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“You’re a fall. A little red looks good on you.”

I look up and down the road.

“Where the hell are we?”

“City of Industry.”

“That’s a long drive back.”

“If you say so.”

“What’s your name?”

“Marcella.”

“Is that your real name?”

“No, but it’s the name I always wanted.”

“Good. People should die with their true names.”

I close the trunk and get behind the wheel. Marcella’s balaclava is on the passenger seat next to the briefcase. I use it to wipe some of the blood off my face. Sure, I could take her back to Sandoval’s through a shadow, but I really want to drive this Mercedes. And I really want her to bounce around the trunk while I do it. I start the car and jam it into gear. We take the corner on two wheels and Marcella makes a satisfying thump in the back.

IT’S NINETY MINUTES back to Sandoval’s mansion. The car gets some funny looks when traffic slows, but mostly it’s smiles and waves. I’m in Hollywood camouflage, hiding in plain sight. Most people think I’m a stunt driver heading home from a movie set in my prop car. The rest think the bullet holes are decorations. Gangster chic. When anyone checks me out, I give them a cool-guy nod and a thumbs-up. I’ll end up on a lot of people’s Instagram accounts tonight.

The Mercedes is on its last legs when I get to Sandoval’s, barely creaking up the hill. I punch the intercom beside the gate and tell them who I am. Even wave at the camera so they can see my face.

A voice crackles from the speaker: “Where’s the limousine?”

“In a police impound by now. Don’t ask about Philip. He’s not coming back.”

There’s a moment of silence, then the gates swing open. The last fifty yards up to the circular drive are dicey. The car finally commits seppuku halfway around the circle. Steam geysers from the radiator. Darker things leak from below. I’m not much better. Sandoval, Sinclair, and the roaches huddle at the front door, and when I walk over I leave a trail of red footprints. Eva takes a step back when she gets a good look at me.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Is that blood?”

“On me? Yes.”

“On my driveway.”

“Yeah. Plus a little oil and gasoline probably.”

She points at the Mercedes.

“You can’t leave that there.”

I wipe my bloody hands on my suit. It doesn’t help much.

“I’m not your valet. You want it moved, get one of your roaches to do it.”

I go back to the car, pop the trunk, and pull Marcella out. She’s sweaty but in decent shape, all things considered. However, she’s dizzy enough that I have to hold her arm like we’re on a prom date as I walk her over to the welcoming committee.

“Who the hell is that?” says Sandoval.

“This is Marcella. Say hello, Marcella.”

She spits on the ground.

Sinclair says, “Is she with the faction?”