The Blue Blues club was about half-full. CrystalLyne had advanced from jazz standards to the edgier Joss Stone. She’d hired a jazz writer to help, as paying the White Stripes and Joss Stone to record their songs was a great way to go bankrupt. She sang at the club to try out Lover Moan, a new song about lost love… and a new, distracting love. She wore soft black with hints of silver, silver drop earrings, and black leggings with ribbons of silver. She moaned into the mic, as the rapt audience swayed. People texted on their cellphones, inviting others to rush over to catch the vibe.

Mike was getting more and more comfortable wearing a gun and a boot knife again. He was still peaceable, growing his plants, but he needed the money to buy some new trays and some new varietals he wanted to try. His own experiment; partly for April, who needed a really good experiment for her school horticultural project. And, the idea of anyone trying to harm a fourteen-year-old chanteuse made his gut clench. He enjoyed working with Shiva. They could dance on breaks, looking like people there to enjoy the music, because Jerry liked to sit quietly with CrystalLyne and drink Coke in between sets, and the man was ultra-protective. He’d gotten a gun and had been through training.

Mike had voiced doubts. He liked the man just fine. Jerry had put on weight, played trumpet with Grace, and treated Damia like gold. But, the man had been suicidal. He had no idea if the man would go off the rails again. Robert told him to trust. Pomp told him he would watch Jerry like a hawk. Wraith told him to trust his fucking judgment, or get off the fucking team.

So, he trusted. It was a good thing he did, too.

The first shot hit the drummer as he was caressing the larger cymbal. The man flew backward. Mike got a shot off, a man in a dark suit. The club had dark, bluesy lighting, making it hard to pick out shooters but easy to see the muzzle flashes. He concentrated on those, made himself smaller. The man with the suit fell, a blade in his throat.

Shiva turned, and went flying when a second shot hit her. Mike screamed in his skull, and hit the second shooter right between the eyes, as bullets sprayed the guitarist and the bassist. Mike saw movement, as Jerry had the young soul singer off the stage, and was hightailing it toward the back door. The third man stepped in, and Jerry’s Desert Eagle boomed. The man’s brains splattered the sidewalk. CrystalLyne never made a sound as Mike made his gun chatter. Patrons crawled out over broken glass as Mike fought to bring the fourth shooter, a woman in black, down. Shiva’s gun barked once, twice.

Jerry flew out of the back lot on his Harley, CrystalLyne attached to his back, her earrings in a little pile on the ground. Mike noted approvingly that Jerry had done something to the glittery outfit, probably grease, and that the girl now wore a bulletproof vest over her tunic. They disappeared in Harley noise.

Mike heard the chatter in his head, looked down at his belly under the jacket. Shiva gave Thandie, night shift ear goddess, the rundown as she tried to stand enough to keep from being trampled by a stampeding crowd.

Mike said, “I’m hit,” then his face hit the pavement.

Jerry heard Wraith in his ear. “Don’t worry about the club,” she said. “You have the principal?”

“Yeah,” huffed Jerry, getting onto a darkened back road.

“Tracking you,” said Wraith. “We’re going on full…” Her voice cut off.

“Shit,” said Jerry.

“What?” asked CrystalLyne. “Who you talking to?”

“Overwatch,” said Jerry. “Have two, and day shift took over. Think Swing’s got a lot on her plate.” He took a turn, surprised that CrystalLyne knew how to lean.

He thought about where to go. The farm was a fortress, but it had horses and kids. He called over there. “Henry,” he said.

“Got the code,” said Henry. “Go down.”

“Understood,” said Jerry. That meant, go dark, Overwatch only. That wasn’t good. What was going on with some principal of High Desert’s shouldn’t have anything to do with the Nighthawks.

Unless it did.

He figured the Valkyries had been warned. He decided to go where there was the greatest concentration of Valkyries. They would take on a young woman; make her disappear into their ranks. He thought of puppies, and Fire, and hoped their preparations, whatever they were, would be enough.

Saber got the kids into the van they’d bought, a blue so dark it was almost black. “Where we going, Daddy?” asked Warren, eyes wide.

“The Valkyries in Pahrump,” he said. “The wives gotta work.”

“At one in the morning,” said Dina, relaxing into her gel-lined chair they’d installed. She made sure their “running duffels” were stowed.

Sondra was proud; she’d singlehandedly caught both Roxie the cat and Rimmel the dog. The animals lay in their carriers. “Trouble doesn’t have a time,” observed Sondra.

Saber went as fast as he could legally drive, and slid onto the highway. “No, sweetheart, it doesn’t,” he said. “And, no fussing about this to DCFS.”

Sondra chuffed out a wry laugh. “Just had a ‘surprise’ visit. Ms. Yee seems to be exhausted, but happy three kids are getting out of the system.” She grinned. “You gonna take her up on the ‘just one more kid’ thing?”

Saber decided to take a back highway, and changed lanes. “I’ll tell you what I told her. You just had your surgery, Dina. You’re a lot better and active for set amounts of time, but I wanna see you out of pain entirely. You first.”

“Yeah,” said Warren. “Sisters come first.”

Saber looked in his rear-view mirror. The kids were all strapped in, duffels at their feet, cat and dog in the back strapped down in case of fast maneuvering.

“Yeah,” said Saber. “That, they do.”

Henry had been at the Nighthawks school, and had sent the last of the swing-shift kids home, when the code came through. He sent it out like a shock wave. He also used a burner phone to contact Lieutenant Joe Pocero, their Las Vegas Metro Police Department contact.

“Yeah, I got the message about the club. Down here now. Homicide’s pissed off. Shiva’s got broken ribs, and she’s gone with Mike to the hospital. Gut shot, just below the vest. Not good, but not bad either.”

“How many dead?” asked Henry.

“Two,” said Pocero. “The drummer and some lady who literally stepped in front of a bullet in order to get away. Mother of two.”

“Horrible,” said Henry. He had Leif and Wachoa battening down the windows at the clubhouse, as the graveyard kids slept peacefully. “Wraith’s gonna be pissed,” said Henry.

He pulled a shotgun out of a safe, and laid it on the counter. Yao gave the signal, slipped in the door, and took the shotgun. Yao slipped back out, and started walking the perimeter, looking like a warrior of old in all-black, including a black do-rag on his head.

“Someone went after their offices,” said the lieutenant.

“Again?” asked Henry.

“And got arrested for their trouble,” said Pocero. “They used C4 to get past the gates in back, but some guy named Runio took out two, got hit in the vest, and some other guy named Pomp took out two other infiltrators. They were wearing vests and helmets; too, so all four of them got them in the legs.”

“I know Pomp. Runio’s Iron Knights, ex-military police.”

“Good,” said Pocero. “Give us a succinct report.”

“Do your thing,” said Henry. “We’ll do ours.”

“Protect them kids,” said Pocero. “You guys breed like rabbits, or go on adoption binges, or something.”

Henry grinned. “Or something.” He did an interior patrol, and texted out codes on his new burner phones.

Robert knew from Wraith’s report that these guys liked attacking from the rear. But, that was a lot of acreage. Also, the rear was Ivy’s household, and Bao’s, and a little farther back, the res.

He heard David whisper into a burner phone. “Diane Yellow Rock saw movement along her property. She’s out there with a shotgun. Says they’re trying to sneak in toward Ivy’s. I warned her.” He grinned a feral grin as he handed Robert another knife. Robert put it in his other boot. The first one held a little .22.

Triesta was out, rifle in hand. “I’ve got Damia and the horses,” she said. She ghosted back toward the barn. Everyone was in black —jeans, shirts. Steel-toed biker boots.

“You got a good woman there,” said David.

Vi came out to the porch, shotgun in hand. Robert looked up, saw windows slide up slightly, guns protruding.

David followed his gaze. “Owl Pack,” he said. They took off at a lope for the double houses, stopped when David got a call. “Hold fast code,” said David. “Ivy. Cougar’s night to close. Got the kids in the safehouse.”

Robert had no idea what the “safehouse” was. He figured he only needed to know that he was guarding the front.

The Wolfpack ran out, baseball bats in hand, and formed a perimeter. David went over at a crouched lope to set them up. Robert blended into the stone entryway and readied his weapons.

Ivy circled the house. Bao’s house had to be raised and masons had to level it, so there was a crawlspace under the house. Nico had dug down on the side, creating a tunnel that went to a panic room. The kids and dogs were there, including a hugely pregnant Bao. Nico and Callie were ready, at windows, with clear shots.

Ivy saw the movement, sent a nightbird whistled message. An actual bird replied. The mesquite tree was hit; the bird flew off in a flap of wings. Ivy knew where they were, the southwest corner of the house.

She risked a numerical code that said, “Incoming SW.”

She was a blur, going for the vulnerable necks of the suited figures. One knife hit true. A man built like a fat oak toppled. The man next to him got off a shot in Ivy’s direction; Nico’s long rifle barked, and the wide man in Kevlar went down.

A truck came barreling through the gate. Robert bided his time; he knew the truck would be armored. He waited until the three men piled out, and three separate shots —David, Mike, and one from above, took them out.

“Someone’s trying to distract us,” said David, from the shadows, his rifle at his side.

“Someone coordinated,” said Mike.

Thandie kept the chess pieces moving. Principals were moved into different places, Schedule A went to C or even D. Two were in the middle of concerts, a formerly washed-up rock god by the name of Tristan Montague of the long brown hair, wide face, and khol-lined soulful brown eyes, who had made a new name for himself singing rock ballads with a rocker woman named Quella Riallo. Quella was a ripped-jeaned, wildly talented singer and guitarist.

Tristan wasn’t stupid. He saw hotel security pile into the lounge, his own security even more sharp-eyed, listening to voices in their heads, hands hovering over weapons. He finished the wail of Lita Ford and Ozzy Osbourne’s Close Your Eyes, and went to bow. He went on one knee, faking a heart attack. He flipped his fingers to his security to tell them he was fine.

Quella wasn’t stupid either. She slung her guitar on his back, helped him into a crouch, and slid them stage left. Tori, his security, blocked the audience, and had them both offstage in a moment. The audience, stunned, just sat there, which saved their lives when the guns started rattling.

Anna Sokolov, Valkyrie name Joru, was, like Tori, a Valkyrie. She started out as a terrified rape victim, and on the run from the two who had attacked her. She got strong, fought nearly every day. Now she did some protection gigs, mainly filling holes when there was just too much going on. Mostly nights, after building bikes on her own, usually with some new Soldier Pack member looking over her shoulder. She remembered when she was a shaky newbie, and treated them with Tori’s mix of kindness and exasperation.

Joru did not expect to be in a shootout. But, as she’d learned in the military, no one ever expected a shootout. She shot up, over, got the first shooter down, in some sort of duster, a mass of black hair in her sights. The second one went down by hotel security, who unwisely tackled a man with a gun. She sighed, sighted, and threw her knife into his wrist as the asshole twisted to get off a shot at security.

Security didn’t point weapons at her. She knew the principal was first, and Security had a hold. So, she ran down the back hallway, in the gray aisles that riddled hotels so staff and delivery items (like food) could get around.

Tori and the rockers were hauling ass. Joru put her head down and ran, using special “heat breathing” to give herself more energy. She whipped around the corner, and literally slid into the staff elevator as Tori hit a button for two floors down. They went down, took more back hallways, and slipped out the back where Tori and Joru had their bikes.

They rode out into the night. Tori used her fingers to discuss the plan. They decided on C. C meant a fast whip through the city on back streets, and a slide into the major security of the Mirage. They moved, flowed in and out of traffic, their double principals holding on. They slid into the special celebrity door for those who wanted to slide into and out of the hotel without attracting paparazzi. Hotel security had a plan, a method. They just had to flow up to a penthouse suite and hold on.

They did, slipping through the kitchen, up the staff elevators, and through a wide double door down a carpeted hallway. There were two bedrooms with wide beds, a stunning view, a curved couch, with flat-screen TVs everywhere.

“What the fuck was that?” asked Tristan.

“An assault on our principals,” said Tori. “The ones in public. The ones not in public are fine.”

“So, not us specifically,” said Quella. “Why?”

“My guess is someone doesn’t want us doing our jobs,” said Tori, as Joru completed the check.

“Clear,” she said.

“Clear,” said Tori, her principals behind her, the door double-locked, hotel security right outside.

“Why?” asked Quella again.

“They’re willing to put people in their graves to get what they want,” said Joru. “That’s what we know. We haven’t lost an operative.”

“You were amazing,” Tori said to Tristan. “Good move.”

“What? Faking getting sick?” asked Quella. “Scared me half to death.”

“Gave us an excuse to get you out,” said Tori. “Smart.”

“What about our stuff?” asked Quella.

“We’re alive,” said Tristan. “Now, I suggest we eat, regroup. We have recording in the morning, ‘Blue Tomorrows’ and ‘Brighter Days.’”

Quella nodded. “We do.” She took a deep breath. “Grilled chicken Caesar salads, lime water, sleep.”

Tristan snorted. “Wish I had vegemite, but I’ll settle for a chicken sandwich. Barbecue. Rosemary potatoes. Heavy stuff, force me to dump the adrenaline and sleep.” He paced. “Give me your guitar.”

Quella handed it over. “You be careful with Mirabelle.”

“Will,” said Tristan. “Let’s write a song while we wait on the food.” They sat, strumming, while Joru called down for the food, including food for them.

“No one’s dead,” said Joru, as she checked the door, put the windows on blackout. “None of ours.”

“Not yet,” said Tori.

Cougar had the till at Bar Two counted and in the safe, the bar back, bartender, and cocktail servers getting their sidework done. A few tourists and some riders were at the back door, waiting on their Ubers. Ace finished counting his till, and cleaned up, a rare stay-late he did two or three times a month. The band had skedaddled. The cooks were scrubbing things down in the back.

Cougar looked down at her phone at the same time Ace pulled out the shotgun from under his bar and threw it to her. She caught it one-handed. She glanced at the text, then slid the phone in her pocket and cocked the gun.

“Get the tourists gone,” she said to the two Gearheads by the back door.

One withdrew a gun, the other a hefty wrench, and the squawking tourists were out the door and down the street before the cooks could slip out the back. Cougar yelled at the servers, bartender, and bar back to drop the sidework, and Ace screamed for the dancers, changing in the back. Cougar covered them as they got out. Ace had two guns, a Sig Sauer in one hand and an H&K, both .45s. When Cougar got back in, she pulled her vest over her breasts that were nearly falling out of her pink leopard print top, and Ace strapped on his, putting one gun down at a time.

The men with guns shattered the front windows with handgun fire. A siren went off. Ace hit the emergency button, the lights went down, and Cougar and Ace returned fire, both on one knee as the shots flew overhead.

There were two loud booms from outside, and Pocero shouted, “You okay?”

“Fine, Lieutenant,” said Ace. They sat behind the main bar. “Money all locked up?” asked Ace.

“All except for yours,” said Cougar.

“Locked it up in the drawer,” said Ace. He stood, and went over to let Pocero in.

“Glad you’re good,” said Pocero.

“Replacing a window, a door, and some molding isn’t bad,” said Cougar. She stepped forward to check the damage.

A gunshot went off, hitting Pocero in the upper part of his vest. The cops outside returned fire. Cougar and Ace went down to one knee again, Cougar backed up quickly to behind the leading edge of the main bar. Despite being a larger woman, she moved as if she were in a dojo.

There was a lot of radio squabble, and a young woman stuck her head in. “The Lieutenant is going to the hospital,” she said. “You good?”

“Yes,” said Ace. “Any other cops shot?”

“Not yet,” said the woman. She took her head back out.

Ace took out his cell and sent a coded text. “Be prepared for Ivy to…”

Ivy banged in the back door. “Well, fuck a duck,” she said. She walked straight through, stepped over the glass, walked out, and knelt to see Pocero, grimacing as he was tied to a backboard, face-first. His face bled from scratches. “You dead?” asked Ivy.

“Possible spine damage,” said the EMT, officiously.

“The backboard was my first clue,” said Ivy, acerbically.

“Shot in the upper back into my… vest.” Pocero said the words through clenched teeth.

“Fuck,” said Ivy. “Go get checked out. I’m thinking bruised bone. Get well fast.”

“Your people all alive?” asked Pocero.

“For now,” said Ivy.

Jerry made it up the long drive to the Rock Farm. At the border, a woman dressed from head to toe in black was on the fence with a rifle. The other fence had another woman with an entire motorcycle getup and a revving bike. She flashed her fingers.

Jerry rode up parallel. “This is CrystalLyne,” he said. “Fourteen years old.”

The faceplate went on. “Hop on,” said Fyrst. “We protect women.”

Jerry helped her down onto shaking legs. The young woman nodded, hopped on. “My mom’s at the Venetian,” she said. “Went to bed early.”

Fyrst got the girl on the bike, handed her a smaller-sized helmet. “Later,” she said. “First, safety.” The girl strapped on the helmet, put her hands around Fyrst’s waist, and Fyrst went out the back, not back onto the road.

“Can’t stand letting go of my principal,” said Jerry, to Wraith, the voice in her ear.

“Normally, not a good idea, but that woman can do things with a bike that brings a Harley to its full joyous capability.” Wraith clicked off, then back on. “Stay and help,” she said.

Jerry got off the bike, accepted another rifle, and slid around the side of the house. He saw a flash back toward the front, whirled around, and lowered his rifle when a tiny figure in brown braids, the rest of her curly hair tied back, climbed up the man and stuck a knife in his neck. He dropped. Rayne grinned.

Jerry nodded, and kept circling the Rock House the other way. A second man crept around the side. Jerry knew the kickback would be fierce, so he held the rifle slightly away from his shoulder. He shot, and the man fell. He sped forward, removed the man’s gun, and patted him down. The guy had a wide knife, and two more guns, one in a boot. He pocketed them all, and slipped farther forward.

A gun barked behind the Soldier Rock House. Two shots, fast, a .45. He ran forward, and Queenie nodded at him. He nodded back, and slipped back into the shadows. He figured there would be someone to his far left on the way in, and turned that way. The man did himself the favor of running low, but he silhouetted himself against a mesquite tree. Jerry lined up the rifle, breathed out, squeezed the trigger, working to avoid the tree. Shooting a good tree would be bad. The man jerked, went down.

He kept to his sliver of where he was supposed to be. “Friendly” fire wasn’t really friendly. He heard a scream, high and tight.

Queenie started up to him. He waved her back, scanned deep into the night. A motor started up. He put the rifle down, and ran toward it. The guy on the Kawasaki looked like a barrel hanging over it. Jerry kept running, and then shot twice. The gun barked in his hand. The barrel rolled end over the bike, and the bike kept going, rolling over the man’s outstretched leg. The man howled. The bike fell over, and kept spinning its wheels until it suddenly stopped.

Queenie was like a cheetah running past Jerry. Jerry kept the gun trained on the man as Queenie rolled him over. “Wraith, ambulance, far left of the property,” said Jerry.

“Already called the police, EMTs… kind of everyone.”

Jerry knelt. “Tell us who sent you,” he said.

“Soldnereinheit,” said the man in guttural German.

“Mercenary unit,” translated Wraith into Jerry’s ear.

“Gesundheit,” said Queenie. “And, I’m not stupid. This is a Hessian.”

“Hessian Front,” said Wraith. “Lovely.” Jerry heard typing. “And expensive. Someone hates one or all of us.”

“Where are the girls, and why the hell are the dogs quiet?”

“Gone,” said Queenie. “Freya took them.”

“Good,” said Jerry. “I’m stupid, didn’t see the van.”

“Fastest puppy roundup ever,” said Queenie. She looked down at the mercenary at her feet. “Who the fuck attacks women, children, and puppies?”

“Someone fucking stupid,” said Wraith, in Jerry’s head.

Bao had the gun. Nico had the rifle. Nico slid out onto the roof, and Bao had the girls and dogs in the crawlspace under the house, through to the safe room. Callie’s gun barked as a man slid up to the back door and put something against it. It barked again when some asshole stepped out of the woods. Nico was looking the other way, and the rifle boomed once, twice. Someone cried out.

There were more booms, from across the way. There was an Apache cry that broke the night. Nantan, figured Nico. Nico circled the roof, and caught a guy with very white hands trying to slip in the back door. He felt the rifle against his shoulder, squeezed the trigger, let it bark. He reloaded.

Nantan watched Chayton go down. Chayton wore a vest, and there was no bloom of blood, but he was enraged. His warrior’s heart beat. He thought of his ancestors, moving silently through grasslands, up hills, over stones. He slid to the side, and threw. His knife caught the shooter in the neck. He gave a warrior’s cry. A hand reached out, dragged Chayton off the patio into the house. Josh, thought Nantan. He felt fierce pride in his son.

A Wyandot named Ry on the roof shot across the back. Something fell. Nantan grinned. The young man kept himself low, and crept around to the right. Nantan circled to the left, seeking the men willing to kill children. He heard Chayton cursing in Apache, and saw a gun out a window. He dropped, and a shadow in the distance fell.

“Good shot,” said Nantan, in Apache. He heard Chayton’s wheezy chuckle.

Nantan crept forward, then whirled. He held out his arm and pulled the trigger. The man sneaking up behind David’s prone position fell. His bloody spray sprinkled David’s boots. David stood, and made a rude gesture at Nantan. Nantan made one back, and both men grinned. They circled back to the barn. They heard a loud plop, and something fell. They swept around, and a man that had been trying to enter the barn on the far left had been smashed to the ground by a bag of horse feed. Henry ran up and used the leather ties from his hair to tie up the groaning man. He looked up, but Damia was gone from the window.

A shot rang out from behind the main house. There was a scream, and Nantan and David ran like the wind.

“When attacked, fight back. Otherwise, the attackers don’t learn a damn thing.”