“Well, you seem to have caught me at a very opportune moment. I’m in the mood to kill a few hours. I’m also in the mood to kill you for what you did to my friend back in Anaheim. Not to mention I’m one to hold a grudge. You shouldn’t have manhandled Sloane like that back at the compound, either, asshole.” It suddenly dawns on me that this whole interaction is taking place outside the warehouse, the location of which I’ve always been very careful to keep on the down low. “How d’you find out about this place?” I snap, driving a well-placed knuckle into the guy’s spine.

Medina gasps in pain “Fuck you.” This time I pull back and jab into his back with as much force as I can muster. The asshole quickly changes his mind about being a smartass. “I followed that guy yesterday, Rebel’s cousin. I saw him coming out of an oyster bar downtown. It was a complete fluke.”

Hmmm. Michael’s usually more on the ball when it comes to noticing a tail. “So Julio knows where this place is now?”

“No. I came alone.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to fucking kill you, ese,” he spits, and for once I believe him. “What are you gonna do now?” Medina groans.

“Well, first things first, I think you and I are going for a little drive.” I raise the gun; this time I bring it smashing down over the back of Andreas’ head. The fucker goes limp as soon as the butt of the weapon hits his skull, and I get out my phone and dial Michael’s number. I’m tossing a hundred and fifty pounds of Mexican into the trunk of the Camaro when my man picks up.

“Michael. Where the hell are you? And where the hell is Cade?”

“He went out last night. I haven’t seen him yet this morning.”

“Fuck! What the hell, Michael? I’ve just found Medina outside my place, and he’s saying Julio’s picked Cade up. They weren’t supposed to go anywhere.”

Michael swears softly. “He said he was getting some pussy, man. What am I supposed to do, tell him he isn’t allowed to go get his dick wet?”

I grit my teeth, trying to rein in the urge to scream. “You’re right. Fuck.”

“We’ll find him. Julio’s not gonna kill a Widow Maker, Zee. It would be suicide. Rebel would come after him with everything he’s got.”

This is probably true, but I just can’t see it anymore. “No offense, Michael, but your cousin doesn’t exactly seem to be the hardass everyone makes him out to be, y’know?”

Michael makes a derisive, faintly entertained sound. “In this instance, appearances are most definitely deceiving. Trust me. Julio would not want to alienate Rebel.”

“Alright, well I’m counting on that. Because Andreas Medina is not making it back to El Jeffe before nightfall. Not until he’s physically or metaphorically spilled his guts for me.” Right on cue, a series of loud bangs rattle through the car, coming from the trunk. Looks like my little friend has woken up and he sounds suitably pissed off. His bad mood is gonna get a whole lot worse when he realizes what I have in store for him.

“Head over to the warehouse. Watch the girls for me. Make sure they’re safe. Call some people. Find out anything you can about Julio coming to town. Any weird rentals on the outskirts of the city. You know the drill.”

“You sure you don’t want me to handle Medina? I owe that motherfucker a few loose teeth after the welcome he gave me back at the compound. That way you can make sure Lacey and Sloane are safe yourself.”

There’s a tone in his voice I don’t like. He’s far too perceptive for his own good. I’ve never breathed a word to him about what those girls mean to me, but he knows it all the same. That makes me incredibly uncomfortable. “Just get your ass to the warehouse, Michael.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line; I can tell he wants to say something, but he has to know I’m not in a mood to be fucked with. “Okay, Zee. You’re the boss.”

I am the boss. I am the motherfucking boss, and yet I’m too messed up to go back to my own house. I’d rather be out putting the hurt on an asshole like Medina than facing a stubborn brunette who weighs a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet.

I feel like I’m going to throw up.

When I was a teenager, I used to get the worst panic attacks. My mom couldn’t understand what that really meant. I’d be sitting happily enough, getting my work done in class, watching TV at home, eating a meal out with my folks, and then the next second I was overcome with this absolute, bone-deep sense of dread that was impossible to overcome. It would feel like there was a huge weight pressing down on my chest, which would lead me to feeling like I couldn’t breathe. Like I just couldn’t quite get a deep enough draw of oxygen into my lungs, which in turn meant that my heart would start racing. This wasn’t just a racing heart, though. Not something you would experience if you’d been running track or doing anything to exhaust yourself physically. This was the kind of accelerated heartbeat made by an imbalance within the brain. An imbalance of hormones and adrenalin. An imbalance that felt like it would never be righted again, no matter how many times my mother told me to just relax. She couldn’t understand the problem, that my attacks were irrational. I didn’t have to be in direct harm or in an overwhelming place to succumb to them. I didn’t have to be doing anything out of the ordinary at all. It would just happen, and I had absolutely no control over it. That was part of it, too—feeling like I had no control.