“And you think I’ll be ready? Ready ready?”

“Ready ready?” Floyd’s smile deepened. “Well, it’s nine months away. I can’t guarantee anything except that in nine months, you’ll be as ready as I can make you. This is uncharted territory, child.”

“What about Mig?”

“Ah, Miguel.” His smile faded. “I suspect he’ll return in his own good time. But with your permission, I’d like to bring Kevin McArdle into this. It will be good for you to have a different sparring partner. He’s out of practice, but I think he’ll be willing and I think he’s trustworthy. He was close to your brother.”

“Okay.”

The coach fixed her one more time with his pale, watery gaze. “And you’re sure? One hundred percent sure?”

“Yes,” Loup said simply.

He nodded. “I’ll talk to McArdle. And I’ll talk to Bill Argyle. Set the wheels in motion.”

“Thanks, sir.” She hesitated. “What’s gonna happen to you when this all comes out?”

Floyd waved one hand. “You let me worry about that, child.”

On the following Sunday, Loup arrived at the gym to find Kevin McArdle already there, warming up with a jump rope.

He’d always been diligent. His pale, freckled body had lost a bit of muscle tone, but he still moved the rope in a steady blur, feet skipping effortlessly.

“Hey, Loup!” Kevin greeted her with a smile, folded the rope over one arm. “What’re you doing here, kiddo?”

“You didn’t tell him?” she asked Floyd.

He shook his head. “Easier to show than tell.”

“Huh?” Kevin glanced between them. “You asked me to help out with a special training project.”

“A top-secret project,” the coach agreed.

“Loup?” His voice was incredulous.

“Change and warm up,” Floyd said to her, then to Kevin McArdle, “You’ll see.”

There was something exciting about the prospect of sparring with someone new, even if it was in slow motion. At least it was something. She knew Kevin; she’d watched him train since she was a kid. She’d seen him fight half a dozen times. Still, it would be different to step into the ring with him, because it was another step toward a fixed destination.

Motion.

Progress.

Loup warmed up slowly, skipping rope just quickly enough to get the blood flowing. She tapped the bags gently, watching Kevin watch her out of the corner of one eye, bemused and uncertain.

“Good enough,” the coach said. “Gloves and gear.”

He checked their headgear, made sure their mouth guards were in place, laced their sparring gloves. They climbed into the ring together.

“This is crazy.” Kevin smiled at her around a mouthful of molded plastic, his coppery hair disheveled by the headgear. “But hell, okay. I don’t mind. Think I still remember how this works.” He smacked his gloves together. “Whaddya want, Coach?”

Floyd didn’t look up from his charts. “From you? Oh, just go at her with everything you’ve got.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. We’ll work out a program later.” He glanced up. “Loup, I want you on defense only today. McArdle’s faster than Miguel, but he’s out of practice.”

“Okay!” she called cheerfully.

“On my say-so, go!”

Kevin McArdle blinked at Loup, then took a gliding step forward and essayed a slow, careful jab at her head.

She batted his hand away. “Aw, c’mon.”

The coach raised his voice. “I said everything, McArdle! For God’s sake, the girl’s able to handle anything Miguel Garza’s thrown at her.”

He stared at Loup. “He’s serious.”

“Uh-huh.”

He blinked again. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.” Loup raised her gloved fists. “Listen, just try it, okay?”

“Okay.” Kevin sounded dubious, but he came at her with a combination, a little faster than before. When she caught his blows with ease, his eyes widened. He picked up the pace and began to press her in earnest. Loup breathed slowly, trying to match his pace. He was a little clumsy, a little out of practice, but he was good. Faster than Miguel, though he didn’t hit as hard. He didn’t have the same killer instinct, either. Still, she admired his deft footwork as she caught and deflected, slipped and ducked.

“Holy shit!” When the coach called an end to the first round, Kevin was grinning. “Holy shit!”

“Yep,” Floyd said laconically. “It’s a goddamned miracle, son.”

“What are you?”

“I dunno exactly,” Loup admitted. “It’s some kind of genetic-engineering thing. My dad was an experiment who ran away, so no one knows for sure. But the guy who killed Tommy, he was like me. Different. Remember Coach said there was something off about that fight? It wasn’t the same guy you fought, Kevin. It was his twin or something.”

Kevin exhaled hard, looked from one to the other of them. “You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Floyd repeated. “You in, son?”

His grin widened. “You’re goddamn right I am, sir!”

FORTY-THREE

Days turned to weeks.

Weeks turned to months.

There wasn’t much difference between them. Training and chores; training, training, and more training. Evenings spent with the remaining Santitos. There was Mack the handyman, Dondi—and T.Y, who stayed for Loup’s sake. C.C. Rider came and went, peripatetic. He’d taken to hanging out with some of the Salamanders who were their old adversaries. Sometimes he crashed at one of their places, sometimes he returned to the church.

If there was gossip about Pilar, C.C. brought it.

“Rory Salamanca’s moved her into his place,” he announced at dinner one night. “His mom’s pissed.”

Everyone went quiet and looked at Loup.

“Is she doing okay?” she asked.

“Rosa?”

She shook her head. “Pilar.”

“I guess.” C.C. shrugged. “Not working as many hours at the bar.”

“Well, that’s what she always wanted, isn’t it?” T.Y. observed. Loup looked sideways at him. “Well, isn’t it?”

Father Ramon coughed into his hand. “The meat loaf is particularly savory tonight. Did you do something different, Anna?”

“Me?” Anna smiled. “No.”

“I put chipotles in it,” Dondi said helpfully. “Got ’em from Mrs. Escobar. Do you like it?”

“Very nice.”

It hurt; it still hurt. Loup hadn’t seen Pilar since the day she found out, the day Pilar left. Not since they returned to the church together and parted ways without speaking. The break had been clean and absolute.

In some ways, that was good.

It let her focus, wholly and absolutely, on a single fixed goal. A single path, a single course. One fight, one moment in time. The faceless crowd wouldn’t matter. Nothing would matter but what happened in the ring. Nothing would matter but facing off against the man who’d killed Tommy.

Thunder and lightning.

“I think we’ve got him!” Floyd Roberts said to her some six weeks after she’d made the commitment. His face was flushed, exultant. “Bill’s been mighty curious about this young mystery fighter with a bone to pick. I told him I thought you’d be ready come spring. I asked for the match, for the date. Told him if he gave us Ron Johnson, you’d take him apart. He agreed to everything.”

“That’s great.” Loup cocked her head. “Coach? When you were setting up Tommy’s match, did you tell him you thought Tommy could take his guy?”

“I did.” His color faded. “God help me, I did. We had a side bet.”

“So that’s why he put in a ringer.”

His mouth wrinkled. “I suspect.”

“Is that why you’re helping me?”

“Guilt?” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “It always has been, child. You knew that. I told you, I loved your brother like a son.”

Loup nodded.

“But you.” Floyd’s grip tightened on her. “I confess, I want to see what happens. After all these years, I still believe in the science of boxing. I want to see it play out at that level.”

At the end of three months, Miguel Garza staged an unexpected return. Loup arrived at the gym on a Sunday morning to find him warming up alongside Kevin McArdle.

“Hey, kid.” Miguel greeted her with a jerk of his chin.

“Hey, Mig!” She was glad to see him. “You back?”

“Maybe.” He left off the heavy bag and leaned against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. “Kinda figured you must of recruited McArdle. He was tight with your brother. Like to see how you match up against him. You mind, Coach?”

Floyd shook his head. “Nope.”

Miguel watched them spar, offering a number of jeering comments about Kevin’s abilities. It drove him to be more aggressive than usual, which Loup appreciated. He actually caught her by surprise when she tried to move inside on him, landing a right hook to the side of her padded head.

“You hit like a girl, McArdle!” Miguel called.

Kevin grunted. “Is that supposed to be ironic, Garza?”

Miguel laughed.

“So I been thinking,” he said when they finished their session. “Loup could probably use more time in the ring, huh?”

“Probably,” the coach allowed.

“The little girl wears you out, doesn’t she?” Miguel said to Kevin, who was breathing hard and sweating. “You’re quick on your feet, that’s good. But you don’t hit hard enough to give her a taste of what it’s gonna be like.”

Kevin wiped his forehead. “You think you do?”

“Not if that fucker’s got anything near Loup’s firepower. But I got an idea.” Miguel tossed a pair of sparring gloves at Floyd, who caught them reflexively. “Whaddya think, Coach?”