edge slicing directly through to his underlying heart.

An unexpected attack that drives him straight back, as he is able to squeeze off one round.

And then another.

Shots that sound menacing inside the tiny space, but are driven harmlessly into the floorboards as he falls backward, landing hard on the porch just outside.

A journey that is not even complete as I raise the Browning HI-Power in my left hand, bringing my right up to join it. Moving with elongated strides, I push by the door to the bedroom where Doherty’s wife and daughter are hiding.

Past the kitchen and sofa in the center of the room.

Small obstacles that I clear, giving myself a clear line of sight at the first man on the floor, still battling to reach the gun resting just out of reach.

A desperate fight that increases in intensity as he sees me coming, scrabbling with both hands and his one uninjured leg to get there.

Frantic struggle that goes no further as I do exactly to him as I did his friend out back, sighting in with the Browning and firing.

Again.

And again.

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

The instant the thunderous crack of a rifle sounded out from within the cabin, Esai took two steps forward. An automatic response, same as reaching for his rear waistband.

A reflexive movement, going for a gun that isn’t there.

One that would have been, had his father not been so damned insistent on calling the others to meet them, rather than going back to the house to gear up themselves.

Another in a string of hasty actions comprising the last week. One thing after another, putting them all in a bad spot.

Rushing out into the swamp in the middle of the night.

Having their men move on an unknown enemy in a fortified position.

A refusal to at least bring along some weapons of their own, leaving Esai with nothing more than the knife in hand. One of the matching set he took west with him, and one of the few items to have survived the trip back.

A weapon that some detective in Lubbock is probably looking for after it stabbed that girl backstage just last night.

Sprinting forward, Esai made it only a couple of steps before the voice of his father sounded out. A sharp bark bursting through the night air, ordering him to stop.

Wait for the others.

Let them do their damn jobs.

More scolding that caused Esai’s jaw to clench. His grip to tighten around the single initial carved into the handle of the knife as he stared up at the cabin, watching as the second man leapt up onto the porch.

Charging for the door, he paused on the threshold, his body silhouetted in the bright light pouring out from within.

A frozen pose as he surveyed the scene, needing only a moment before starting to lift his weapon before him. An attempt that made it barely to waist height before he started to fire.

Shots aimed harmlessly at the floor beneath him, the crack of their report ringing out. Distinctive barks that echoed against the trees cloaked in heavy moss, serving to funnel it toward the Escalade.

Sounds that again pulled Esai a few steps forward. A short burst of movement, sliding his way across the ground, kicking up a plume of dust around him.

A low cloud that passed over the closest headlight, dimming its glare as it carved a path across the dirt.

Diminishment taken all the way to darkness as Esai stepped in front of it, his body poised as he stared up at the cabin.

Weight shifting from foot to foot, there he waited for more gunshots to ring out, listening to the pained cries of the first man to go through the door.

A cacophony of sounds that died away as fast as they started as the man in the doorway began to retreat. Short stutter steps, as if his legs were failing beneath him, before toppling backward.

A visual it took Esai a moment to register, staring with wide eyes until the man came to a rest.

Prone position, the silhouette of a tomahawk handle jutting from his chest plainly visible.

A sight pushing aside whatever admonishment his father might have just made.

Same for any concern Esai might have for whatever anger the old man might later lob his way.

A renewed jolt of fury flooding into his system, he shoved off the ball of his right foot. A start propelling him forward, taking him from a dead stop to a full sprint within just a couple of steps.

Long strides with the knife gripped tight in hand as he now follows the same path as the man currently sprawled upon the porch. A wider approach, going not straight for the closer side of the porch with the picture window behind it, but for the far end.

The less visible of the two routes.

Charging hard across the soft ground, his shadow streaks from left to the right along the ground in front of him. A misshapen silhouette moving fast as he cuts the gap between himself and his target in half.

And then half again.

A dead run maintained for several seconds, ending with him twisting his hips, extending his legs out to the side. A modified skier’s stance, pressing the edges of his feet into the dirt.

A sliding stop, sending out a curtain of loose soil as he thrusts out his right arm, hooking his hand around the corner porch support.

A point of contact, using whatever remaining momentum he has to pull himself up onto the porch, hitting it at just shy of a jog.

Residual momentum, carrying him across the front of the structure toward the man lying prone in the center of the porch. Flat on his back, his head and shoulders are extended out beneath the railing, sagging over the side.

A pose framed by the bright light spilling from the doorway he was just cast back from. A cone fanning outward, striped by a shadow climbing the length of the man’s body.

The rounded form of someone approaching, moving fast for the exit.

An impending enemy who may or may not know Esai exists, causing him to slow his pace. Dropping it just shy of a crawl, he rocks his weight up onto the balls of his feet, silencing his steps against the porch floorboards.

Bending at the knees, he turns his body sideways, leading with his left side as he shoves the knife into his opposite hand.

There he waits, inching forward, his body coiled and ready to strike, as the shadow grows steadily closer, culminating with the steel tube of a sound suppressor appearing at waist height.

Held parallel to the ground, it slides past the doorframe in front of Esai, followed by the barrel of the weapon it is attached to.

A pair of hands gripping it in a standard supported shooting pose.

Aimed straight ahead, it is the best opportunity Esai is going to get. A chance to disarm whoever is emerging, instantly flipping the disparity in firepower between them.

Standing poised just out of sight from the doorway, his entire body thrumming with anticipation, Esai holds the knife in an overhand grip. Cocked back just past his shoulder, he forces himself to wait, his top half rocking forward and back no more than a couple of millimeters at a time.

Just enough to build a bit of internal momentum, his focus locked on the weapon moving outward.

An exercise in self-control, pausing as the wrists of his unknown opponent become visible.

The forearms, the tan skin of the far one striped with a slash more than three inches in length.

Eyes widening at the sight of it, Esai shoves forward off his back foot. Snapping his arm downward, he drives the blade of the knife down, looking to finish what was started with a simple scratch.

A blow aimed at the middle of the muscle belly, thwarted by the arm jerking back an instant before contact. Recoil putting his knife across the barrel of the weapon, striking it just an inch back from the tip.

Firm contact of metal on metal that sounds out, a single spark flashing.

An initial collision that he follows through on, driving his arm down from the shoulder. Force strong enough to shove the gun down and away, his full intent on wrenching it free.

Disarming his opponent, finishing what was started the night before.

A goal that is made easier than expected by both hands holding the gun opening in unison. A willing release, letting the gun topple to the floorboards and over the edge of the porch.

A loss of opposing force, sending Esai stumbling forward.

Three steps staggering the length of the remainder of the porch before finally he is able to catch his balance, wheeling back the other direction to see the woman he first saw on the stage at the bar in Albuquerque.

The same one he battled with a couple of nights later, resulting in the wound on her arm he just recognized.

The matching one tugging at his ribs.

A sight spiking the animosity he has for the entire situation, even before she reaches for the handle of the tomahawk jutting from the body by her feet. Wrenching it free, she makes a show of wiping the blade across the man’s torso, streaking the steel with bright red stripes.

“Esai,” she mutters.

Rotating the knife to an underhanded grip, Esai pulls himself up straight. Drawing in deep pulls of air, he takes a single step closer, pausing as he runs his gaze over her once more.

Everything from the toned arms to the crazy hair, his sweep ending on the tomahawk gripped tight by her side.

“Who are you?”

Staring back at him, she answers only with, “Does it matter?”

“Just want a name I can give my friends when I say I’ve avenged them.”

Raising the head of the tomahawk a few inches by her side, a faint smile tugs at her lips. “Be sure to tell them I say hi, yeah?”

The wrath he feels for the woman rising like bile along the back of his throat, Esai takes two steps forward. A truncated charge, bringing himself within arm’s reach, before swiping the blade out before him.

A sweeping arc from right to left, coming within mere inches of her torso as she steps away.

A retreat pulling her close to the body resting prone behind her, the man now reduced to little more than a stumbling block. A tripping hazard Esai has every intention of taking advantage of as he pushes forward another step, swinging the knife out before him a second time.

Another forehand swipe, carving through the air between them.

Unfurling his entire arm from the shoulder, he whips it across, his blade more than halfway through its intended path when it meets the head of the tomahawk swiping in from the opposite direction. Blade to blade contact against a much larger weapon that bends his wrist back, pushing his arm out to the side and forcing him to take another step with it to maintain his balance.

A stance leaving his head completely open as she snaps the head of the weapon straight at him, mashing the flat top of it into his face.

A blow just below his nose, crushing his lips flat against his teeth. Steel thrust with enough force to flatten the soft tissue, sending the briny taste of blood over his tongue as his head snaps back.

Stars appear before his vision as his right foot falls back a step to keep himself upright.

His second exposed position, this time letting her drive the tomahawk straight down, cleaving the blade across his left thigh. A swipe ripping through skin and muscle tissue, going all the way to his kneecap.

White bone that is visible for just an instant before the wound is filled with bright red blood. Pouring over the joint and the length of his calf, it soaks through his jeans, dripping onto the floorboards beneath him.

Without its necessary muscle and connective tissue for stability, the joint gives out, dropping him forward onto the same knee.

Twin blows arriving in short order, pulling an angry cry from Esai’s lips as he falls. A guttural roar pushing a zeppelin of bloody spittle out before him as both hands hit the floorboards to either side.

A means to finally center himself before trying one last time to strike with the knife. A looping swipe that fares no better than the last, this one stopped not by the flat head of the tomahawk, but the honed blade of it.

Razored steel aimed at the handle of the knife, tearing across curled fingers, removing all four just below the top knuckle.

One clean strike, sending the digits tumbling to the floor as the knife is wrenched from his hand. A quartet of dull thumps, followed by the knife slapping against the window beside them.

Sounds that barely register with Esai before the intense pain rushes through him. A second jolt of lightning ripping through his body, igniting another roar.

An animal cry of pure rage as he swings his mangled hand before him. A flailing swipe that manages to do little more than spackle her with blood, the momentum of it twisting his body toward the front edge of the porch.

Weight still perched on his left knee, his ruined hand slaps down beside it, his face looking down at the dirt below.

A half standing pose, putting his focus square on the gun with the sound suppressor threaded onto the end that he knocked away from her as she exited the cabin just moments before.

A singular item that he pulls himself toward, each breath pushing more bloody spittle down over his chin. Air expelled through gritted teeth as he drives forward, sliding off the end of the floorboards and down to the ground below.

A journey that never quite comes to a close, stopped short as one last blow lands.

A shot igniting a bright flash of light before his eyes, followed by complete darkness.

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

Every part of me wants to take a few extra moments to relish what just happened. Let the son of a bitch I first encountered in Lubbock know that he is beaten, off to join his friends.

By this time tomorrow, he will likely be alligator shit. Another set of bones picked clean, resting at the bottom of the swamp out back.

Words I can feel rising in my throat, bitten back by the simple fact that I don’t have the time.

Getting revenge on the bastard responsible for the slash across my left forearm was a nice bonus, but it is not the only reason I am here.

By a long shot.

“Doherty! Rifle!”

Surging on anger and adrenaline, the two words erupt from deep within me. A pair of sounds that roll out from the front porch, traveling down the length of the dirt lane, echoing from the trees to either side.

Commands that wash over the two men standing on either side of the closest of the two hulking SUVs fifty yards away, freezing them in place for only an instant before they both start to scramble away.

“Now!”

The third word is what does it, strong enough to push through whatever fear-induced paralysis is gripping Doherty. A single syllable, replied to with the whine of the hinges on the door of the closet.

An initial sound followed by the thumping of heavy footsteps across the living room floor.

An uneven gait, growing louder as he passes through the doorway, stumbling to a stop against the support beam holding up the roof overhead. Bracing his shoulder against it, he grasps the rifle by the barrel, extending it my way as he stands panting, sweat flashing across his pale features.

Physiological responses to the last ten minutes that I do not have time for, snatching the gun from his hand as the two men both pile into the SUV.

One goes straight for the wheel, while the other dives into the backseat.

Targets that I’m not as concerned with for the moment, bringing the rifle up. Nesting the stock of it against my shoulder, I sight in on the front grille of the vehicle as the growl of the engine turning over can be heard.

A low rumble, swallowed up an instant later as I tug back on the trigger, flinging a thunderous report the length of the driveway.

A deafening throb that also overwhelms the sound of contact, the only thing to give it away being the flash of sparks as the round imbeds itself just above the bumper.

A direct hit, but not enough to disable the massive ride as the driver shoves it into gear and starts to reverse out. Cutting the wheel to the side, the backend begins to swing out as I shift my aim just a couple of inches to the side and fire again.

A second high-velocity round in as many seconds, this one coming in at angle, cleaving through the engine’s innerworkings.

A crippling blow that pushes steam out around the hood, causing the SUV to shudder as it continues to slide sideways across the drive. Fishtailing that pushes a cloud of dust up around it, creating a smokescreen through which I can just make out the pale outline of the oversized vehicle.

A misshapened target that I take aim on, jerking the front tip of the rifle to the side and firing again.

Move it an inch to the left and squeeze off one last round.

The two final bullets in the Springfield, made possible by Doherty only getting off a single shot earlier. Remaining rounds that I punch straight through each of the windows facing my direction.

Blind shots into the haze of dust and engine steam swirling around the vehicle, hoping that one or both strike the two men I know are tucked away inside.

By the time the crack of the fourth shot has faded, Doherty has melted to the floorboards beside me. Sliding the length of the support post he was leaning against, he has assumed his wife’s pose in the living room earlier.

Shoulders raised so high, they have swallowed his neck.

Eyes pinched tight.

Even the extra step of fingers jammed into either ear, shielding himself from any sights or sounds.

A reaction I leave him to as I toss the rifle off the edge of the porch, letting it fall across Esai’s lifeless body resting face down in the dirt.

Stepping down behind it, I grasp the handle of the tomahawk extended upward from his back at an angle.

A weapon swap, my focus fixed on the cloud enshrouding the white SUV as I wrench it free, making my way forward.

“Do not go anywhere. I’ll be back.”

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

Any hope Manuel Garcia had that the heavy thumping of bullets slamming into the body of the Escalade hit nothing more than the frame ended as the oversized vehicle lurched to a stop. A shuddering halt with the body positioned perpendicular across the driveway, jerking him forward from his perch sprawled across the backseat.

A realization made just moments before the glass lining the passenger side of the vehicle exploded above him, sending a swirl of particles throughout the interior. Jagged shards that cascaded around him, ripping into his face and neck.

Chewing through the exposed backs of his hands.

Cuts deep enough to draw blood, sending tendrils of red across his skin. Streaks of damp warmth he can now feel running sideways across his nose and cheeks, dappling the front of his white suit as he scrambles across the backseat.

A mad dash of hands and feet, shoving aside more glass. Pieces of various sizes that rain down into the footwells, smaller splinters jabbing into his palms.

Pinpricks he ignores as he fights to get across, aiming at the opposite door swinging open before him.

Ramiro, given a head start on the opposite side, holds it open, beckoning him forward. Crouched down below the window, he swings his right arm in a circle, his eyes wide as he screams, “Come on! Come on, come on!”

Instructions Manuel doesn’t need to hear as he pushes himself across, sliding out of the backseat and down to the ground. An unceremonious tumble, adding dirt to the misshapen spots of blood already dappling his suit.

Grit that he can feel under his fingertips, imbedding itself in the open cuts on his palms as he raises himself to all fours. Bottoms of his dress shoes sliding over the loose soil, his legs churn, fighting for purchase as he aims himself at the second SUV.

A vehicle to match the one they arrived in, hopefully completely blocked by his Escalade sitting across the drive.

“Go, go, go!” he shouts as his feet gain traction beneath him.

Arms flailing in a windmill pattern, he flings himself forward, his heart pounding as he churns out the short distance between the two vehicles. A near repeat of what happened just moments before, the two of them both peeling off on either side of the front grille.

Ramiro goes straight to the wheel, looking to get them the hell out of there.

Manuel heads into the rear, tossing himself sideways across the rear bench once more. A full-body dive, landing on his hip and his shoulder without even bothering to pull the door shut behind him.

“Drive!” he yells, his voice coming out much louder than expected, filling the interior of the vehicle. “Now!”

Saying absolutely nothing, Ramiro twists the keys already lodged in the ignition. One simple turn bringing the engine to life, followed by him jerking the gear shift down a single click.

Just far enough to put it in reverse before punching the gas, sending them hurtling backwards down the lane. A frantic retreat covering more than fifty yards, putting a bit of distance between them and the cabin to avoid a repeat of what just happened.

Only then does he switch pedals, mashing down on the brake as he twists the wheel to the side. A sliding stop while bringing the ass end of the SUV past the middle of the drive, getting them to the same position as before, resting sideways across the dirt lane.

A stop that this time is nothing more than a momentary pause, followed by punching the gas again.

An injection of fuel into the engine that causes them to surge ahead, tossing Manuel back against the seat and forcing the door shut by his feet.

Further escape that he lets go on for another few seconds, only then lifting himself to sit upright. Turning to face the opposite direction, he peers back at the lights of the cabin just visible through the forest behind them.

A static point, fixed in position as they bounce over the bumpy drive, the massive rig rocking side to side as they go.

CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

Of everything Mikey arranged to have waiting for me when I touched down in Miami, nothing just saved my ass as much as the push-button ignition on the SUV. Ease of use that meant I didn’t need to go diving into pockets or consoles looking for keys.

Didn’t have to try and fight through the sheer volume of chemical energy pulsating through me to try and thread the thing into a slot.

Fine motor function that I would simply not be capable of after the battle on the porch.

Needing only to jump behind the wheel and hit a button, within seconds of leaving Nik Doherty clinging to the front porch post, I was tearing down the dusty lane leading away from the house. A slalom run that started a bit slower than I would have liked to get around the massive Escalade stalled sideways in the center of it.

A detour off the beaten path into the soft ground to either side. Damp soil that I forced the SUV through, driving blind as sprays of Spanish moss dragged up and over the windshield.

An obstacle course that only added to the adrenaline roiling through me before I came out the other side, jerking the tires back over into the established ruts. A route cloaked in dusty haze from Garcia and his driver ripping through just seconds before, forcing me to switch to low beams as I punched the gas.

A forward surge, pinning me back against the seat.

A post I still maintain as I hurtle onward, arms fully extended as I clutch the wheel in both hands. Jaw clamped tight, I flick my focus between the winding path before me and the brief flashes of light moving to the left.

Pinpricks of red and yellow flashing intermittently between the trees.

My target having already reached the pavement, shooting due south away from me.

The man I came to Miami in search of, stripped of his team and his son and most likely any weapons he might have had in the other Escalade. Just him and the driver, far removed from whatever personal fortress he will soon run back to.

A chance to regroup and call in reinforcements.

Meaning I will have no better chance than right now.

No more optimal shot to take him out and dispose of his body without anyone knowing I was even in the damned state.

Lifting my heel from the floorboard, I push my toes forward. Another goose on the accelerator, rocketing the SUV over uneven ground.

Ruts that bulge at random intervals, rocking the vehicle from side to side in some spots, others sending me full airborne. A mix of pummeling and weightless sensation that adds to the volatile cocktail of things already roiling through me.

Urgency. Anticipation.

Loathing.

Wanton hostility that I use to shove the gas down one last time. A final thrust as the last of the trees whiz past on either side before lifting my foot from the gas and slamming it down on the brake beside it.

A sudden drop in speed made while twisting the wheel to the left, working it hand over hand in front of me. An abrupt redirect with my foot still on the brake, the tires moaning in protest beneath me as they chew into the pavement.

The body of the vehicle leans out to the right, threatening to lift me from the ground as it swings in a wide arc.

A looping turn, pushing the passenger tires over the opposite edge of the narrow road. Treads chewing through more dirt and loose grass, spewing organic rooster tails onto the pavement behind me.

On either side, a plume of dust and the smoke from charred rubber engulfs the vehicle. A roving cloud, mixing with what was just starting to settle from Garcia pushing through only seconds before.

A head start that I put my full focus on as I move my foot from the brake back to the gas. Shoving it straight to the floorboard, I brace as the SUV rockets ahead again, bursting out of the haze enveloping it.

My gaze fixed on the pair of red dots ahead of me, I keep the accelerator pinned to the floorboard. Downward pressure that I can’t help but increase with each passing moment. Force going past my ankle, including my calf and even thigh above it.

Everything from the hip down, threatening to shove the damned thing through the bottom of the vehicle.

Force that causes both the tachometer and speedometer to spike on the dash in front of me. Twin red lines moving in tandem, both resting at sharp angles.

Stripes of color resting in the foreground of my vision, overseen by the taillights directly above them. Orbs that I stare at, willing the SUV to go faster, as the gap between us slowly begins to close.

A distance starting at two hundred yards, soon whittled down to one hundred.

Fifty.

Steady diminishment across a span of more than a mile, the swamp whipping by on either side. Pockets of dark forest, interspersed with flashes of moonlight resting atop the water.

Geography passing in my periphery as my headlights crawl up the back of the Escalade in front of me. White paint stained with dust, framing a tinted rear window.

A pane of glass too dark to see through, making only the silhouette in the back passenger seat visible.

The rounded shape of Garcia turned sideways, snapping his head back and forth in either direction. Ongoing monitoring, checking my position versus turning to scream at his driver.

Constant urging for him to go faster, conjuring speed his oversized vehicle is simply not capable of.

Not that it would matter anyway.

There is not a chance in hell either of them leave this swamp tonight.

Speed nudging triple digits, I pry my jaw open. Starting deep in my diaphragm, I let loose a primal roar, the sound reverberating through the interior of the SUV as I close the last few feet.

Distance that diminishes to the point I can no longer see his license plate in front of me.

I can feel the impact of my bumper making contact with theirs.

Firm pressure that I leave in place for several moments, melding the two together, before jerking the wheel just a couple of inches to the side. A short slide across the backside of the Escalade, pressing into the passenger side corner.

A sudden shift that the driver has no choice but to try and correct for, spinning the wheel back the opposite direction.

An overcorrection made at too great a speed, sending the front right tire off the edge of the pavement. A loss of firm ground that causes the entire front end to drop, the vehicle shuddering for an instant before regaining traction and rocketing off at an angle.

One last burst of speed, sending the front bumper hurtling at the mammoth cypress tree resting just back from the road. Old growth that has been present for centuries, barely trembling as the headlight smashes into it, the remainder of the body crumpling around it.

A collision hard enough to lift the entire back end in the air as I switch pedals once more, jerking my foot over to the brake. Raising my entire body up out of the seat, I press my shoulder blades flush against the padded chair, listening to the angry shriek of tires skidding across pavement.

A shrill cry echoing along the narrow road cut through the forest, serving as a soundtrack to the SUV jerking to a halt in the center of the pavement.

A stop needing more than fifty yards to complete, backend fishtailing the entire way.

A final resting spot that has overshot the Escalade accordioned around the cypress tree, forcing me to jerk the gearshift down into reverse as I look back over the seat at the crash site.

Punching the gas, I track the wreckage out the passenger side as it slides past, illuminated by the lone remaining headlight on the Escalade. Casting a filmy glow that gets swallowed up by the trees and moss hanging before it, it provides just enough light to see the driver’s side door swing open.

The driver himself spills out, staggering against the body of the vehicle as he turns to face me.

Gun in hand, he raises it to waist height as I push the gearshift back down to drive and hit the accelerator one last time. A forward surge in the face of bullets skipping across the pavement in front of me.

Bright orange blossoms erupt from the front tip of the gun he continues to fire, even as my front bumper slams into him, sandwiching his body between the two SUVs.

CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

The shot with the tomahawk probably wasn’t necessary. Pinned between the grille of my SUV and the side of his vehicle, the driver’s body was folded forward, blood already staining his teeth and chin.

Signs that death was imminent, if it hadn’t already overtaken him.

A journey that I was more than happy to help him along on, ensuring that he didn’t have one last gasp in him. A final few breaths, or even a spastic muscle movement that might let him raise the gun his index finger was still threaded through and fire.

What would be an unceremonious ending for me and undeserved free pass for his boss.

Neither of which I am interested in seeing happen.

Opting against planting the razored edge of the tomahawk into him the way I did Esai back at the cabin, I went with a strafing blow. A swipe across his exposed neck, ripping through his jugular and windpipe.

A removal of blood and air, simultaneously.

A quick death, so I can move on to the old man in white. My target since I first landed in Phoenix, even though at the time I had no idea I should be looking for him, much less who he was.

Still don’t, if I’m being honest, beyond the throwaway line that Doherty gave earlier. Something about him being a shady business partner that I will flesh out soon enough, my full focus for now on eliminating him.

A threat to Doherty, and Blaze, and who knows how many others out there.

Another like a thousand I’ve encountered before, putting their own greed above human life.

Leaving the driver draped across my SUV, his blood pooling from the gaping hole in his neck over the hood, I swing around the front end of his crumpled vehicle.

Combat tomahawk gripped tight in my right hand, I keep it raised at hip height. My gaze swings to either side, inspecting the wreckage.

A mash of twisted chunks of steel painted white and crystalline pieces of the front headlights. Automotive carnage gouging the side of the cypress tree and littering the ground around it.

Debris that I study as I swing out and past, my gaze eventually landing on the rear passenger door standing wide.

An escape hatch through the backside, from which tracks have been torn into the soft dirt. Full shoe prints on one side, offset by long streaks on the other.

What looks like an injured man staggering along, unable to lift his right foot as he tries to flee.

The proverbial wounded animal, making my hold on the tomahawk grow tighter. Same for the clench of my jaw, the tension traveling down my neck and into my shoulders.

Fighting every innate desire I have, I force myself to move slowly. Lifting the tomahawk a couple of extra inches, I do the same with my free hand, curling the fingers into a fist.

Twin bludgeons at the ready as I flick my gaze to either side, walking ahead on flexed knees, following the obvious trail carved into the ground. A series of straight lines taking the man from tree to tree, as if using their trunks for support.

A way to keep himself upright, catching his balance every few yards.

Flicking my gaze between his path and the forest around me, I am forced to the side every couple of steps to avoid the sprays of Spanish moss hanging down. Thick clumps that help to blot out any residual light from the headlamps at my back, reducing the world to little more than shadows.

A foot at a time, I creep forward, passing between trees that grow increasingly dense. Trunks of varying thickness that push in from every direction the deeper I go.

My body amped on adrenaline, I can smell the gasoline and charred rubber from the wreck behind me. Chemical overlays for the natural scents of the swamp.

Loam. Briny water.

Rotting wood.

In my ears remains the fainting ticking of the busted engine of the Escalade. The low groans of bullfrogs and dragonflies.

The whine of the occasional mosquito.

The usual assortment of sounds found in nature, nothing giving away Garcia’s position. No noises of his continued movement, or the stray groan of pain.

Not even the snap of a twig, meaning he must have stopped, either succumbing to his injuries or lying in wait for me.

Options I suspect are weighed decidedly toward the latter as I inch forward, the soil becoming increasingly damp beneath my feet. Soft ground that absorbs the sweat dripping from my nose, my heart rate still thrumming from the events of the last half hour or so.

Increased pulse, causing the veins along the back of my hand and wrist to bulge as I clutch the tomahawk tight.

With each step I take, I can feel the ground beneath me clinging a bit tighter to my shoes. Moisture saturating the soil, hinting that I am fast approaching the water’s edge.

The smell growing stronger with each step I take, I catch a bit of light between the trees. A hint of moonlight dancing across the muddy water, pulling my attention that way for just an instant.

A moment of consideration, drawn back the opposition direction just as fast by a pale flash in my periphery.

A flying projectile in the form of the light sports coat Garcia was wearing at the cabin. Clothing he has wrapped around a rock or stick, tossing it as a means of distraction.

A diversion to get me looking that way so he can come in from the backside.

A sneak attack, made all but impossible by the bum leg he is operating on.

And the fact that I am not Doherty. Or Blaze.

Or any of the other targets he is used to going after.

Instead of whirling toward the tossed jacket – or spinning back the opposite direction – as he expects, I drop straight to a knee. A loss of elevation, planting my right kneecap in the mud, as a chunk of wood comes flying in above me.

A length of driftwood that was probably broken free years ago, left in the damp air for the duration since. Harsh elements that have mixed with bugs and decay and whatever else, reducing it to sawdust as it smashes into the closest tree.

Fine particles rain down on my bare shoulders as I put my full weight on the knee, using it to rotate back the opposite direction. A spinning top with the tomahawk completely outstretched, whipping it out around me.

A backhanded swipe, leading with the flat backside of the blade.

Increased length, making it through just over a quarter of a full rotation before contact.

Impact not with one of the trees around me, but with the remaining operable leg of Manuel Garcia.

A shot flush to the side of his knee, snapping the tensile strength of the joint, and folding it inward.

A sudden loss of support that sends him toppling sideways to the ground, a pained wail erupting from the man as he falls, piercing the quiet swamp night.

What I suspect will be but the first of many as I push myself up out of the mud.

Rising to full height, I stand looking down at the man as he sputters broken sentence fragments through his wounded gasps. Pleas for mercy and attempts to negotiate and all the rest.

The same tired shit that people in his position – people so used to being on the other side of things – so often try.

Attempts that will not matter in the least as I go to work on his ass, fulfilling every thought and silent promise I have made in the last twenty-four hours.

Retribution for what he did to Rumer Ripley.

Walt Billingsley.

Tried to do to Blaze and the Dohertys and who knows how many others.

My turn to make the statement he was attempting to, before feeding him and his men to the murky depths of the swamp.

PART 5

THE FAVOR

CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

More times than he can remember, Bertrand Davis has used the site. An offshoot of the larger Ticketmaster and StubHub forums, dedicated exclusively to fans of Blaze.

People looking to pull the trigger at the last second and get into a show that is sold out. Maybe pick up an extra ticket for a guest they didn’t realize was coming.

Any of a hundred different reasons, many of which have driven Bertrand himself to the forum before.

Almost always looking to buy, rarely has he ever been under the tab marked TRADE. A couple of isolated incidents when he was curious what might come up, the situation almost always some desperate soul looking to jump from the nosebleeds to the premium seats.

A cheapskate hoping to exploit the benevolence of others, claiming hardship or birthday wishes or some such other bullshit.

Sob stories that more than once made him want to reply only for the purpose of dressing them down. Berating them for being lazy or stupid or failing to prepare.

Even worse, being some damn scalper preying on fans, hoping to get their hands on tickets they would then hawk on the street for five times as much later in the day.

Never before, though, has he found himself in this position. An outlier leaving him unable to find the right words, exactly what he wants to say evading him as he sits staring at the screen, a blinking cursor flashing before him.

A prompt, urging him to pen the new message he claimed he wanted to write.

For two solid days, Bertrand sat in that cheap motel in Wichita Falls. Long hours alternating between naps on the rock-hard bed and trips to the vending machine at the end of the sidewalk outside.

The second night, when he couldn’t take any more Doritos or Peanut M&Ms, he made a quick walk to Del Taco on the corner.

Sustenance that fed his mind more than his body as he sat staring at the ceiling, trying to put together exactly what took place. Not just the two incidents at the shows in Albuquerque and Lubbock, but everything that preceded it.

The initial email contact from someone claiming to be Nik Doherty. The unusual offer that was made, based on nothing more than Bertrand’s role as the head of Blaze’s Facebook fan page.

The generous offer that was extended.

Prime seats to every show on the tour, along with accommodations along the way. Everything but food and transportation for the entire summer.

A deal so magnificent that Bertrand had not once stopped to question the validity of it. Didn’t even care to notice the glaring holes in the way it all played out.

The way he was never able to get Doherty on the phone despite repeatedly asking to, everything always done by email.

How the tickets all showed up in an unmarked envelope at his home one day, rather than waiting for him at Will Call in each city.

The low-end motels that were always within an inch of being condemned. The kind of places families like the one in Albuquerque hit up on a road trip, rather than anything a record company would actually arrange as part of a promotion.

The fact that he was asked for not one thing in return beyond simply posting a few photos or videos from the various concerts along the way.

The rare too-good-to-be-true deal that he never gave moment’s pause until he was tucked away inside that supply closet in the bowels of the stadium. An enclosed space with nobody coming to help him, left to sit cross legged on the floor, thinking about the interaction he’d just had with the woman with the Mohawk.

The questions she had asked.

The many more their answers had spawned in his own mind.

“Any solo fans in Texas looking to trade?” Bertrand says aloud, reading the words off the screen in front of him. No less than his tenth attempt at an opening line, making it no further than the others as he hits the backspace key, erasing it from the screen.

Another false start, causing him to exhale through his nostrils as he lifts his gaze to the wall before him.

An open expanse going all the way to the window, adorned not with his usual traveling shrine, but the simple patterned wallpaper the heads of design for Super 8 had decided to go with. Pastel colors of various shapes, arranged with no discernible pattern.

Another part of his self-imposed penance, along with being on this website right now.

Two means of removing himself from Blaze’s direct line of sight – whether it be onstage as he sits in the second row, or simply on the wall as he rests at his computer – while he tries to figure out a way to make amends.

Until then, just being able to sit and watch from afar will be enough.

“Wanted: One nosebleed ticket, in exchange for second row seat. Not joking. Serious inquiries only.”

CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

The conference room is the same exact one we were crammed into just two days ago. Not quite even forty-eight hours, during which a shitload of things have happened.

Not the least of which is the elimination of the criminal faction in Miami that brought us all together.

A fight that I bear more than a few reminders of across my face and brow. Markings that every last person in the room is aware of, all but Emi and Mai Sasaki doing their best to keep their gaze averted.

Efforts not to stare that aren’t necessary, it far from the first time I’ve worn battle scars out into public.

What some might call badges of honor that I prefer to think of as cautionary tales.

Warning to anybody else who might try to harm those in my charge.

Already tight quarters during our previous conversation, today the confines seem even smaller. Less free space brought on by the addition of an extra person, along with one more chair.

An oversized seat in the form of the wheelchair Rumer Ripley is sitting in. The fourth spot at the table, the previously empty chair slid out into the hall, creating a gap for her.

Across from her, Nik Doherty has assumed Harley Lewis’s place, the man no doubt already in Dallas a few hours away. His chief concern keeping things going with his headliner, he likely has little time for whatever might be going on with the undercard.

Based on what I’ve seen in the past week, even less stomach.

An absence that nobody much seems to notice.

Seated on either side of Ripley are Bristol Lynch and Blaze. Each with an arm extended, they clasp both of Ripley’s hands.

A three-person chain, all sitting and listening intently to Doherty across from them.

“I owe everybody here an apology, and a thank you,” he begins. Pausing there, he glances around the room.

Takes a deep breath.

A moment to collect himself, despite probably having spent the entire flight from Miami this morning preparing for this moment. An early departure, made after using all of yesterday to get his wife and daughter to safety.

Deal with the fallout from the torching of his company.

Speak to the authorities about the pair of dead bodies that somehow showed up at his home.

A gauntlet of activities that I left him to, watching from afar to ensure that there was nobody else taking a vested interest in him. No other Garcia family members or shady business partners who might be looking to make a move.

An overlook post that revealed absolutely nothing.

Whatever threat there was has been eliminated.

“Starting with the apology, I am so, so sorry that my actions put any of you in danger,” Doherty says. “Had I known that it was happening, that that was what Manuel Garcia was hinting at when he showed up at my office earlier this week, I would have taken steps to remedy it immediately.”

Fixing his gaze on the trio across from him, he continues, “I’m also sorry that when that note first showed up in Phoenix, you guys didn’t feel like you could come to me with it. And that two days ago when Bristol called, I wasn’t able to act on it immediately.”

Giving his head a shake, he sighs audibly before adding, “But most of all, I’m sorry that I ever got involved with Garcia to begin with. I knew what this tour would mean for all of us, and I was desperate for liquid capital to make it happen. I should have known better than to think a simple repayment – even with a gigantic interest rate - would be enough.

“I just didn’t know how much more he would expect.”

The way he explained it to me after we disposed of Garcia and his crew in the swamp the other night and made our way to a hotel just north of the city was that Garcia had somehow drawn a straight line between himself and the meteoric rise of Blaze.

Two things that were in no way connected, based on nothing but some vague assumptions.

An analysis of when his money went in and when she started to blow up that he somehow interpreted as a personal ownership stake.

A position he was willing to apparently destroy in the name of making some kind of statement.

“But that’s no excuse. I should have known better, and I’m so sorry you all got pulled into this thing as a result.”

Pausing there, he makes a point of going around the room and establishing eye contact with every last person present. Not just the three ladies sitting across from him, but Duke Larson leaning against the wall to my right.

The twins to my left, despite his having just met them a short time before.

A trip around the room ending with me before he lowers his gaze and continues, “I also want to tell you all how thankful I am. Thankful that you, Rumer, are going to be okay. Thankful for everything you, Bristol, have done in the last week to keep things going in the face of all of this.

“You, Blaze, for dropping everything these last couple of days to come here and sit by your friend’s side.”

His mouth open, a dozen additional things lined up and ready to be added, he pushes them aside with a quick shake of his head.

A mental reset before again lifting his focus to the outer ring and continuing, “Duke, Emi, Mai, thank you for being here and watching over them. Making sure no other harm befell them.”

Closing the circle, he returns to me and says, “And to you, for protecting my family, and making sure that the Garcias can never be a threat to any of us ever again.”

Off to the right, I can see Emi raise a fist by her side. An offering her sister matches, hissing the word, “Nice,” just low enough for everybody to hear.

A prompt that causes Lynch’s brows to rise.

Blaze to flick her gaze from the twins to me and back.

Doherty to reply, “That’s certainly one word for what happened.”

Leaving any further explanation of what occurred in the swamp at that, he raises both forearms to the table before him. Lacing his fingers together, he says, “Which brings us to the topic of how we want to handle things moving forward.”

Exhaling slowly, he casts his gaze about the room once more.

“What do you guys think? Are we going to Dallas?”

EPILOGUE

After ten straight hours of sitting in the back of a van, I’m not sure that one of the girls even thought to ask where we are or why we’re here. Just thankful to be off the road after one of the longest days of their young lives, they filed out of the vehicle and into the side entrance of the stadium.

A structure closer in form to the one in Lubbock than in Albuquerque. Multiple decks stacked one atop another, the base layer dotted with entrances carved directly into the concrete.

Openings allowing me to pull directly up and usher the girls inside to the private room where they now sit. An enclosed space without windows, with only a single metal door for access.

A room not differing greatly in outside appearance from the one I locked Bertrand Davis in barely a week ago. A man I know to be tucked away somewhere in the back of the venue outside, who I will go pay a visit to in a bit.

One last interaction to clear the air, making it known that we are aware of the role he was forced into by the Garcias, just as Blaze is aware of the role he plays in her online fandom.

Two things meaning he no longer needs to hide, worrying about showing his face around here.

Beyond those basic exterior similarities though, the room is a harsh contrast in every other way to the supply closet in Lubbock.

Plush leather couches line two of the walls. The third features a buffet spread with everything from pizza to nachos. Coolers on the floor overflow with sodas and water.

On the wall is a flat screen television broadcasting some sort of music program, the sound pushing out through speakers mounted in every corner.

“So this was life on the road, huh?” Glenda asks beside me.

A loud whisper, as she is the only person present who knows what I was off doing during my brief absence.

Much less who I was doing it for.

Said with a smirk to match the half smile on her features, she glances my way. A quick look that I match, offering a snort in reply.

A non-verbal response letting her know that while I wasn’t exactly roughing it while out on the road, it never came anywhere near this.

A spread that was almost certainly put out special for this occasion, done at the hand of any number of different people.

After Nik Doherty posed that question of what to do moving forward in the conference room on the third floor of the University Health Sciences Center, a number of answers were batted around. Conversation mostly concentrated between him, Blaze, and Bristol Lynch, the three coming to a consensus that they would like to keep going.

But only if they could guarantee the health and safety of everybody involved for the duration.

A guiding maxim that eventually led to them checking in with Duke Larson and the twins before, ultimately, Blaze turned to me and asked what my role would be.

A question I answered in the best way I could, which was to tell her that it depended entirely on how she chose to proceed.

Should she wish to call things off, I would likely do the same.

If her decision was to keep going, pushing on to Dallas and beyond, I would accompany them for a couple of extra nights. Time during which I would do exactly as I had for Doherty in Miami, assuming a role of oversight.

A position outside of her immediate protective detail, letting me check on each and every one of those blind spots I mentioned to Lynch a couple of nights before.

Outside eyes and ears, from someone used to looking for the holes.

Weaknesses to exploit, both from the inside and out.

Six hours later, every last one of us—with the exceptions of Rumer Ripley and Doherty, who chose to stay and help her recently-arrived family—were in Dallas.

Three days after that, I was on my way back to Montana, content that what Doherty told the room during his initial debrief was true.

Any threat that existed had been safely buried at the bottom of the swamp west of Miami.

Saying not a word in response to Glenda’s barb, I watch as the girls attack the spread of food before them. Ravagers loading up plates with everything they can get their hands on, many starting in before they have even returned to their seats.

Gluttony far surpassing what I saw at the bonfire a week and a half earlier, many of them singing along to the music, just as they did then.

Merriment that is again interrupted, this time not by an intruder alert going off on Glenda’s phone, but by a simple knock at the door.

Three quick taps in order, preceding it swinging inward and Mai Sasaki sliding inside. Wearing the same shirt I was given when in her place, the bottom cropped just above the top of her jeans, she extends a fist my way.

“Welcome back.”

“Good to see you,” I reply, meeting her fist. “Sister around?”

“Right outside,” she says, tilting her head toward the door. “With a couple of ladies who would like to speak with you.”

Glancing toward the room, I can see most of the girls openly staring. Eyes wide, their voices have trailed away, as has any interest in the food.

Phase one, of what I imagine will be a couple of surprises in the next few minutes.

Nodding to Mai, I place a hand on Glenda’s shoulder as I slide by.

“Be right back.”

Saying nothing more, I step out into what is a close copy of the other stadiums I’ve been in recently. Concrete chambers lined with columns and metal signage hanging down from above.

Undercarriages with low light and cool air, despite the many people rushing to and fro.

Some familiar faces from my time on the tour, along with scads more. Locals moving fast to make final preparations for showtime, nobody paying attention to the three young women standing along the wall.

Emi Sasaki, a few feet away, her gaze tracing across every single one of the people flying by.

A constant scan that meets my gaze for only an instant, a corner of her mouth turning upward as she lifts her chin in hello.

A restrained greeting that is taken a step further by the smile that traces Bristol Lynch’s crimson lips.

An escalation process that peaks with Blaze beside her, a full grin spreading across her face. Breaking off whatever she and Lynch were discussing, she raises her hands and steps my direction.

Sliding them around my shoulders, she says, “You made it!”

Matching the embrace for a moment, I release and step back as Lynch fills in beside us and asks, “How they doing in there?”

“Eating twice their weight in food, as we speak,” I reply. Passing my gaze between them, I add, “Which, you guys...”

“It was the least we could do,” Blaze inserts.

“As are these,” Lynch adds. Lifting her left hand, she flashes the dozen or so lanyards threaded through her fingers.

Badges just like the ones I wore, granting backstage access for the night.

“Which I better get to them if they’re going to be ready for the huddle behind the stage.”

Adding nothing more, she raises her other hand. Curling it into a fist, she taps the side of it against my arm as she steps by, pushing through the door behind me.

An exit Blaze and I both turn to watch, waiting until she has disappeared inside before I say, “This is going to make their year. You know that, right?”

“Just them?” Blaze asks as I turn back her way. “I expect you to be there, too.”

A handful of replies springing to mind – most of them my default state of deferring – I opt to sidestep instead, raising my focus to the new color scheme encasing her head.

A bright red base, giving way to orange before ending with yellow tips.

What looks to be flames, leaping directly out of her scalp.

“Trying something different, I see.”

Lifting a hand, she rubs at the base of it, sending hair across her shoulders.

“Yeah, I was thinking about shaving down the sides, but I didn’t want you to think I was stealing your look.”

Matching her smile, any chance at a further response is cut short by the sound of screaming erupting from inside the room behind us. Squeals of joy that start low, just a couple of voices, soon added to by the others.

Exuberance that will hopefully replace – and exceed – what was cut short last week. A special treat they can enjoy, despite the strictures that are still in place.

Tight rules about posting pictures or putting themselves on camera or anything else that might get them noticed.

Jeopardize what Glenda has worked so hard to create for them in the mountains.

“I do believe that is our cue,” Blaze says, chuckling as she takes a step toward the door, the sound of collective excitement growing louder inside.

“Seriously,” I reply. Falling in beside her, I balance a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it softly. “I can’t thank you enough for doing all this.”

“You don’t have to,” she answers. “All of this is our way of thanking you for everything you did, Ham with one m.”

* * *

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SNEAK PEEK

THE EXCHANGE: HOBBY LOBBY MYSTERIES BOOK 1

To look at the file sitting closed on the table, it would appear that a great deal of investigation had taken place. More than a half inch thick, the interior of the plain manila folder bulged in the middle, paperclips affixed to the top holding contents inside, a thick rubber band keeping the package intact for transport.

Flipping it open told quite a different story.

The vast majority of the material inside – everything but a single page, in fact – was photographs. Taken from a myriad of distances and angles, they encapsulated every single inch of the bedroom scene, almost reveling in the macabre. From the contorted pose of the victim to the sprays of blood spatter covering the posters above her headboard, nothing was spared, each item in the room documented with painstaking detail.

As for the report, it was nothing more than a few short lines, all jotted down in slanted script. In a couple places there was even an occasional wobble visible, hinting both at which detective had done the analysis and the extreme impetus he had to finish the task as quickly as possible.

Based on the concentrated gore of the photos, a first reaction would be to empathize with whoever had filled out the documentation. The images seemed to convey a scenario that was rarely found outside of horror movies or nightmares, the sort of thing no human should ever witness, let alone linger over.

Moving on quickly was a natural reaction.

Still, to the untrained eye, someone looking at the materials for the first time, it was impossible to see what was depicted in the photos and justify the way it had been simplified to nothing more than four sentences.

There were just too many questions that sprang to mind, too many things that needed to be addressed before anybody could think to wrap the investigation.

Appears to be an obvious case of suicide. Deep slashes on wrists and trajectory of blood indicate as much. Knife found on the scene, bagged as evidence.

Will look into the message written in victim’s blood on the wall, which is curious, but does not alter conclusions in the slightest.

* * *

Erika Wernick had been awake for more than an hour before the pale gray glow of dawn appeared at the top and bottom of the blinds pulled closed over her bedroom window. Faint and indiscreet, she knew what time it was the moment the light appeared, the sun rising at the same time every day in the spring since she was just a child.

There was a time when having such familiarity was something Erika reveled in, the very thing that brought her back every few months, had her aching to return each time she was gone.

Now it just reminded her of how much she had lost, of how much things had changed in the preceding months.

In the six weeks she had been back, there was not a single morning that Erika had managed to sleep through the night, the reasons for it seemingly numerous but essentially coming down to one of two things.

The first was the dream, her subconscious never letting the events of that night drift too far below the surface, especially cruel on days when she had managed to hold it at bay during her waking hours. Never was she able to completely push the thoughts away - the accident too recent, the nerves too raw – and she doubted she ever would.

Some things, a person just doesn’t forget.

It came at various points, sometimes letting her get nearly a full night’s rest before showing up, others arriving just moments after she laid down. Never did it play out exactly the same way, choosing different places in the sequence to begin, highlighting different aspects that may have escaped Erika for even the slightest instant.

The only thing that ever remained constant was the fact that after it arrived, her night was over, the ability - or even thought - of sleep just too difficult to consider.

The first couple of times it had occurred Erika had made the mistake of rising from her bed, going to the kitchen for tea or even moving into the living room and turning on the television. Whatever brief reprieve such activities had given her mind had proven not to be worth the effort though, the inquisition her mother would inevitably level on her far outweighing it.

The other thing that usually caused Erika to wake, the thing that had pierced through the darkened veil of slumber on this particular night, was the pain. A mirrored image of whatever battle her psyche was fighting, the myriad aches and pains of her body were still just as raw.

This particular morning it was her knee, the severely sprained MCL not quite recovered, still susceptible to the slightest bump as she moved about in her sleep. Far more painful than the fractured wrist or countless cuts and bruises she had endured, it had woken her just as many times as the dream in the preceding weeks, a ratio she hoped would have started to recede with time but was fast resigning herself to the possibility it might never do so.

With such resignation also came the idea that she might not even want it to, the pain just one more reminder of what had happened, one more way to feel connected to all that was and might never be again.

By the time the first light of day broke into her consciousness, the agonizing ache of her leg was long past. In its wake Erika had remained staring up at the ceiling, counting off the minutes in her head, preparing for the day ahead.

Not one part of her wanted to do what was just over an hour away, though she knew there was simply no way of getting out of it. Her mother would not condone it and the guilt she would unleash would far outpace anything that could occur in the coffee shop across town.

Besides, Erika had promised her Uncle Ern she would go, and if there was one rule that every person in Big Bear knew to abide by, it was not to upset Ern.

As predictable as the appearance of the morning light outside her window, exactly four minutes later a gentle scratching sound came at the door. A moment after the old brass knob rotated a half turn and the aging hinges let out a low moan, the sound preceding the appearance of her mother’s head popping in.

“Erika? You up, honey?”

Lying flat on her back, her gaze still fixed on the ceiling above, Erika made no attempt to look over. “Yeah, Ma, I’m up.”

The response was just four words, but instantly the older woman grasped the resignation in the tone, the underlying meaning present. Another sound of metal straining against metal could be heard as she pushed the door open a little further, a floorboard creaking beneath her weight as she stepped into the room.

“Dream or knee?”

Without being invited in, she shuffled across the bare floor, her slippers sliding over the polished surface, and perched herself on the edge of the bed, her weight shifting the entire thing a few inches to the side.

For a moment Erika considered not answering, or even better making up a lie, telling her mother that in truth she was just feeling good and had sprung up before the sun, anxious to get across town, to try something new.

Just as fast she dismissed the notion, knowing her mother would see right through it, would not appreciate the effort Erika had put into lying to her.

“Knee.”

A long sigh was the immediate response, Erika able to picture the expression on her mother’s face, before hearing, “Well, that’s better than the alternative. At least we know that will heal.”

This time Erika chose to remain silent, instead shifting her focus to the side.

For as long as she could remember, everybody in town had told her what a striking resemblance she bore to her mother, a fact she couldn’t rightly refute, no matter how many times she had wanted to over the years. Even now as she was just past 30 and her mother was into her mid-50s, the similarities were jarring.

If someone did not know Robin Wernick, they would think she was in her early-40s at most. Blessed with white blonde hair, the thick locks looked exactly as they always had, nature protecting her from the steady march of graying that befell so many.

Descendant from Viking stock, she had wide cheekbones and clear blue eyes, a heart-shaped face tapering into a thin mouth. Standing a few inches below 6’ in height, her entire form was wrapped in a padded flannel nightgown, appearing to give her much more bulk than Erika knew really existed.

“How’s everything else feeling?” Robin asked.

Again rolling her attention toward the ceiling, seeing the random pattern of light grow stronger as the sun forced its way above the horizon, Erika ran through the list of injuries in her mind.

Just two days before the cast had come off her fractured wrist, and while she was still adjusting to life without the added weight, she was immeasurably glad to be free of it.

Most of the cuts she’d sustained were now healed, a few still remaining as ugly streaks of gnarled pink tissue, some having already begun to fade.

“Fine,” Erika said. “I think I just banged my knees together when I rolled over.”

“Hmm,” Robin replied, in one sound letting Erika know she accepted the answer, even if she didn’t quite believe it. “Well, I didn’t mean to intrude this morning, I was just coming in to check and make sure you were up.”

“I know,” Erika replied. “And I am.”

Sliding a hand up onto Erika’s shoulder, Robin squeezed it tight, the older woman’s grip having not receded a bit with age. “Most days I would be happy to let you rest, but you don’t want to be late. Big day today.”

How big of a day it was Erika wasn’t so sure, but again she knew better than to argue with her mother.

As the sister of Big Ern, she would bear the brunt of any transgressions Erika committed.

“I know, Ma. I won’t be late.”

Giving another squeeze, Robin said, “Besides, I think this might be good for you. Get you out of the house, let you talk to some folks, get your mind on something else for a while.”

In one sentence, her mother had managed to nail every reason why Erika didn’t want to go. No part of her wanted to leave the sanctity of the house, wanted people around town casting glances her way or asking awkward questions she wasn’t yet ready to face.

Didn’t know if she even had the answers to, if it came down to it.

Per usual, though, there was no way she could actually say any of that.

“I know, Ma. I won’t be late.”

* * *

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THANK YOU

Greetings, y’all!

There seems to a distinct two-part process that plays out whenever a new idea comes across my desk. Step one is always to determine whether or not there is enough for it to stand on its own, or if it should be wrapped up into something else as a supporting subplot.

Step two - if it is going to serve as the crux for a new novel - is figuring out whether it should take place in one of my preexisting series, or if it should be something new and original entirely.

In this particular instance, the inciting spark of the premise was a photo I saw some time back. Standard concert fare, it was little more than a silhouette of a lead singer onstage, microphone in hand, hair splayed in all directions, backlit by the overhead lighting. A striking shot from a show two or three decades ago, back when hair bands and stadium tours were all the rage.

(For the record, I am not knocking anything here, as my affinity for both has been well documented over the years)

From that single image, I started thinking about how it would look if the microphone was swapped out for a weapon of some sort. Who would find themselves in such a position? Who would they face off against and what factors might have brought them both to the stage?

A host of questions that really started to give the story shape, to the point that by the time I had worked out rough answers for them, my second overarching question had pretty much already been resolved as well.

A rock stage, in front of tens of thousands of people, with pulsating sound and light all around? Kind of had to be Ham, right?

Once all that came together, I can’t begin to tell you how much fun I had digging into concert footage and stories from the road. Tales that certainly didn’t all make it onto the page here, but provided plenty of background fodder for the world I tried to bring to life.

One that I only hope you enjoyed spending some time in as much as I did. As always, thank you so, so much for doing so, and until next time...

Much love, and happy reading,

Dustin

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dustin Stevens is the author of more than 70 novels, the vast majority having become #1 Amazon bestsellers, including the Reed & Billie and Hawk Tate series. The Boat Man, the first release in the best-selling Reed & Billie series, was named an Indie Award winner for E-Book fiction. The freestanding work The Debt was named an Independent Author Network action/adventure novel of the year and The Exchange was recognized for independent E-Book fiction.

He also writes thrillers and assorted other stories under the pseudonym TR Kohler.

A member of the Mystery Writers of America and International Thriller Writers, he resides in Honolulu, Hawaii.

Let’s Keep in Touch:

Website: dustinstevens.com

Facebook: dustinstevens.com/fcbk

Twitter: dustinstevens.com/tw

Instagram: dustinstevens.com/DSinsta

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DUSTIN’S BOOKS

Works Written by Dustin Stevens:

Reed & Billie Novels:

The Boat Man

The Good Son

The Kid

The Partnership

Justice

The Scorekeeper

The Bear

The Driver

The Promisor

The Ghost

The Family

The Cat

The Shadow

The Influencer

Hawk Tate Novels:

Cold Fire

Cover Fire

Fire and Ice

Hellfire

Home Fire

Wild Fire

Friendly Fire

Catching Fire

Forest Fire

Signal Fire

Zoo Crew Novels:

The Zoo Crew

Dead Peasants

Tracer

The Glue Guy

Moonblink

The Shuffle 

Swatted

Ham Novels:

HAM

EVEN

RULES

HOME

GONE

DEAL

BLAZE

My Mira Saga:

Spare Change

Office Visit

Fair Trade

Ships Passing

Warning Shot

Battle Cry

Steel Trap

Iron Men

Until Death

Night Novels:

Overlook

Decisions

Twelve

Hobby Lobby Mysteries:

The Exchange

Badger Games

Standalone Thrillers:

Moonshine Creek

The Subway

The Ring

Peeping Thoms

One Last Day

Shoot to Wound

The Debt

Going Viral

Liberation Day

Motive

21 Hours

Scars and Stars

Catastrophic

Four

Standalone Dramas:

Quarterback

Be My Eyes

Ohana

Just A Game

Children’s Books w/ Maddie Stevens:

Danny the Daydreamer…Goes to the Grammy’s

Danny the Daydreamer…Visits the Old West

Danny the Daydreamer…Goes to the Moon

(Coming Soon)

Works Written by T.R. Kohler:

Hunter Series:

The Hunter

Street Divorce

Jumper Series:

Into The Jungle

Out To Sea

Bulletproof Series:

Mike’s Place

Underwater

Coming Soon

Translator Series:

The Translator

The Confession