The traffic was stopped at the red light on Broadway.

She advanced, like a woman without a care in the world, down the middle of the wide, normal y busy street toward a man who had alighted from a different car.

He too, had a gun pointed at her.

She halted.

They faced off.

“Jules!” he shouted.

At the cal of what was likely her name, her arms moved slightly, to the left and down. Without apparently aiming, she fired, twice.

And she took out the two front tires of his car.

“Holy crap,” Indy breathed.

“Righteous,” Al y whispered.

“Fuckin’ Jules!” the man yel ed and started running toward her.

She whipped around, ponytail flying, and ran back to her car, throwing the gun into the passenger seat. She got in and started reversing on a smoky squeal of tires, leaving the man in her dust.

Al our heads fol owed her as the car twisted viciously around to face the right way again and she took off like a rocket.

The man with the gun turned toward Fortnum’s and started running and kept going, right passed Fortnum’s down the side street.

“Stay here,” Hank said to me, his hand was in his back pocket, pul ing out his phone. Then he moved to the door.

The place was a flurry of activity.

The Hot Boy Brigade was on the move. Out of Fortnum’s they went, disbursing with barely a word to each other, instinctively knowing what they were doing.

I noticed it was Vance, on his Harley, who shot off in the direction of “Jules”.

Indy turned to me and said on a grin, “Welcome home.”