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A minute wasn’t a long time. Sixty seconds. Not long enough to read a page in a book. Or boil an egg. Wasn’t even long enough to watch Fresh Guacamole , the shortest film ever nominated for an Oscar.

But for someone being sexually assaulted, a minute is a lifetime.

Koenig reached the alley at a run. He yanked the dumpster away from the entrance. He blinked in surprise. He didn’t see what he’d expected. He’d expected to see three bare-assed men. Men who were about to add rape to their résumé. ‘Consensual intercourse’, their high-priced attorneys would no doubt call it. He’d expected them to turn around and look sheepish for a moment. Then bullish and indignant as self-preservation kicked in.

But that wasn’t what Koenig saw.

Instead, he saw three men lying on the oil-stained concrete, blood pooling by their heads. The squabby man was clutching his throat and gurgling. The other two weren’t making any sound at all.

The girl looked unharmed and unworried. Her left hand was wet with blood. Koenig could see a ring on her index finger. It had a hooked bevel tip that looked like a raptor’s beak. They were called single-point self-defence rings, and they were weapons designed to be worn as everyday jewellery. In the right hands, they were deadly. It seemed like the girl had the right hands. She’d torn out her would-be assailant’s throats like she was a werewolf.

‘Who are you?’ she said.

‘My name’s Ben,’ Koenig said. ‘I saw them drag you into the alley. I came to help.’

‘Thanks,’ the girl said.

‘You’re welcome.’

Koenig then took his SIG from his jacket pocket and shot her in the ankle. She screamed and collapsed on top of the gurgling man. Koenig hurried over. The girl reached for her bag. Koenig kicked it away, then stomped on her hands. He bent down and studied the birthmark on her face.

It did look like Italy.

‘Hello, Harper,’ he said. ‘Where’s your dad?’