Wolfe snorted to himself as he stared out the passenger side window of his car, past Shel. The Lucky Fifty-Two was the least well-disguised illegal gambling den he could have ever imagined. Even the name was insanely obvious.

The roulette table easily visible through the giant front window was just icing on the ‘no one gives a fuck about the law’ cake.

Wolfe fingered the collection of handcuffs he’d bought as he wondered how much the bribes were to keep the police away—he had never needed to find out. What he didn’t need to wonder about was who was paying the bribes. Illegal gambling in Noimoire was run by the Renfeldt family, who were beloved of the Infernal Lord of Greed, Mammon. That included this little place.

Wolfe wasn’t sure why the Renfeldt family was letting Billy Nelson hide here after murdering a member of the Grimm family. The two families got along, and the Renfledt sold drugs at some of their gambling dens, drugs they got from the Grimm family. Why were they willing to risk trouble?

But none of that shit really mattered right now. What mattered was that Wolfe had orders, and he intended to carry them out. The license plate MILFCKR stared at him from just inside the trash filled, chain-link-surrounded parking lot next to the place, next to a few other cars. It spurred him to want to take care of business.

The gambling den hadn’t formally opened yet, but people had entered, and he saw a guy smoking around the back, near a door that was propped open, inside the parking lot. That was his target.

Wolfe turned to his partner-in-crime. “Shel, stay here. Be prepared to drive off fast if I come running. I’m going to go handle business.”

She nodded nervously as Wolfe left the car and headed around the side. He watched to make sure she was complying with the orders. He saw her move to the driver’s seat and assumed that this was going to be the best he would get without hanging around.

He knew that he needed to get the jump on his target, and just walking up as himself was sure to spook the guy. So, he waited till the guy’s head faced the other direction, then ran behind a car. Praying to whichever gods would listen that no one would call him out for his suspicious behavior, Wolfe quickly moved from behind one old clunker to the next. When he was a mere fifteen feet from the door he peeked around the side of the last car.

Luck, or the gods’ favor, had his target facing away from him. Wolfe exploded into a run, his knees twinging but obeying as he launched himself forward. The guy must have heard the slap of Wolfe’s shoes on the asphalt, because he started to turn, but Wolfe hit him with an elbow in his temple and slammed him against the wall. The guy went down.

Can’t kill what are probably Renfledt’s stooges, leave him.

But Wolfe had already made the ‘leave him’ mistake last night—he quickly searched the guy and took his gun, the rolled him onto his stomach and handcuffed his hands behind his back. He wasn’t worried about him escaping—just coming out of his beating induced nap and trying to exact vengeance. So he left his feet free.

Then he opened the door and went in the back. He found himself in a small hall with a bathroom and a kitchen and some random building supplies—pipes and such.

From the bathroom, someone called out, “Julio? Everything okay?”

Wolfe grabbed a pipe, waited around the side of the bathroom door. A moment later, the door opened and Wolfe smashed the person coming out with a powerful swing of the pipe. The white face had just enough time for the eyes to widen before Wolfe slammed him so hard he fell back, his legs stiffening and rocking up like a psychotic little flesh seesaw.

Wolfe repeated his ‘de-gun and handcuff’ process, but handcuffed the guy around the toilet.

Two down—how many motherfuckers are in this place?

Wolfe snuck back down the hallway, exiting into the kitchen. A tall, older, umber-skinned man in a dirty chef’s apron was busy unpacking frozen food, and happened to stare right at Wolfe as he came around the corner.

Fuck! Wolfe stood and drew his gun, pointing it at the man. “Freeze! And keep quiet!”

The man froze in place, staring at Wolfe with hard, slightly narrowed eyes that flickered around—looking for a way out, an ally, or a weapon. Wolfe recognized the look.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Those guards were pussies but this cook is an ex-military guy or something—thank goodness he looks sixty. I need a moment, though.

“What’s your name?” Wolfe asked, touching his own chest and feeling the hunger and fire of his deck as he did.

“James,” the man said curtly.

Feeling as if the situation was already halfway escaping him, and hoping that there weren’t any deckbearers around, Wolfe brought forth his deck and summoned Cereboo.

His dog licked him with three tongues and then did a full circle, its tail wagging wildly. Not the impressive dog-of-doom that Wolfe was hoping for, but it was still a three-headed demon dog. Wolfe hoped it would be good enough.

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He kept his gun trained on James as he pet his dog with one hand and spoke to him. “Cereboo, make sure this nice military man doesn’t leave or call for help. If he does either of those things, kill him. If he doesn’t, leave him alone.”

Wolfe winced as Cereboo gave a bark.

“How do you know I served in the military?” James asked.

Wolfe was already moving. “The way you carry yourself and how your eyes move. Now shut up, I don’t have time for fucking twenty questions.”

“Why are you here?” James asked.

“Gotta grab someone. Not one of your people—not the Renfeldt people or the people working at the business.”

“Billy?” James asked.

Wolfe turned and faced him. “Yeah, why?”

James tilted his head toward the doors out of the kitchen. “Main room is empty. Take the hall leading back from the front door—first one on the left as you exit from the kitchen—and follow it back. He’s in the second door on the right. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Wolfe turned and faced the man, dropping his gun. “Why are you helping me?”

James grimaced. “Certain people shouldn’t be allowed to roam free.”

Wolfe thought back to the room he had seen, and the working girl that had been traumatized before being murdered, and what he surmised of this guy’s background. He was almost positive he could trust him. Almost. “I appreciate it. Gonna leave Cereboo on you—I’ll be back soon.”

The man gave another single tilt of his head, this time to Wolfe.

Wolfe walked into the main room, cautiously. No one there as promised, just rows of tables, a giant roulette wheel, and a ton of slot machines.

Fucking slot machines, openly, in a city that banned gambling. Wolfe shook his head, surprised every Infernal gifted deck didn’t get sent here, along with the Corrupted faction ones as well.

There was a larger hall heading to the back, and Wolfe followed it. As he got close, he immediately understood why James had been willing to help him—the sound of flesh striking flesh and whimpering was coming from the second right door.

Wolfe took his gun out and pushed the door open. It was a fairly fancy bedroom—Wolfe wondered what architectural insanity had led to that being placed here—with a nice queen bed, plush carpet, and a huge plasma T.V. on the wall.

He found two people fucking—huge guy on top with a devil on his neck and snake on his shoulder, slapping the tiny woman beneath him with one hand and holding her wrists pinned with his other. The woman yelled even louder as Wolfe busted in, but the man didn’t immediately notice the intruder to his private space.

“Get off!” Wolfe shouted, pointing his gun at them, then almost choked with the black humor of his comment.

The man rolled off, his pock-marked, pig-eyed face glaring at Wolfe from beneath thick black hair. Wolfe walked close, but not to within easy lunge distance, gun pointed at the man’s rather unimpressive dick. The woman let out a second scream and grabbed covers, pulling them over herself. Useless bint.

“Who’re you?” the man asked, belligerently, but he didn’t move except to shake slightly. Typical fucking bully.

“I’m Wolfe,” Wolfe replied, pleased to see that the man’s eyes went wide with fear. “Now, stay there for one moment.”

Wolfe walked sideways until he was near the man’s pants, then rummaged through his pockets one handed. He found a huge wad of cash, thick, over ten thousand if the inner bills were of the same denomination as the outer hundred-dollar bill.

He put the cash on the ground, keeping his gun trained on Billy the whole time. Then he tossed Billy his pants.

“Put those on. We’re going for a ride,” Wolfe said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Billy said.

Wolfe sighed and extended his gun a few inches toward Billy’s now utterly tiny dick. Billy flinched. “Wait!”

“I’ve got orders to kill you if you don’t cooperate,” Wolfe said, just making shit up to get Billy to cooperate so Wolfe could take him to a better place to leave bodies. “So get the pants on, and then handcuff your hands behind your back.”

“You’re just going to kill me later,” Billy said, not moving.

Wolfe, still talking out his ass, said, “I might. On the other hand, I might not. Depends on what the boss says.”

For some reason, that seemed to make Billy relax, and he smiled a smug smile at Wolfe, showing off a mouth of incredibly gross teeth that ten of ten dentists recommended suicide for. “Got it. You’ll get no trouble from me.”

Billy pulled his pants up and Wolfe threw him handcuffs, which he willingly put on. Billy stared at Wolfe with that same yellow-toothed, gag inducing, smug smile the whole time. Like he had some advantage Wolfe didn’t know about.

Wolfe resisted the urge to punch the murdering, woman-abusing bastard in his gross mouth—he would get his.

Once Billy was done half-dressing himself, Wolfe motioned to the door. “March. We’re going out through the exit behind the kitchens. Start shit and you’ll die in a pool of your own blood and shit.”

Billy managed to glare without losing his smug smile, the first thing mildly impressive that Wolfe had seen from him.

Wolfe turned to the occupant of the bed. “You, lady, stop shaking. Money is yours—I recommend you take it and get out of here, and don’t say anything for a few hours if you know what’s good for you.”

Billy walked out past the girl, who didn’t move from behind the blankets, leering at her. “I’ll be back for you, cunt.”

“Shut up and walk faster!” Wolfe ground out and smacked him in the back of the head now that he was hand-cuffed and it wasn’t as dangerous to be close to him.

Billy didn’t say anything else, just walking out.

They walked past the front room and to the kitchen, where Wolfe found Cereboo, James… and Shel.

“What’re you doing here, girl?” Wolfe asked.

“I got the notification you had pulled your deck. I thought you might be in trouble and came to… um… came to…” Shel trailed off, touching the ends of her fingers together and staring up at Wolfe through her long eyelashes.

Wolfe snorted. “You came to rescue me. I don’t need rescuing, girl.”

Shel whispered, “I have an angel deck… but Mr. Washington explained the situation.”

“Mr. Washington?” Wolfe asked.

James raised his hand, his other now scratching Cereboo’s left head, which was panting heavily, the dogs tail wagging.

“Well, I’m fine,” Wolfe said, simultaneously irritated, insulted, and touched by Shel’s concern. “What I need is a getaway driver. Let’s go.”

Wolfe was tempted to say something like thanks to James, but it would probably be better if his help was never acknowledged, so he just gave him a very slight tilt of the head and pushed Billy out the back. He held his gun close. “Get in the back of the car and make it look causal.”

Billy complied, and Wolfe got in the passenger’s seat, holding his gun on Billy the whole time. “Shel, drive us back to the warehouse, please.”

Shel’s face might have been carved from stone—sad stone, but still stone—as she got in the driver’s seat. But she complied.