John

I drive like a maniac, and Becky ends up pressed into the passenger seat like an astronaut enduring the g-force of a rough launch.

"Jesus, John!" she admonishes as I fly through a yellow light and take a sharp turn, causing the dogs to tumble around in the back seat. "Be careful. We won't get there any faster if we're dead!"

"Sorry." I ease my death grip on the steering wheel and force myself to take a breath."Try him again, will you?"

Muttering to herself about men behind the wheel, Becky pulls my phone from the magnetic dash anchor, unlocks it with the code I haven't changed since we lived together, and calls Carlos.

"Voicemail again," she says, re-sticking the phone to the dash.

"Fuck. It's been an hour. Something's wrong."

"Or maybe he's just busy," Becky says, though she doesn't sound like she believes it. "There could be a million reasons he hasn't called you back, none of which are whatever nightmare scenario you've dreamed up."

"Maybe."

Any other time, I'd agree with her. Becky was always the voice of reason between the two of us.

We took a trip on our honeymoon — we weren't in love, but we figured what the hell — and just about everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong.

Our flights were delayed. The airline lost our luggage. The resort in Cancun had no record of our reservations.

I'd been ready to give up and go home, but Becky had remained calm as a prosecutor who knows she has her case in the bag. One crisis at a time, she handled it like a pro, and in the end we had a great time.

Part of me is glad she's here now and wants badly to believe she's right, but part of me is itching with anxiety and knows better than to ignore what my instincts are telling me.

And my instincts are lit like a three alarm fire.

A light ahead of us turns yellow, and this time I stop and wait. I'm glad I do, because if I'd floored it, the dark windowless van that runs the red from the cross street would have sideswiped me and probably killed us all.

Becky squeaks, and I turn to see her pressed into her seat again, staring straight ahead with wide eyes.

"Are you okay?"

She turns her head and blinks at me. "No, I am not okay! What the fuck is wrong with this town? I thought people drove slow in places like this!"

"People are assholes everywhere these days," I say distractedly as my radio chirps.

"One Delta Five, Dispatch."

The unit with that code responds.

"1D5, go ahead."

Dispatch replies.

"Man down, 418 Hawthorne. Caller reports victim is unresponsive. EMS is en route. Lights and siren authorized."

"1D5, en route."

"Look up that address," I say to Becky. "418 Hawthorne."

She snatches my phone again and opens the map app. "It's... a restaurant," she says, squinting at the screen. "The... Perro Gordo Bar and Grill."

"Fuck. That's the Sandoval place."

"Sandoval?"

"One of our suspects. Alejo Sandoval. His family owns it. Carlos mentioned having met him there."

"John, just because someone was in a bar fight doesn't mean—"

The light changes, and I accelerate into a U turn, speeding back the way we'd come and towards the center of town.

By the time we reach the scene, radio chatter has informed me that multiple units have responded, that it's a shooting and suspected homicide, and that drugs may be involved.

I park as close as I can get, unbuckle my seatbelt, and pop the handle on the door.

"Stay here, Becks," I say, and get out, badge at the ready.

True to form, Becky doesn't listen, and follows with the dogs in tow. She knows better than to actually get in the way or interfere, so I save my breath and concentrate on the scene.

Emergency lights illuminate the street in flashes of blue and red. An ambulance, a fire truck, and three patrol cars block the road, and a handful of gawkers with cell-phones held aloft gather in little groups at the sidelines.

On the steps in front of the restaurant, a uniformed officer interviews an older man with a blanket around his shoulders who struggles to speak in broken English through his tears.

As I approach, a familiar form steps forth to block my way.

"John? What the hell are you doing here?" Latoya McKenzie raises both purple-nailed hands, as if to hold me back with the Force.

"What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were after the Morellis?"

She frowns. "I was. This took precedence."

Behind her, the EMTs wheel a gurney from the alley between the restaurant and the adjacent building. I crane my neck and catch a glimpse of a black bag. Latoya moves to block my view.

"John, you shouldn't be here," she says, sending a shock of ice through my heart. "You're too close to this, and—"

I shove past her, none too gently, ready to thrust my badge in the face of anyone who gets in my way. No one stops me, though, and the EMTs don't have time to react before I grab hold of the gurney and unzip the top of the bag.

For a moment, my vital functions seem to freeze, my heart and lungs turned to stone, and then I suck in a lungful of air and nearly pass out with relief.

The face staring up at me, dark eyes already clouding in death, is handsome and tanned, but it doesn't belong to the man I love.

My ears ring, and it sounds like I'm underwater. Someone loops an arm around my waist and pulls me away, forcing me to sit on one of the weathered, wood-slatted benches that line the sidewalks in this part of town, strategically placed to give footsore tourists a place to rest. To my great surprise, it's Chief Coleridge herself who kneels in front of me.

She says something, but I can't hear her. I blink a few times, and my hearing clears.

"What?"

She runs a hand over her hair and casts her gaze heavenward. "Christ. I'd swear the job description doesn't say 'must be gay and prone to falling in love."

I choke on a laugh.

Her hawklike gray eyes lock with mine. "Are you really okay?"

I scrub my hand over my mouth and force myself to take slow, deep breaths. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. I just thought..."

Her brows pinch. "When was the last time you heard from Martinez?"

"Uh..."

"Eight fifty-three." Becky's voice startles me, and I look up to see she's standing at the end of the bench, my phone in her hand, checking the time on Carlos's call.

"And who exactly are you?" Coleridge asks, her gravelly Kate Hepburn voice dropping a few notes as she narrows her eyes and gets to her feet.

"Oh! Sorry. Rebecca Wu. Assistant to the DA, Sacramento. And John's ex-wife." Becky extends her hand and winces. "I swear it's not as awkward as it sounds."

Coleridge sizes her up and accepts the handshake with the graciousness of one ship's captain greeting another.

"Not sure you should be here, but since you are..." She beckons to the officer speaking to the old man, who I gather is the elder Sandoval.

The officer approaches, and I recognize one of the younger recruits, blond and blue-eyed, and all of five-two and with a deceptively rounded physique, but with a bull-dog's grit and a bear's strength. I can't remember her name, but I remember her putting some boys to shame in the station's gym.

"Carter, show them the video," Coleridge says.

Carter, whose first name I now recall is Jane, taps the screen of her phone a few times and holds the device at eye level for me. Becky stands behind the bench and leans down to watch over my shoulder.

On the screen, a grainy security video shows the length of the alleyway in a distorted, fisheye view. The angle suggests the camera was placed about halfway down its length.

I don't dare blink as, at 3x normal speed, I see two figures come into view, one of which appears drunk.

Or drugged.

I hold my breath as Carlos staggers and Alejo props him against the car before proceeding to show him something in the trunk.

Then they're joined by a third figure, who at first seems interested in Alejo's illicit wares, and then — out of nowhere — pops him one in the back of the head.

With Alejo down, Carlos moves out of the frame with the too slow pace of someone trying to run in a nightmare. The other figure follows him, and a moment later both reappear as a van pulls up to block the end of the alleyway.

I watch, hand over my mouth, as Carlos is forced into the vehicle, which takes off like a Formula One car at the start of a race.

The video continues for a while after that, bugs floating in and out of the screen as the camera records the alleyway, empty except for the car and the motionless body draped over the open trunk.

Carter stops the playback and steps away. I lift my eyes to meet Coleridge's.

"What the fuck was that?"

Coleridge glances at the old man still weeping on the steps of the pub and lowers her voice.

"Jose Sandoval suspected his son was dealing drugs," she says. "I guess he told his dad he'd made the money off BitCoin, but the old man didn't believe him. He bought these cameras and set them around the restaurant, hoping to catch his boy in the act and knock some sense into him before he got into real shit and ruined his life. Unfortunately..."

"Too late for that," Becky murmurs.

"What about the other guy? You got an ID?"

Coleridge sighs. "No. But given the circumstances, and given that whoever it was seems to have been working as a pair with whoever was driving that van..."

"The Morellis!" Becky gasps as if she's just solved the winning clue in some party game.

"That's what we're assuming at the moment, yes."

"Fuck. You remember that van that just about creamed us?" Becky grabs my shoulder in an eagle-claw grip and shakes it. "That was them!"

A sick feeling slithers through my gut.

She's right.

My instincts had my nerves on fire at that point, and I'd ignored them in the interest of appearing sane in front of Becky. If I'd been alone, wouldn't I have known the man I'd bonded with was right there, and wouldn't I have gone after him?

I shake my head as if to clear it and get to my feet. Coleridge takes a step back at whatever she sees on my face.

"Whoa — John, let's just take a minute to—"

"No. There are no minutes to take," I say, consulting my watch. "My guess is the Morellis know the game is up. The third phase of the ritual — the 'Feast of Betrayal' is technically meant to take place on the full moon, but I'd bet we have until midnight to find and stop them."

"That's my thought, as well," Coleridge says, "which is why I've called for... backup."

"Backup?"

"Yes." Coleridge rubs her brow. "I wanted Dane Hunter on this, but he's... 'busy,' apparently. But his sister's in town."

"I don't follow."

What the fuck do I care if some former detective's goddam sister is visiting?

"She's..."

The rumble of an engine interrupts her, and I turn to look as a single headlight approaches.

It belongs to a motorcycle — an Indian Chief Dark Horse, as I know from my days of pining after one — and for some reason, no one stops it as it weaves a path through the blockade and pulls up in front of us.

The rider kills the engine and kicks the stand, dismounting as she pulls off her helmet and shakes out a head of long dark curls. Six feet of photo-shoot ready, leather-clad attitude approaches and smiles at me.

"You must be John," she says, extending a slender, brown-skinned, perfectly manicured hand. "Freya Hunter. Nice to meet ya."