It took them just over an hour to get to the safe house. They’d have gotten there sooner, but he’d had kept to the speed limit so they wouldn’t end up getting a speeding ticket.

The irony wasn’t lost on Bailey. He was involved—and that word alone carried more than the usual significance—with one of the largest cartel’s in the world. A speeding ticket should have been on the bottom of the list of things he should be worried about.

Maybe it was hypocritical of him, thinking he could somehow offset his crimes by being a more responsible driver.

Bailey pushed that ill thought from his mind, and concentrated on finding an inconspicuous parking spot for the SUV. Nine o clock at night, the neighborhood wasn’t exactly pumping; a few houses still had some of their lights on, and the road was quiet but not deserted.

He was about to park across the safe house—more than enough parking there—when a slash of yellow caught his eye.

“That police tape?” he asked, craning to look past Lars.

“Looks like it.” Lars shrugged. “You passed it, man.”

“Don’t want to park right outside.”

“Why? You think ole Duncan’s going to resurrect himself and walk all the way over here just to yell boo?”

That had been the kind of banter he’d been subjected to the whole trip already. Lars was in such a foul mood that even Ana couldn’t seem to cheer him up. She eventually just kept quiet, staring out the window and trying to wipe tears from her eyes without any of them seeing.

Well, he’d seen. And he wished he could feel sorry for the woman, but she’d been just as responsible as him for losing Cora.

When he’d asked her where she’d disappeared to, Ana had given some slippery answer about recognizing an old friend and going to speak to them. She claimed she’d been gone less than a minute.

Bullshit.

Bailey parked under the groaning boughs of a tree that had probably been here decades before any of the houses in this street. The closest street lamp was dead too, ensuring their SUV remained hidden in shadows.

Lars opened his door and then Ana’s, holding hers open as she jumped out. They both began crossing the street, Lars pausing when Bailey didn’t follow right behind.

“Hey, you coming?” Lars asked.

“Be there in a bit,” Bailey said.

Down the street, a man had come out of his house with a trash bag. Bailey jogged toward him, hearing a muttered, “Whatever,” from Lars before he was out of earshot.

The man was on his way back to his house when Bailey caught up to him. “Evening. Sorry to bug you.”

“Hey?” The man turned, frowning hard at Bailey and then glancing around as if wondering if there was a gang creeping up on him.

Was it his tattoos that the man didn’t like, or was this just a really dodgy neighborhood?

The police tape might have been a clue.

“Couldn’t help but notice,” Bailey said, pointing out a fluttering strand of police tape. The man lived next door—if anyone knew what had happened, it would be him. “What happened?”

“What, at number nine?” Number Seven hesitated and then came back down his porch steps, limping slightly.

Probably gout, judging from the red veins on his nose and the unfocused eyes.

“Homicide,” Seven said, nodding. “Found a girl in those there bushes.” He pointed with a trembling finger to an impressive prickly pear peeking over the wall separating nine from seven.

“Shit.” Bailey lifted his eyebrows. “They found who done it?”

“Don’t know,” Seven said with a shrug. “But I hope they do. That was some nasty shit. Gone and hacked her up like a side of beef.” Seven looked like he was going to spit, and then changed his mind. “’N-ways.” Seven gave him a wave and headed back to his house. “Gotta get out of the cold.”

And back to his warm bottle of booze, no doubt. Bailey watched him go, and then turned back to nine.

He’d forgotten to ask if the girl had lived there, or if she’d just been dumped there.

Bailey crossed the street, making sure no one else was out to see him slip around the back of the Duncan’s house.

The back door was ajar, and he went inside, easily tracking Lars through the noise the man made as he tossed out drawers. One of those drawers almost hit Bailey on the head when he rounded a corner.

“Fuck it, Lars!” Bailey ducked and slammed his back into the wall. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“With me?” Lars yelled, and then winced violently. He put fingers to his temples, glaring at Bailey for a second before going back to rummaging through a drawer.

Most of the desk’s contents were strewn on the floor—papers and files and a few thumb drives.

“How are we going to find anything—?”

Lars cut him off with a bark of a laugh. “There’s nothing to find.” Lars snatched a brochure off the desk. “Unless you’re interested in vacationing somewhere off the Gulf of Mexico, of course. Best rates. Free fucking wi-fi.”

“Hey, relax,” Bailey said, coming up behind Lars and laying a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s just work through this systematically.”

“Did you guys hear that?” Ana asked, walking past their doorway. Where she had been was anyone’s guess, but at least she wasn’t ransacking the place and possibly burying anything useful in a sea of travel brochures.

Duncan was obviously long overdue for a vacation.

Bailey stooped to pick up a pamphlet advertising a bi-plane offering specialized tours. He dropped it again, grimacing when Lars upended the last drawer onto the pile in the middle of the small study.

“We’ll never find anything like this,” Bailey said, working his way around Lars. “Did you check the computer?”

“Password,” was all Lars said.

Maybe it was the drugs making him so damn irritable. Bailey’s head pounded, but at least he was keeping his fucking cool. Lars was obviously pissed off at something—or someone—and was taking it out on Duncan’s study.

Bailey glanced around the room. Sometimes, people left their passwords in plain sight. Duncan hadn’t been that careless.

He clicked the mouse, and was greeted with a login. When he clicked on ‘hint’, four asterisks popped up.

“Hey, what was the pin number for Duncan’s phone?”

“Two double digits,” Lars muttered. “Three and two. Three and four. Something like that.”

Bailey tried 4433. The log in screen vanished, replaced with a Windows desktop so cluttered, he grimaced at the screen.

“Hey, I got—”

Ana’s scream cut him off.

Lars was already through the door by the time Ana’s yell cut off. He had just enough presence of mind to yank his pistol from his belt before rounding the corner and coming face-to-face with Neo.

Neo glared at him, lifted a gun, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet tore a hole through Lars’s sleeve, and missed his chest by less than an inch.

Surprise widened Neo’s eyes, and then incredulity when Lars launched himself forward. He struck Neo in the chest, sending them both toppling to the ground.

Ana let out another yell. Desperate. Panicked.

Bailey shot past Neo and Lars, giving Lars a brief once-over as if trying to determine who was winning before he turned the corner.

They wrestled on the carpet in the middle of Duncan’s hallway, Neo on top and then Lars, raining kicks and punches on each other until they were both breathless.

It wasn’t as if they were evenly matched—Lars could have tied the guy in a fucking knot—but with a hammer relentlessly slamming into his head, it was impossible to anticipate what Neo was going to do.

A crash resounded through the house, then another.

Would a neighbor call the police after this ruckus? Or was this the kind of street were smashing glass and shouts were ruled out as another little spat between the Mr and Mrs in four?

Seconds later, he got a solid blow to Neo’s jaw with his elbow, and then a knee to his groin.

The man curled up with a moan that rattled in his throat, cursing Lars in what had to be beaner.

Lars sat back, gritting his teeth as his headache paused, and then intensified.

Bailey arrived around the corner, a new gun in his hand. Ana stumbled after him, hair mussed and tear streaks on her face.

Pushing himself to his feet with a grimace and the aid of the wall, Lars pointed absently at the writhing Neo. “Tie him up,”

He made his way to the bathroom, offered a silent plea to any deity that happened to be looking in his general direction, and flung open the cabinet.

He spotted a prescription bottle of Codeine. His breath hissed out of him as he opened it with trembling hands and shook out two pills.

As much as he felt he deserved this agony, the pain had become unbearable.

Lars Eklund: martyr no more.

He slugged down the pills and chased them with a cupped palm of water from the tap.

When he came back to the hallway, Bailey and Ana were busy tying up Neo. He noticed a briefcase standing just inside the study’s door.

“Where’d that come from?” he asked, pointing to the briefcase.

Bailey glanced at it over his shoulder, and tugged hard at the ropes binding Neo’s wrists. “Found it in the safe.”

“Safe?” Lars asked, squinting through another hard throb.

“The one in the study, behind the painting.”

Jesus, he sucked at being a PI.

“We should call Milo. Let him know…” Lars began, trailing off when his cellphone began to ring.

He answered with a curt, “You find her?”

Milo sighed heavily in his ear. There was a moment’s silence so intense, Lars’s skin prickled with dread.

She was dead, wasn’t she? El Lobo had hacked her up and left her for them to find. Milo was a wreck. Would be a wreck for the rest of his life.

Fuck, he wouldn’t do any better.

His chest was so tight, he couldn’t breathe. Even his headache had fled, but he knew it would come crashing back as soon as Milo spoke the words.

“Jesus, just say it!” Lars yelled into the phone. “If she’s dead, just fucking—”

“She’s not here, Lars,” Milo said softly. “She’s…” Another sigh, more like a huff, before Milo added in a tight whisper, “…our girl’s gone.”