She’s not wrong. He’s pushing over seven feet tall and built like a wrestler. He’ll probably just charge and fall on top of me. I’ll be at his mercy within seconds. “Just one thing,” I whisper to her and give Maigo a wink as a heads up. “It’s not punches I’ll be throwing.”

  Beside me, Blackwater’s protest happens in slow motion. “Nooo, waaaiii…”

  Meanwhile, I’m in motion, quick-drawing the shit out of my pistol and squeezing off a single round. It punches a neat hole in the behemoth’s forehead and rattles around in his skull for a moment before becoming lodged in his brainstem or something else a little more substantial than his Swiss-cheesed brain.

  “Goddamnit,” Blackwater whispers.

  Beside her, Maigo has two pistols drawn, aimed at the remaining eighteen fighters. Between the two of us, we could drop every single one of them without missing a beat. I’ve seen her aptitude tests. Kid’s an ace shot, and I know I won’t miss.

  The big man drops to his knees and then faceplants beside the man missing a finger and the woman with the bruised tit.

  “Any other takers?”

  The group wisely backs off.

  “Go home,” I tell them. “If you have them.” Then I turn my attention, and my gun, to Brewer. He hasn’t moved. Is watching me with a curious gaze. I tilt my head toward Blackwater. “The nice lady was asking you for help. I suggest you oblige, post haste, or you’ll end up like your Jolly Pale Giant friend here. And the next fuckin’ one of you who even sidelong glances at my partner is going to spend the rest of his miserable days with a little stub of a dick. Because I’m going to shoot the rest off. Just in case that wasn’t clear.”

  Brewer sighs and addresses Blackwater. “Found yourself a new man, finally? I think I like him.”

  “Fuck you,” she says.

  “Or are you still fucking women?” When he fails to get a rise out of Blackwater, he lifts his hands in defeat and rests them on his belly. “Well, it appears I’m at your mercy and service.”

  “Divine Retribution,” she says. “They’re meeting soon. Something big is going down. We need to know where. Now.”

  “What makes you think I know anything?”

  “They’re undergrounders like you,” she says. “Higher standards, but still underground. And if it happens beneath the surface, it’s your business to know. Much as normal people can’t stand this place, I know you love it.”

  Brewer leans back and smiles, revealing rotted teeth. Hard to imagine a time when a man like this was with a woman like Blackwater. But a lot can change in thirteen years. “You know how we operate down here. You want something, you give something.”

  I tighten my pistol grip.

  He extends his open palms toward me. “The girl is off limits. I get it. I’m no longer interested in blazing a new path. Instead, I’d like to take a stroll down memory lane, over well-trodden lands.”

  His grin is lascivious.

  “Fuck you,” Blackwater and I say in unison.

  She then turns to me. “And fuck you. I can fight my own battles, and you’ve all but guaranteed I will never be able to show my face in the underground again.”

  “Got that right,” Brewer says.

  “Listen,” I grumble, “I’m getting close to losing my patience, and that’s a bad thing when I’ve got a gun in my hands.” I swivel my weapon two seats to the right, homing in on a skinny man that’s been inching his hand toward a gun. I noticed no one else in the establishment carried a firearm. But the people in charge of a place like this… “Don’t think I don’t see you, fuck-chuckles. One more inch toward that peashooter and your head’s a stain on the guy beside you.”

  The guy beside him ribs him with his elbow and whispers, “C’mon, man.”

  When Chuckles’s hand slides back from the gun, I turn my attention back to Brewer. “In case you haven’t been told the whole truth and nothing but, Divine Retribution is trying to bring about some end-of-days bullshit that will be bad news for everyone on this planet, whether they live in the sun or eternal darkness. I don’t give a damn which you call home, but you better believe you won’t be safe anywhere, human cockroaches or not. Tell me what you know. Tell me now, or I really, really have not one god-damned reason to keep you alive, and I certainly have no problem introducing assholes like each and every fuckin’ one of you to the Grim Reaper. You know who I am. You know I’m not lying. I’m going to count to three and pull this trigger until the last man sitting on his ass, shitting himself, tells me what I need to know.”

  My audience is stunned into silence.

  “Three.”

  “Two.

  “One.”

  16

  “You shot him,” Maigo says, still stunned. “You actually shot him.”

  “In the leg,” I say. “He’ll live.”

  “And the one you shot in the head?”

  “He would have killed me. Self-defense. And given the circumstances, justified. I haven’t heard any reports of Nemesis doing a one-eighty, have you?”

  “You’re playing with fire.”

  “You worried about me?” I ask.

  She sighs. “I worry about everyone. But…so do you. I know that now, at least. Including me. I get it, you know, that you did all that to protect me.”

  “To protect my partner,” I say. “Don’t go making it personal.”

  “Wouldn’t dare. But…thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I say. “Literally. Anyone finds out and my rep goes down the toilet.”

  She passes the car ahead of us, swerving in and out of traffic on 95 South. Wouldn’t know it from looking at her, but she can be an aggressive driver when the stakes are high. The sun rose while we were underground. The roads are packed with commuters. They try to get out of our way—the red light flashing atop the car identifies us as NSO—but most of the time there isn’t anywhere for them to go. So Maigo steers us onto the shoulder and guns it.

  Blackwater rides in our wake with four Nemesisters I have yet to meet. She’s pretty pissed at me for the way I acted in the underground, but she’ll get over it when we save the world. Still haven’t asked what the whole ‘Belladonna’ thing was about. Mystery for another day.

  Beside me, Maigo grins.

  “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” I ask.

  “Shut-up.”

  “I’m in your head, kid. You might be a stick-in-the-mud, play-by-the-rules kind of person, but you appreciate my style.”

  She laughs. “It was his face. When you shot him in the leg. He just couldn’t believe it.”

  “Not sure why anyone was surprised,” I say. “I had just Indiana Jones’d a guy between the eyes after insinuating that I was going to fight him hand to hand.”

  “And then they just folded. Told us everything.”

  “When people’s version of reality crumbles—in this case, that they were the big untouchable dogs—and they find themselves reduced to that of normal mortals, whose lives could be ended on a whim… It’s one of the most unnerving things someone can go through. Probably what drove Hitler to kill himself. When delusion is torn away, reality can be unbearable. And it’s exactly what we’re going to do to these Divine Retribution fucks.”

  “If we find them,” she says. “Martha’s Vineyard isn’t exactly small.”

  “Not really big, either.”

  “Shouldn’t we call in reinforcements?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “They’d pull us back and hand the job off to someone not willing to befriend a Nemesister, head underground, or shoot a couple of bozos. We’re not just trying to solve a crime here, we’re going to expose targets and serve them up to justice, either at the jaws of Nemesis or the barrel of my gun.”

  “You practice one-liners in the mirror or something?” she asks.

  I grin. “Does it show?”

  “So, we get to Martha’s Vineyard and what?”

  “Start flipping tables, shooting legs, and keying Teslas. Whatever it takes. Someone on the surface will know something about the underground there.”

  “Not exactly a plan.” She glances in the rearview. “And we’re not exactly subtle.”

  She’s got a point.

  “We’ll split off from the Sisters,” I say. “Take the red light off the car.”

  “Wasn’t really talking about either of those things.” She scrunches her nose while giving me a visual once over. “You need to get cleaned up. People on Martha’s Vineyard will think you’re homeless.”

  “This is why I work in Neo-Boston. No one is afraid of a little grime.” I can’t deny her point, though. “We’ll stop on the way for clothes. I’ll clean up on the ferry.”

  “It’ll be fun,” she says. “Like one of those makeover shows.”

  “Keep talking like that and I’m liable to kill someone just to get Nemesis to come back and put me out of my misery.”

  My phone chimes. The name on the screen reads, ‘Don’t answer it.’

  Owens.

  I answer it. “What have you got for me?”

  “A GPS tracker that says you and Agent Maigo are headed south on 95 at nearly a hundred miles per hour.”

  “We’re having lunch on the Cape,” I say.

  “Uh-huh. This have anything to do with your recent string of hunches?”

  “Ever hear of plausible deniability?” I ask.

  “Right. Well, I’m sending you what we have on Divine Retribution, but there aren’t really any surprises. Information is scarce. All their public statements have been dumped online from random IP addresses hidden behind multiple VPNs. The only confirmed member on file is the one we just served up to Nemesis. But the profile for a member—white, wealthy, suburban—fits the part of the world you’re headed toward. The Cape…or one of the islands.”

  “Interesting,” I say. “And what about our guest?”

  “She’s still with you?”

  “And quite helpful,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, she’s borderline, so keep her on a short leash.”

  “Easier said than done,” I say.

  Everyone has a number rating. Like a credit score, or China’s social credit rating. But it’s only based on your criminal record. No one cares what you eat. Who you spend your time with. It’s simply a number—one through a hundred—that attempts to predict if you will be the next contestant on Nemesis’s Top Snacks.

  Frankie would have been a solid hundred. Most people underground are probably 80s and up…which is why they’re down there. Borderline is seventy-five. Means a single nefarious deed might tip the scales too far toward Nemesis. Two nefarious deeds and you’re basically done for, unless you know how to hide until the stink of your crimes washes away—which, in part has to do with the state of your own soul, but it might have more to do with the pain caused to your victims. If it lingers for a lifetime, best you don’t poke your head out of the underground…or end yourself quick. It’s why the few murders we do have—aside from the Frankie Robles nutjobs—are murder-suicides.

  “There’s nothing too serious in her record—no homicides, no B&E. Some petty stuff. Stolen cars in the early days. It’s really just the sheer number of incidents that’s raised her profile. Most of this is fights. She’s a brawler. Mostly with men. And from the looks of her unpaid hospital bills, she takes as many hits as she gives. Honestly, even if she reaches eighty, I don’t think she’ll get Nemesis’s attention unless one of those fights goes too far and she kills someone.”

  “Right,” I say. “Killing people is no beano.” I give Maigo a wink, and she rolls her eyes.

  “She formed the Nemesisters ten years ago, three years after Nemesis arrived, and her divorce.”

  “Husband is a prick,” I say.

  “Wait, you know him? How? He’s been missing for ten years.”

  “I’m told,” I say. “She does a lot of complaining. You know how women are.”

  Maigo slugs my shoulder. Takes a solid effort for me to hide how much it hurt.

  “She makes most of her money through merchandising, believe it or not. The Nemesisters are trending. T-shirts. Mugs. Posters. That kind of stuff. There’re some toys in the works. Nemesis and Nemesisters in the same box. Apparently, the monster isn’t enough. Consumers want to root for people associated with her. There, ahh… Apparently there is demand for NSO agents as well, but our policy forbids it. That said, you are retiring soon. Could have your own toy deal. Make some extra juice.”

  “First, I don’t want a fuckin’ toy of myself. Second, if you ever say, ‘extra juice,’ again—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says. “You know you only threaten people with death by Nemesis if you like them, right?”

  “Fuck you, Owens,” I say.

  “Fuck you, too.”

  I hang up the phone. What in the ever-loving canoodle was that? I feel dirty. Owens has reached a new high on my pile of shit meter. Been around long enough to really know what gets under my skin. Retirement, here I come.

  “Anything actionable?” Maigo asks.

  “Not really,” I say. “Blackwater checks out, though. A little rough around the edges. Borderline, but honestly, so am I.”

  “Shocking,” she says.

  While Maigo might not be surprised, every new superior I’ve had over the years has been terrified by the number. I’m a seventy-four. Seventy-five gets you fired. I think a lot of people have hoped I’d hit that magic number, but I’m very careful to budget my acts of violence. Like Blackwater, I’m a scrapper. Less as I age, but I’ve been known to ball my fists from time to time—off the job. When I’m hunting down a target, the gloves come off.

  I lean back in my seat. “Wake me up when we get there.”

  She nods. “Next stop, TJ Maxx.”

  17

  Trying to take a piss on a moving ferry through the choppy waters between Wood’s Hole and Martha’s Vineyard is hard enough. Turns into one of those kid’s sprinklers. The octopus-looking thing that wiggles all over the place, spraying every which way. It’s like that, but just one arm and a whole lot of shouting.

  Point is, all you’re doing in that scenario is standing and trying to maintain your aim. Getting changed into new clothing? Turns out that’s more difficult. And while I might not get piss everywhere, the few dozen kids and men who beat me to the bathroom already spritzed the place. Smells like an outhouse. And at least one kid can’t aim with his asshole. I swear to God, there is an errant poop nugget rolling around in here. A little E. coli pinball.

  So here I am, trying to keep the new duds from touching anything, while stripping out of my old clothes and trying to maintain my balance. Never was a circus clown, but I imagine they’d be pretty good at this. At least I don’t need to protect my old clothes. Just going to throw it all away. According to Maigo, they smell as bad as the bathroom.

  “Damnit,” I grumble, my back thrown against the wall as I pull one pant leg up. Off balance, I hop on one foot, trying to pull the new jeans up over my shoe. Maigo tried to get me into a suit. Screw that. I’ve never worn a suit. Not about to start now. So, we got blue jeans, a white T-shirt, a light blue button up, which I’m going to leave partially unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. I’ll look like a politician attempting to appear like a man of the people, but at least it ain’t a suit. I put the shoes on first so my feet wouldn’t touch the floor, but now I’m having trouble with the pants. “C’mon! Get…in…there…”

  My foot shoots through the pant leg just as someone pounds on the door. I nearly fall over, but go spread eagle, my feet pressed against the small room’s walls.

  “You alone in there, sailor?” Blackwater says through the door. “Sounds like you’re exploring your sexuality.”

  “Woman...” I say, whipping the door open. I’m blasted by a gust of ocean wind that slips past me, whirls around inside the bathroom and takes its stink along for the ride. It also whips Blackwater’s hair around in a way that accentuates her high cheekbones, and the wrinkles beside her eyes. She staggers me.

  And she smiles when she sees it. “You still look a mess.”

  “Hadn’t gotten to the manicure yet,” I say. “You know what it’s like to get changed on a rocking ship?”

  “Imagine it’s something like having sex in turbulence,” she says.

  “Speaking from experience?”

  “Just always wanted to try.”

  She’s doing this on purpose. Using her wiles to keep me off balance. Trouble is, I’m enjoying it. She’s going to be a blind spot for me. That could mean trouble. But for now, I’ll just enjoy the first positive attention I’ve had from a woman in a decade.

  “Here,” she says, pulling a plastic packet from her leather jacket. She pulls out some kind of napkin and moves for my face. I lean back, but she catches me by the arm. “It’s a baby wipe. Relax.”

  She sets to work on my face like a grandmother who’s just spit on a paper towel. Wiping. Dabbing. Scrubbing. I can’t see the result, but I can see the shades of brown coming off on the cloth.

  “You’re going to look a little paler, when I’m done, but at least we’ll be able to see the real you.”

  “The real me ain’t worth looking at,” I say.

  “We’ll see.” She leans back, looks me over, and grins. “Still a bit like an old tree, but an improvement. You know how to use a comb, or should I do that for you, too?”

  I want to say yes, but that would show just how vulnerable I am. “I’ll take care of it.”

  She places the dirty wipe in my hand. “See that you do.” She starts walking away, and my eyes drift down to the backside of her tight black—she stops. Spins around. Fuck! My eyes snap up. I smile. “Wouldn’t want you standing out too much on the island. That’s for me and the girls.”

  I give her an awkward salute. A salute! Why the hell did I do that? Back in the bathroom, I close the door behind me, take a breath, and let it out. “Don’t be fuckin’ stupid,” I tell myself. “Not the time. Not the place. Not even the same league. Get your head in the game.”

  I emerge from the bathroom ten minutes later, having spent far too much time on the hair. But there were some knots to work out, and it’s pretty long. Not quite ponytail long. If I were a more casual guy who wore sweaters and bathrobes, I’d look something like The Dude—beard and all. With the clothing I’m gussied up in now, I look more like a douche bag hedge fund manager past his prime.