“Do you know any? Martial arts?”

  Leo nodded.

  “Which ones?” Joan seriously considered ordering another shrimp cocktail.

  “All of them.”

  Joan raised an eyebrow. “All of them?”

  “Striking styles include Wing Chun, Savate, Boxing, Karate, Muay Tai, Capoeira, Taekwondo, Lethwei, Kung Fu, Pencak Silat, and Kalaripayattu. Grappling styles include Judo, Aikido, Wrestling, Jujutsu, Sambo, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, and Catch wrestling. I’ve also extensively practiced hybrids, including Kickboxing, Krav Maga, Vale Tudo, and Sanda… all mixed martial arts.”

  That sounds like all of them. Except for Sinanju. But Leo probably wouldn’t get the reference.

  He continued. “Of course, hand-to-hand combat has some overlap with melee weapons. I’m proficient with ranged weapons, bladed weapons, and polearms.”

  He’s got such a low-key delivery I can’t tell if he’s boasting or bored.

  “So why aren’t you in the Olympics, winning everything?”

  “My duty is to Catherine.”

  “Do you owe her money or something?”

  “I owe her my life. Which is why I have devoted my life to her.”

  “Was she there? For Mu Omega Alpha?”

  He nodded. “She was there.”

  So this is Leo’s humble brag? Beating the shit out of a whole frat house?

  Did some women like hearing about stuff like that?

  Thank goodness Tom didn’t act all macho and boasty and high on his own testosterone like Leo.

  “I’ve killed people,” Tom boasted.

  Joan turned to see her husband, standing next to her, his eyes drilling into Leo.

  “Is that so?” Leo appeared blasé. “Should I be afraid?”

  “I don’t know. Are you a threat?”

  Joan didn’t like Tom acting like an alpha douchebag, and she took his arm and changed the subject. “Did you find Abe?”

  “Yeah.” Tom’s eyes didn’t leave Leo’s. “He’s in some trouble with the local wiseguys. We have to go.”

  “The Tony Mafia?” Leo asked. “Shiny suits and matching haircuts?”

  “You know them?”

  “Six of them just walked in.”

  Tom turned, and Joan followed his gaze, eyeing the half-dozen conspicuous men.

  They look like they showed up for a Scorsese casting call.

  Leo brushed past Tom, sniffing out Catherine. Joan focused on her husband.

  “You okay? You look rattled.”

  He peered down at her, and his features softened. “Been a tough night. Abe’s been more trouble than usual.”

  “Abe? But he’s such a loveable guy.”

  Tom shook his head. “Yeah. And tonight I fell for him. Hard.”

  “You really seem off, Tom. Are you high?”

  Is he high? Again?

  “I was really high about twenty minutes ago.”

  I can’t tell if he’s being serious.

  “I feel like I’m missing the joke.”

  “You are. We were with Abe on the top of the SkyTower. We went over the edge. I’ll fill you in later. It’s a long story. Actually, it’s about a hundred and twenty stories. Call it a tall tale.”

  “You smell like puke.”

  “That’s because I puked. Did you miss the part where I said I went over the edge of a building? I almost died.”

  “That was for real?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be flippant. I don’t like it when you almost die.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “What can I do? What do you need?”

  Tom didn’t answer.

  He’s probably thinking he needs some pot. That’s his go-to these days.

  I remember when I used to be his go-to.

  Joan kept it light. “Need a mint? Or maybe a shrimp cocktail?”

  “We need to go. Those Tony guys aren’t messing around.”

  Joan scanned the bar. “Where’s Abe?”

  “He and Roy went to the bathroom. Was the Terminator hitting on you?”

  “Leo? Are you jealous?”

  “Maybe a little bit. Roy thinks he’s into you.”

  “He’s really dedicated to Catherine. In an unhealthy, codependent way.”

  “You guys doing okay?”

  “Guys?”

  Tom dropped his hand to her belly.

  “We’re fine. Gorging on shrimp while Catherine is working through her second bottle of Cristal. We should get more shrimp.”

  “We should go.”

  “You really do need a mint, babe.”

  “You only call me babe when you’re angry. What did I do?”

  Yelling rose above the ambient bar sounds. Leo, confronting the hoods. Their postures and cajoling seemed to indicate they didn’t consider Leo much of a threat.

  Tom stopped hugging Joan and stood protectively in front of her. “Six on one.” Tom moved toward the altercation, but Joan instinctively held him back.

  “He may need help.”

  “I think he can take care of himself.”

  “And I can’t?”

  What do I tell him? That all of the sudden I feel like there’s a lot more at risk? A lot more to lose? Because we’re going to have a child?

  And if I tell him that, does that mean admitting he was right when he asked me to stay home?

  This baby is more than eight months away from being born, and already they are complicating things.

  Joan picked her answer. “Leo just told me he knows every martial art. Let’s see how he does.”

  “Okay. But after they break both of his arms and legs, I’m going to step in and give them quite the scolding.”

  Joan had produced action films, many with extensive fight scenes. They were choreographed exactly like a dance, with every punch, kick, and tumble rehearsed over and over, stunt doubles stepping in if insurance demanded it, CGI stepping in if it was too much for the stunt doubles. A well-done bar fight, shot by a good cinematographer and a creative director, could be the high point of a picture, and last anywhere from thirty seconds to ten minutes.

  This fight lasted four seconds.

  The bad guys were standing. Leo threw several rapid-fire punches that were too quick to see. Then the bad guys were no longer standing.

  Tom whistled. “He really is the Terminator.”

  Joan, who had won her share of matches in the dojo, and had managed to hold her own in several life-or-death fights against larger opponents, couldn’t even comprehend what she’d just seen.

  “That was… incredible.”

  “Sounds like maybe I should be jealous.”

  Two can play this game.

  “Should I be jealous of Catherine? She seems like she still has a thing for you.”

  “Is jealousy the issue? Or envy?”

  Joan pulled away from Tom. “I’m not envious of anyone.”

  “You’re not envious of Ms. Multiple Oscars with her own Cessna?”

  “I bet it’s not even hers. It’s probably a fractional ownership timeshare thing.”

  “That sounds like envy.”

  “Maybe I’ve been a bit insecure lately.”

  “Why? Because all your husband does these days is sit on the couch and get stoned?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Even though it’s true.

  “Maybe I’m the one who’s insecure, because my super-competent wife is super-successful and has her shit together, and I can’t get over what happened to me in that shed with that maniac, and I’m worried she’s going to leave me.”

  Wow. This is a lot to process.

  “Maybe we’re not as strong as we thought,” Joan finally said.

  “Maybe our marriage isn’t as strong as we thought.”

  Joan felt some tears welling up. “I’m going to Uber back to the plane.”

  “I’ll go with you. We need to talk. I’ve figured some things out.”

  Figured some things out?

  That sounds like he’s decided to leave me.

  Joan felt a wave of emotion, not knowing if it was baby-hormones or exhaustion or her marriage ending.

  I can’t think. I don’t feel like a super-successful woman who has her shit together.

  I feel like a little girl about to cry.

  “I need… I need some alone time, Tom.”

  “I lost my phone.”

  “I just bought you that phone.”

  Tom looked like she’d just slapped him. “Sorry. I’ll try not to be so inconsiderate next time I almost plummet to my death. And thanks for reminding me that I haven’t made any money since I was abducted and tortured by a maniac.”

  “Hey guys. Did I miss anything?”

  Joan turned toward the booming voice, and laid eyes on Abe. Grateful for the distraction, she opened her arms and gave the tall, lanky man a hug.

  Now I’m 100% sure something is wrong with me. I’m actually overjoyed to see Abe.

  “Abe! How have you been?”

  “I just had the machinegun shits. Blasted out of me so fast it felt like squatting on a bottle rocket. Did Tom tell you we all took a trip over the side of the SkyTower?”

  “He may have mentioned it.”

  “I had a harness on, so I had to hold Tom and Roy on the way down to keep them from becoming street pizzas. Saved their lives. It’s a good thing I’m in such incredible shape. Want to feel my biceps?” Abe flexed.

  He’s the kind of guy who will hold the pose until I compliment him.

  Joan squeezed his arm, which was about as hard as Wonder Bread. “You’re very big and strong, Abe.”

  “And you look amazing, Joan. Also, you have very strong values. I’m trying to be more woke and not judge people solely by their appearances. Especially the fatties and the uglos.”

  Roy wandered over. “We gotta bounce. Those Tonys that Leo hit are bleeding everywhere.”

  “I’ll call an Uber for six.” Joan pulled out her phone and pressed the app. A minute later, Leo was ushering them all out of the bar and onto the Strip.

  “Wow! It’s actually Abraham Lincoln!”

  Catherine wedged herself between Joan and Abe and grabbed both of his hands while she beamed brighter than a million suns.

  “And you must be Catherine the Great. You’re quite beautiful. Also, you have very strong values.”

  “Correct on both counts! Thanks for being honest, Abe!”

  “I see what you did there. It’s my pleasure to meet you.” Abe turned to her bodyguard. “And if I know my history, this gigantic, athletic, handsome man bulging with muscles must be Hercules.”

  Catherine laughed.

  Joan wanted to punch her in the face.

  Hormones. It has to be an estrogen and/or progesterone thing. I’m a basket case.

  “Hercules wasn’t an actual historical figure,” Joan said it mostly to distract herself from her feelings. “He was mythological.”

  “Then you must be Thor. We should go out and get hammered later. Get it? Hammered?”

  “You’re hysterical!” Catherine performed a fake laugh and hair flip. “I bet you have some stories.”

  “My sexual escapades are legendary. Do you want to hear one?”

  “I would love to hear one.”

  Abe puffed out his chest and began to pontificate. “Four whores and seven beers ago…”

  Abe and Catherine continued to chatter like they were childhood buddies who hadn’t seen each other in years, and Joan avoided looking at her husband until the Uber arrived.

  And now we get to go pick up Number 13.

  This adventure just keeps getting better and better…

  NUMBER 13

  Phoenix, Arizona

  Van couldn’t sleep.

  I’m too excited. They’ll be here in a few hours.

  Van had packed all the essentials.

  Everything needed for a massacre.

  His dissection kit with #10 round scalpel blades, and some new #25 square scalpel blades.

  It will be fun to see which one slits throats better.

  Duct tape.

  I need to make at least one of them suffer for a while before they begin to rot.

  Two digital cameras and extra SD cards.

  To capture all the action and aftermath.

  Toothbrush and toothpaste.

  Can’t forget oral hygiene.

  Clothes for a week, including a ski mask.

  Need to hide my face for the snuff videos.

  Latex gloves and condoms.

  Not a good idea leaving forensic evidence everywhere.

  Wet wipes.

  Dry toilet tissue is for idiots. If you got shit on your fingers would you use paper to wipe it off, or something wet?

  And the pièce de résistance; a bottle of whiskey containing two hundred and fifty-three dissolved sleeping pills.

  Mother had occasional insomnia, for which she took a prescription sleep aid. But she only used it a few times a month. Meanwhile, the helpful pharmacy kept auto-refilling her prescription, which Mother dutifully bought, which resulted in a stockpile of more than thirty bottles.

  Van had tried one, once, and had slept like the dead for fourteen hours.

  A single shot will be able to knock out a football player.

  The entire bottle could knock out a whole NFL team.

  Van let the fantasy play out in his head for the thirty-eighth time.

  The cloner morons pick me up.

  I offer everyone some whiskey.

  Everyone takes a shot.

  I wait until they pass out, fire up the cameras, slice their jugulars one at a time, duct tape the last one, rape and torture them until they die, hitchhike back to Phoenix.

  They’re picking me up on a private plane, so there will be no proof I ever left home.

  Except for Mother.

  But once I return, Mother will write a sappy suicide note, ranting about how much she failed her son, dying from an overdose of sleeping pills.

  I’ll have enough footage for dozens of videos. Exclusive content that will shut up the haters.

  My own music + my own snuff films = Edgelord Supremacy.

  Because I’m my own person. My talent belongs to me and me alone.

  He switched on his cell phone flashlight, then crossed his legs and stared at the number 13 on his foot.

  I’m not a genius because of genetics.

  And certainly not because of some secret government experiment.

  Fake news. Conspiracy theory. Science fiction nonsense.

  I do kind of look like the guy, though.

  Van went on Google, and searched for images.

  It can’t be possible.

  But what if it is really true?

  What if I’m actually a clone of…

  Drumroll please…

  Ludwig Van Beethoven!

  Feeling a rumbly in his bowels, Van got out of bed and headed for the bathroom, grinning at the very idea.

  One thing I know for sure. If that cloning nonsense is actually true, I’m heading to the toilet for the second time today…

  For Beethoven’s 2nd Movement!

  Rimshot!

  FABLER

  The Tumbleweed Motel – New Mexico

  Presley pulled into the motel parking lot, found a spot next to the ramshackle building, and killed the engine. Fabler reached down between his legs, as if tying a shoe, but it was too dark to find any of his dropped pills.

  I’ll have to come back at dawn, when it’s light.

  But he doubted he could wait until then.

  Okay, I’ll come back with a flashlight, when Grim and Presley are asleep.

  Grim headed for the manager’s office, to wake the proprietor and get the room keys. Fabler got out of the back seat and stretched, the desert heat chasing away the chill of the Jeep’s air-conditioning.

  The stars were everywhere.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  Fabler glanced at Presley.

  She’s only known me this way. She didn’t know me when I was truly crazy.

  “I’m not the talk about it type.”

  “Grim told me everything. About what you both did. Honestly, I have a hard time believing some of it. You both had it pretty rough.”

  That’s putting it lightly.

  “But Grim doesn’t scream in his sleep. With all he went through, he should have PTSD. He doesn’t. You know I do?”

  Fabler nodded.

  “You know you do as well?”

  “I’m dealing with some things.” Fabler rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I used to take Prazosin.”

  AKA the nightmare pill. An anti-psychotic, used by many veterans to quell the bad dreams.

  “I’m not big into pills,” Fabler lied.

  “I also did IRT.”

  “Not familiar.”

  “A cognitive behavioral treatment. Image Rehearsal Therapy. My shrink is pretty good.”

  “I’m not big into shrinks, either.”

  “Are you big into suffering?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Mental illness is an illness, Fabler. You can’t man-up and beat PTSD, any more than you can man-up and beat the flu. Or a broken leg.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Okay, you want to be stubborn. I was talking soldier-to-soldier. Now I’ll talk sister-in-law to brother-in-law. If you don’t straighten your shit out, you’re going to lose your family.”

  “Apparently you don’t know Lori. She’d never leave me. And I’d never leave her.”

  “Maybe not physically. But mentally? Emotionally? The longer you take to deal with your health issues, the more you grow apart from her.”

  “I have nightmares, Presley. And my reaction time is lagging. But I’m not in danger of losing my mind. Or my wife. And this conversation is over.”

  Presley turned away, and there was an uncomfortable silence until Grim returned.

  “We all have to share a room. Apparently this dump is fully booked.”

  Shit. Be tougher to sneak out now.

  They brought in their packs, left most of their gear locked in the Jeep, and entered their lackluster room. There was a queen bed, and a sofa, and Fabler guessed which one he’d get stuck with.