A few months had passed since everything went down with Richard Webb, Lena, and the whole mess involving Rule Investments and Arcadia. Drago Bulatov had disappeared, and the general consensus was that he’d skipped town, probably back to Europe where he could blend into the shadows.
Amelia Webb had been cleared of any wrongdoing—the whole scheme had been Richard’s doing, a pathetic attempt to be someone he wasn’t.
As for me, I hadn’t been charged in any of the killings. Lucky for me, the law sometimes sees things from the right angle.
Life went on. I went back to work, handling the usual cases that came through my door—missing persons, infidelity, and the occasional insurance scam. But just when I thought things were settling down, a new problem cropped up, the kind that had a way of getting under your skin.
Car thieves.
In my section of Detroit, a new auto theft ring had moved in. People were waking up to find their vehicles gone, vanished into the night like they’d never existed.
One uneventful day had slowly moved past midnight into the early hours of the next morning.
I woke up at 3:34 a.m. So the car thief must have made his move at 3:30 am sharp. About four minutes seemed right. He would have sneaked up to the car, probably using the furniture store next door to hide in the shadows.
My Maverick was parked in my assigned spot, just as unsuspecting as I was.
He probably had one of those electronic devices that can ping a car alarm and turn it off. Law enforcement tries to keep those a secret, but they exist. I had retrofitted a basic alarm into the Maverick, but it didn’t stand a chance against a pro.
The thief would have had a thin metal tool in his hand, working fast and quiet. After a minute or two, he would have managed to jimmy the window, popping the lock and then he would have slipped inside. I imagined him grinning as he worked, thinking he’d just scored an easy prize.
He most likely smashed the steering column, found the right wires, crossed them until he saw the spark.
The whole thing, as I figure out, probably took about four minutes.
The problem was, the car didn’t start.
It exploded.
From reports of a few people who’d been nearby, there was a spectacular burst of light and sound. The blast rocked the quiet street, flames shooting up into the night sky, a column of black smoke twisting upward. The force of the explosion blew out the windows of the furniture store, shards of glass raining down like deadly confetti. The thief was caught in the middle of it, blown to bits, his prize turning into a fiery coffin.
By the time the fire trucks arrived, there wasn’t much left but a smoking shell and pieces of what had once been the Maverick. The firemen went to work dousing the flames, water hissing and steaming as it hit the wreckage. Neighbors gathered to stare at the scene. Not very many people, though. After all, it was Detroit.
Hours later, having answered all of the necessary questions and signed certain paperwork, I was back in my loft. There was a fresh cup of coffee in my hand.
On the table, my phone buzzed with an incoming text.
Without even looking, I knew.
I opened the home screen and clicked on the text.
The first thing I saw was a cartoon bull, clawing at the dirt, steam rising from his nostrils.
I stared at the screen, waiting, knowing something more was coming. A few seconds later, another message appeared. Just three words:
It’s not over.
I set the phone down and leaned back in my chair. I’d dealt with psychopaths like this before and knew what to expect.
I knew exactly who, and what kind of man, I was dealing with.
Drago Bulatov?
He clearly did not.