Julio tips his head back and howls, his voice mimicking the call of a wolf. “Well, I don’t know what animals we are anymore, cabrón. All I know is that you and I are one and the same. We clawed our way out of the dirty shit we were born into and carved ourselves out a kingdom. My kingdom’s slightly bigger than yours, though, huh?”

I nod ruefully, tipping my glass to him. “Uh-huh. And you don’t answer to anyone, too, right?”

Julio shakily pours some more alcohol into both our empty shot glasses, grinning at me. He suppresses his smile as he says, “From what I hear, you’re no longer taking orders, either.” He offers me the alcohol, his eyes somehow a little more lucid than they had been a minute ago.

Well fuck me. His comment has an instant sobering effect. He does know about me running out on Charlie? I clear my throat. There’s a lot riding on what comes out of my mouth next. “Charlie’s a major pain in the ass sometimes, Julio. We’re on a break. I’m sure he’ll have forgotten…,”I wave my arm drunkenly in the air in the general direction of Seattle, “…all about it by next week.” Better to make it sound like he’s mad at me than the other way around. Julio might harbor some sympathy for a payroll guy who’s pissed off a boss like Charlie. A payroll guy who’s gone rogue and decided to take certain matters into his own hands will probably just piss him off. All of these thoughts take shape slowly through a thick haze of alcohol.

“I see.” Julio tosses back his drink and reaches across the table between us, placing a firm hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard. “I defended you today, Zeth. I chose to give you the benefit of the doubt where my men would have had me kill you instead. I’ve done this because we’re fucking dogs, you and me, and when I look at you I see…me.”

Yeah, you wish, asshole. Through the booze, this strikes me as funny, given that I’m twelve inches taller, ten years younger, and a hundred pounds lighter than the sack of man-jello sprawled in front of me. I suppose it’s time to thank him now? I suck in oxygen, willing the fresh air to help me find the right words to convey some self-effacing gratitude. Sadly all I come up with is, “Thanks.”

He offers a one-shouldered shrug. “Don’t prove me wro—”

It’s not heartburn that cuts him off this time. It’s gunfire. Relatively silent a moment ago, the compound is suddenly alive with noise and shouting and the crack, crack, crack of weapons fired. Julio, somehow, heaves himself to his feet.

“Singa la puta!” he roars, throwing his glass on the floor.

I get to my feet, adrenalin punching through the alcohol. This is not fucking good. It still feels like I’m on a goddamn merry-go-round as I follow after the lumbering form of Julio as he makes his way toward the front entrance of the villa. Outside, all of Julio’s guards are bristling, directing their weapons through the fence toward the burning headlights of a vehicle on the other side.

“Back in the fucking car, puta!”

“Shoot!” one of the guards yells. “Fucking shoot!”

Julio takes in the scene through outraged, bloodshot eyes. “What the hell is going on?” His yelled demand does little to calm the gunmen, although one of them does answer him.

“Some bitch rolled up out of the desert. She’s a fucking cop!”

A spike of fury roils up from my belly. A cop? It can only be that fucking DEA woman, Lowell. That’s probably why my burner’s been ringing off the hook the whole afternoon—Rick trying to tell me she was coming. For a second I almost want the guards to have their way. But then the figure standing in front of the car shifts, a slim body falling into silhouette, and I see that I was wrong. It’s not Lowell, or any other cop. It’s a doctor.

It’s fucking Sloane.

I rage past the gunmen, shoving them roughly out of the way as I charge toward the woman on the other side of the railed gate. All I can see is the startled, petrified look on her face as she stands locked in place, hands outstretched, as if to ward off the bullets with the palms of her fucking hands. I have to stop when I get to the gate—it’s locked. I let out a roar so loud I can feel it tearing at my throat. I smash my fist into the thing, shaking so violently I can barely stand up straight.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” I yell directly into her pale, shocked face. I can’t…I can’t even think through the anger. My hand feels like someone just laid into it with a hammer, but that doesn’t even register. She shouldn’t be here. I made plans, made sure she wouldn’t find herself caught up in all this. Wouldn’t be in any danger. She. Should. Not. Be. Here. “What the fuck?” I ask again, this time growling it under my breath, trying to get a handle on myself. She starts shaking too, hands trembling by her sides.

“They could have…they could have shot you,” she whimpers.

I cast a distracted look over my shoulder, vaguely registering the fifteen M16s now pointed at my back. Julio’s dark bulk wades forward through the sea of muzzles and magazines, one eyebrow raised so high it almost hits his receding hairline.

“Someone you know, Zee?” He looks pissed.

“Yeah.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. Think! “This is—this is Beth. She’s—my plus one.” I turn back to her, trying to light her on fire with the depths of my anger. “And she should not be here.”

“You have never been more correct,” he replies. His voice is clear of the alcohol now, just like mine. Funny how severe anger can have that effect. I’m angry with Sloane, and Julio is furious with me. “You gave a whore fucking directions to this place?”