“I joined the Boars when I turned eighteen, same as everyone else.”
We’re back in the van, jostling our way home. Jax has his seat tilted back as far as it’ll go, so he can keep talking as Jaws drives. I moved up a row and am squished between Micah and Nianna.
“Why did you leave?” I ask Jax.
“I didn’t agree with what they were doing. They were picking fights over something that happened years ago.”
“Yeah, well,” Nianna says, crossing her arms. “Aaron Weston fucked his whole family tree, didn’t he?”
Wait, what? Aaron—that’s Matthew’s brother, the one who lives up in Tahoe. “What does Aaron have to do with this?”
If she notices that I only used his first name, she doesn’t say anything. “He started this mess.”
My pulse quickens. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t know? Aaron Weston and Annie Boreas were a couple.”
“Who?”
“Tyler Boreas is the correct Boar leader. Annie was his older sister.”
So Aaron dated the Boar leader’s sister? “When was this?”
“This was, like, twelve or so years ago. Aaron Weston and Elliott Boreas—the other Boreas brother—had been rivals for years. Some sort of bad blood between them that started when they were in school together. So when Annie and Aaron got together, it pissed Elliott off to no end. The Herons didn’t want to be associated with the Boars, and vice versa. But the two of them stuck it out. They were planning to get married.”
Her tone tells me there’s more. “Then what?”
Nianna’s eyes flicker to Jax, who waves his hand idly like go on and looks back to the road.
“Then Annie drowned,” she says, shoulders slumping. “Somewhere in the bay on New Year’s Eve. Aaron wasn’t there, but it was his family’s boat, his family’s party. Everyone was too busy partying to notice she was missing. Then the coroner’s report came back. There were some high-level drugs in her system. The kind you don’t just get off the street.”
“So sad,” Kate whispers.
Nianna nods. “Elliott and the Boars went ballistic. They tore through Heron territory—the Marina, North Beach, down into downtown, and SoMa. Set cars on fire, broke windows, tagged everything. The group that’s now called the Young Herons retaliated. They were smaller in number, but they could hire whoever they wanted to find the Boars and hurt them.”
I shift in my seat. The Boars sound like me. All Elliott wanted was revenge for someone he loved. “That’s not really Aaron’s fault, though.”
“He got his girlfriend really fucking high, then she drowned,” Kate says with a shrug. “I’d be pissed.”
“I’d be pissed,” Mako echoes.
Nianna goes on. “Once the police got involved, things got even worse. SFPD was—and still is—desperate for cash, and the Herons could give it to them. The Boars felt betrayed by the city that was supposed to protect them. The people’s people and all that. They lashed out, Herons retaliated. On and on. That’s how the Wars came to be.”
“Wow,” I say. Here I was thinking it was all about money and status, when in reality the city was undone by something as simple as two people falling in love.
“A few years ago, the Boars recruited that one,” Nianna says, pointing at Jax.
The guy in question stares out at the horizon like he owns it. “The longer I was in the Wars, the more I realized the Boars had lost their way. No one even knew Annie or cared about their original purpose. They just wanted to get back at the Herons for how they were changing the city. Which is a worthy cause, but they weren’t being smart about it. So I bided my time and waited as I rose through the ranks. After a while I realized the Boars were never going to be the group I wanted them to be, even if I led them. So I left, and took another Boar with me.”
Jax’s chest rises and falls—it looks like he’s going to say something, but instead he shakes his head. “Anyway, the Boars and Herons have forgotten their way, and they’re taking the city down with them. So I’m going to do the one thing that they—and the police—can’t do.”
“Which is?” I ask.
“I’m going to end the Wars.”
What? The flatness of his words brings me back to my senses. “I don’t understand.” And I’m starting to get real freaking tired of that feeling.
“Despite appearances, Valentine, you’re sitting in a car with a bunch of pacifists.”
Wait, what? “Really?”
“Pacifists might be a bit strong,” says Micah. “With Theresa’s help, we get ahead of the Young Herons’ plans and stop them from moving forward. We protest, we create chaos, whatever it takes. And when the Herons are stuck, there’s nothing for the Boars to retaliate against.”
“And every month on the first, Jax sends them both a message asking them to end the Wars,” Nianna finishes.
“How do you do that?”
“When I left the Boars, I stole one of their IRIS machines,” Jax replies. “It’s this old prototype comm machine one of the first Young Herons built—Interpersonal Relay Internet System. When the Boars were founded, the two gangs agreed to use it to talk to each other. Only for official dealings between the two groups. The kid who made it was a genius. Each comm gets a unique encryption, and every time you send a message it routes it across half a dozen connections. You can’t see it if you don’t know what you’re looking for, and it was never on the market, so…”
I don’t know whether I should be impressed or what, but I am stunned. What have I gotten myself into? “But on the news, the Stags are just as violent as the others.”
“Well, we don’t take shit lying down,” says Nianna, like duh. “If one of the other gangs fucks with us we obviously fight back.”
“I fight back,” Jax corrects, his voice rising. “If another gang does something against you, I’ll let you handle it. But if it’s against the Stags, I take the action.”
All the blood stays on his hands. Next to me, Micah turns and looks out the window. “Okay,” I say.
“I fucking mean it,” Jax snaps, suddenly. “I’ll take the hit.”
“Okay,” I repeat. Did I say something wrong? “But my revenge for my brother is mine?”
“Yes,” Jax says, with a nod of his head. His word feels like a vow somehow, like it’s inevitable that I’ll be able to find the Boar that killed Leo.
“Society says we’re bad, but we’re doing what the police can’t and the other gangs won’t,” Jax continues. “We’re what the Boars should have been, but are now too big and disorganized to be. We’re smarter than they are, and doing the right thing.”
Doing the right thing, just the wrong way.
“Anyway, you’ll start your schooling today, Valentine. The binders first. You have to know every face and name in the other gangs.”
Binders with faces and names. Riveting.
“Binders, range, following orders. That’s your life, until I say otherwise,” he goes on. Until I’ve earned my place. Until I’ve earned the knowledge of who killed Leo.
“Okay,” I say.
He takes a vape from his pocket and inhales deeply, cracking the window just enough to let a wave of cold air in and the vapor out. “You know the buses?”
“Most of them,” I answer.
“BART?”
“I’m a native. So, yeah. Honestly the only thing I’m missing is more black clothes.”
Micah gives me an approving smirk, but Jax is apparently too busy getting high to bother with me anymore. Or at least I think so until he says to Jaws, “Take us downtown.”
If you’d have asked me what I’d be doing on my second day in the Wars, I would not have said shopping.
Yet here I am, in a dressing room of some boutique off of Union Square, tugging up yet another pair of black pants. These have a leather stripe down the side—real leather, not the knockoff stuff at Forever 21—which makes me feel like a badass girl superhero. Sexy, I think, though it’s not a word I usually use to describe myself.
“Well?” Kate shouts from the next fitting room.
“They’re good,” I say, shimmying off the leather-stripe pants and sliding back into my own. I gather the bundle—two jeans, a pair of black leggings, plus a couple of midnight-colored sweaters—and exit. Kate’s waiting for me, a form-fitting running jacket hanging over her arm.
“Grabbed this one for you, too,” she says. “Medium?”
“Yup,” I reply, but my heart is sinking. I recognize the swirling lettering of the label—that jacket’s not cheap. “Wait,” I say. She hands it to me. “Kate, this is nearly two hundred dollars. No way am I getting this.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s two hundred dollars for something made for me to sweat in.”
She laughs—ethereal and eternal. “It doesn’t matter what it costs. Jax is paying. Don’t forget what we told you about his mama. And besides,” she says, “this is an independent business. Jax has met the owner, Kailin. The more we spend here, the more likely they can afford whatever rent the Herons charge here now.”
Kate yanks the jacket back from me and tugs the rest of the bundle with it. She heads for the register, and I follow right behind.
Seeing us, Jax gets up from where he was playing some game on his phone. As the cashier rings us up, all I see are numbers getting higher and higher.
“Jax,” I say as he counts out bills. “I can put some of it back.”
He pauses. “Do you like them?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
He turns and hands a wad of hundreds to the cashier. “Thank you so much.” In one smooth move, he hooks his arm around my shoulders—well, more around my head. He pulls me close and kisses my hair.
“Don’t worry about it, Valentine. Anything you want is yours.”
The Boar who killed Leo, I want to say, but I know he’s talking about stuff, not information. Not yet.
“Thank you,” I mutter, then duck out of his grasp.
“Told ya,” Kate says triumphantly. “Now let’s go get coffee. Nianna says this place is super bougie but has the best espresso.”
We go, Kate texting the others down the street that we’re on our way. I rub the sheeny ribbon of the bag—I never thought I’d ever have so much from such a fancy store. Maybe if I saved up and wanted to splurge on something, sure. But not like six things plus the orchid-colored lipstick Kate threw in at the end.
The air is cool, the clouds above us every shade of bruise-blue and impenetrable, like a long curtain draped over the city. I shiver. Coffee is starting to sound better and better. Walking behind Kate, I admire the latest of her fancy braids—a fishtail that somehow blends seamlessly into a regular braid, with a perfect curl at the end.
The streets are as busy as ever. I sidestep a vendor hawking some skincare line and have to quickly pivot out of the way of a man pushing a cart full of garbage bags. The latter’s dog follows closely behind, tail low.
If there is ever a place where two opposing forces meet, it’s on the streets of San Francisco. Tourists dodge vagrants, then pose for pictures next to the cable cars on Market. At night, concertgoers and theater lovers skirt past discarded needles and sprawled bodies on the ground at Civic Center Station. The situation was bad years ago, but has been made worse by the influx of money into the City by the Bay. The cries for change are louder, but that change often comes at the expense of those without the means to fight it.
I figure, if anything, the city’s myriad ailments help the Wars. It’s like a cancer—there’s no easy fix, and while the state and local governments tangle themselves in red tape, the Wars go on as a newer symptom masked by others.
We pass under the shining marquee of a private hotel and residence, and Kate slows as she studies the map on her phone. The click clack of heels on the pavement sounds from behind us, and I wonder why on earth anyone would walk in heels when the pavement still glistens from the morning’s rain.
The clacking stops, and I realize Jax is no longer right behind me. I turn around.
Jax is frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, one hand already at his back where I know a handgun is concealed. Squaring off with him is a girl our age with black hair shining down to her waist and eyes I can only describe as blazing. There are two guys right behind her like soldiers flanking a queen.
“Well, look who decided to wander my way,” the girl says, her voice purring. She narrows her perfectly shadowed eyes, cocking her head to the side to look at me. “And you came with some friends.”
“Holy shit.” Kate grips my arm, yanking me back toward her. “That’s Camille Sakurai. Leader of the Young Herons.”
The ground swells and shakes. We’re downtown—of course the Herons would find us. Matthew! Is he here? Is he close by?
“Hey, Camille,” Jax replies, as if he’s greeting an old friend. “We’re not here on business. Just passing through.”
“Just passing through,” she repeats. “Oh, okay. Don’t mind us, then.” She folds her arms across her chest, the bronze-colored bangles at her wrists gleaming in the light from the storefront. “You never just pass through.”
“Showing the newbie what’s what.”
“Oh, that’s right. You got a new recruit, too.” Camille locks her eyes with mine. A moment later, Jax steps back in front of me, blocking me from her sight. “Hi, Valerie,” she calls. “So lovely to meet you in person.”
“How does she know—” I whisper frantically, but Kate squeezes my arm and says, “Not now.”
“Tell you what, Jax, I’ll make you a deal,” Camille says. Her tone is riddled with a savageness that cuts like steel. “I’ll forget I saw your face tonight for two minutes with your recruit.”
“No way,” Jax says instantly.
“You’re not exactly in a position to negotiate,” she says. “And you’re on my turf, asshole.”
“And you’re on camera, Your Highness,” Jax says mockingly, tilting his head toward the hotel. Surely there are hidden cameras all around us. “The longer you stand here the sooner someone is going to wonder why the daughter of a self-driving-car mogul was talking to a couple of punk-ass high-school dropouts.”
Camille’s look is murder. “Fine. Fuck off, Jax. And don’t come back.” Turning, she clicks her way into the hotel but pauses on the first step, her bodyguards pausing as she does. “Oh, and Valerie? I’ll be sure to tell Matthew everything about this. He’s right upstairs, you know.”
Upstairs. Without thinking, I look up, wondering which of the glowing windows has Matthew somewhere behind it. Jax and Kate whirl me away from the site of the standoff, Jax’s hand on the small of my back.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “Are we, uh, safe?”
“Safe enough, but we shouldn’t hang out here much longer.”
Kate navigates us to the coffee shop. Inside the air is warm and the mood quiet as workers take orders and patrons hunch over their laptops.
Micah’s sipping what looks like a simple Americano when he sees us. “What’s wrong?”
“Camille found us,” Jax replies. “Let’s go.”
We gather up our stuff and hustle out of the café just as fast as we entered it. The van pulls up and we hop in. This time, Nianna takes the front and Jax sits next to Micah, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
“Lighten up,” he says to his friend.
Micah shakes his head. “It was dumb to come here.” He adds something else right into Jax’s ear. I don’t catch it.
“I know,” is our leader’s reply, and none of us will ever have any way of knowing whether Jax was agreeing to Micah’s statement or to what was whispered. I’m just glad to be safe.
I look out the window as we pull away. The farther we head from downtown, the brighter the lights of the hotel seem to burn against the gray cityscape—like a thousand fires reminding us of the Young Herons’ grip on the city, and on me.
Matthew is a Young Heron now. And if what the Stags have said is true, then they’re our biggest enemy. I should hate him.
But how can I? Even at the peak of the breakup, I didn’t hate Matthew. Not really. And no matter how painful it was, it didn’t erase the years in which we’d forged our bond. Our stories are intertwined, I remind myself. Is that still true, now that we’re on opposing sides?
I think of Annie Boreas—what was it like for her to forsake the world she knew and dive into the great blackness of the unknown? She left behind her brothers, and probably the rest of her family ties. No matter how strongly her heart was drumming that what she was doing was the right thing, was getting what she wanted most worth the risk?
Hours later, Kate, Nianna, and I sit around the kitchen table. Nianna fidgets like an impatient cat as Kate paints her nails a deep purple. Micah plays video games in the other room while Mako’s gone out for a run.
Jax asked to be alone.
Three plastic monstrosities sit before me. I’ve flipped through each a dozen times, but the memorization is excruciating. I’m good with names and faces but not that good.
Besides, I still can’t get over what happened downtown, or what the Stags told me as we were leaving Twin Peaks.
How come Matthew never told me about what happened with Aaron? He only ever said that Aaron was the black sheep of the family and that he loved his life in Tahoe. He didn’t tell me about Annie, how she died, or the choice she made before she did. Love over family—did she ever regret her decision? Speaking of …
“What happened to the guy Jax left the Boars with?” I ask. “Am I gonna meet him at some point?”
Nianna and Kate both pause. After a glance at the hallway door—toward Jax’s room—Nianna exhales. “Jax didn’t leave with a guy. The Boar he took with him was named Brianna. He’d had a crush on her for ages and, well, he’s Jax. He gets what he wants. But shit got messy fast. She wanted out of the Stags. It became this big thing, because at that time the Stags were like, brand-new, and Jax couldn’t let her go home. It’d ruin the small reputation they’d earned so far. Then Brianna was kidnapped by Boars. Fuckers rear-ended her car, and when she got out they swooped in.”
Chills run down my spine. There are only a few things that can happen to a woman when she’s kidnapped—and none of them are good.
“Jax went ballistic. He tried to meet with the Boar leader, but they refused. Brianna was theirs for who knows how long.”
I exhale, shaking my head. “Fuck.”
“Eventually, they let her go. She said they didn’t harm her, that they were only holding on to her to piss off Jax, but who knows? Once they let her go, Jax never went to find her, at least not that I know of.”
“Why not?” I ask. “Didn’t he like her?”
“Yeah, he did. And I bet that’s why he didn’t go. He was furious that he’d let it happen. Jax is as proud as they come, and her getting caught made him look bad. Anyway. Nothing good can happen from being close to Jax, so don’t get any stupid ideas about trying to change him or start envisioning what your kids would look like, whatever.” She sees my face at the word kids and gives a half smile. “I dunno. You straight people are crazy sometimes. Anyway, that’s the dirt.” She shrugs. “You’re welcome.”
“Thanks.”
“Back to binders,” is her reply.
Yes, ma’am. I grab the Boar binder again and search for the three that Micah and I saw on the train, but my thoughts linger on Jax. There’s no way he loved Brianna, otherwise he would have gone to her after the fact. Maybe she didn’t want him, after all. Not like Jax would ever admit something like that.
Focus, Val. The three Boars.
I shiver when I remember the sight of Leo’s name. It looked like blood. But it couldn’t be. It was paint and nothing else. Paint that distracted me from the guy’s face. The Boar had greasy blond hair and a wide grin—but hell, that doesn’t narrow it down much.
“Jimmy Finesman,” I whisper, tapping a photo that might be him.
“What about him?” Nianna asks.
“I think Micah and I saw him on BART yesterday. Him and a few others. I think.”
“All the way in Ingleside?”
“Yeah.”
She absorbs the new information with a nod. “Interesting. I bet Micah told Jax, but if shit like that happens when you’re on your own, always report it.”
“Got it.” I go back to the binders. Jimmy doesn’t matter much to me. Time-wise, if he is in the Wars now, then he couldn’t have killed Leo. But then why does he know about it? Micah said people talk—like my brother’s murder was so notable it’s worth sharing. Great. My throat tightens, but I fight the feeling and turn another page.
It crosses my mind, and not for the first time, that Leo’s killer may very well be dead. Logically, it’s a possibility.
But no—I can feel he’s alive. Maybe it’s naive to delude myself into such a hope, but I feel it. He’s still out there somewhere, unaware that the point of my joining the Wars was to stop his heart the way he stopped Leo’s.
“No wonder the Boars are always on the news,” I say, shutting the binder once more. “There’s so many of them.”
Kate takes the nail polish and touches up her own color. “I heard Jax tell Micah that Ty doesn’t even ask them to do half of the vandalism and other shit they do. We wouldn’t do shit like that. The things the other gangs do are usually a give and take. Tit for tat, or whatever.”
“Retaliation,” Nianna clarifies. “The Wars are a big balancing act. At least, it is for us and the Herons. The Boars do whatever they want. Just for kicks, I guess.”
“Huh,” I reply glumly. Murder people. Ruin lives. Kill little brothers—for kicks. Breathe, Valerie. “Hey, what time is it?”
Kate leans back and checks the clock on the oven. “Three thirteen. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
I blink back tears and look down at the binders again. Grabbing the Heron one, I open to the first page. A now-familiar face is first.
In the photo, Camille looks like she could be the long-lost cousin of the Kardashians. The folds of a designer jacket billow in the wind as she exits her car. At her wrists, twin bracelets gleam like polished bronze in the camera flash. Long black hair frames her face, contrasting with a perfect pink lipstick. Her eyes are directed forward, away from the cameras. I can only imagine what kind of glares a girl like her can deliver—like a sword through your chest.
Nianna stretches up and I tilt the binder so she can see.
“Camille is one tough bitch,” she says. “Her grandfather’s Yakuza or something. She’s been leader since the last Weston left.”
I study the rest of the Young Herons, my heart rate rising. The photos vary—some direct shots, others more blurred—but I keep matching face to name as best I can. And then—
“I know some of these people,” I say. Charles Davis. Kayla Meyers-Britt. We’d run around the Westons’ yard, playing tag or whatever as our parents sipped wine and laughed too loud. “I haven’t thought about them in years. They used to come to the Westons’ parties.”
“They’re on another side now,” Nianna says. “Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t.”
“How’d you get invited to the Westons’ parties?” Kate asks, eyes bright and curious.
“My mom has her own event-planning company. Mrs. Weston hired my mom for some event when I was a kid, and they stayed in touch. Easy to do, I guess, given that we live down the street.”
“Soooo,” Kate says, “your family’s rich too?”
“No no no,” I reply. Money is something Lyla and I have talked about at length, a habit that’s no doubt going to be fueled by her upcoming years at UC Berkeley (if she gets in, which she totally will). “We’re fine, but we’re not like the Westons. It’s weird to talk about, I know. Because, like, obviously I have privilege. But we’re definitely the crappiest house on the block. I went to a really great school, but I didn’t get a new BMW for my sixteenth birthday or anything like that.”
Kate shrugs. “Still.”
“I know. And I’m not saying I’m poor, by any means. I’m really grateful for how hard my parents work for me. But at school, every moment of my day was people reminding me that I had less than them and thus was less than.… That stuff wears on you after a while.”
I think back to the time when Matthew and I were dating. We were hanging out with his friends at lunch one Friday. They were a nice enough group of sporty, Ivy League–bound guys and girls. All intelligent, all beautiful. Some girl came up to us—Melissa something, she was part of the student council—and asked if Matthew had a second to chat privately. I watched as they talked, and after a moment she’d turned bright red, then looked confusedly in my direction.
“What was that about?” I asked when he came back.
“Nothing.”
“What did she want?”
“She asked me to junior prom.” Then he kissed the side of my head. “I told her no, obviously.”
“Oh. Okay.” It’s not like we were a new couple. Did she really not know Matthew was taken? Or did she just not believe it? The confusion that I’d read on her face was laced with a disbelief and derision I was starting to get used to as Matthew’s girlfriend. The bell rang and I pushed the incident out of my mind, until now. Matthew never made me feel like less than—but every part of his world did.
Back in the present, Kate smiles, and a wave of relief washes over me. “I guess I understand that. If I had a penny for every time my dad told me my sister was his favorite, I’d probably be a Heron by now. It’s not my fault I’m not good at school and tests and stuff.”
Shit, that’s rough. So I say as much.
“Yeah, well, you’re our favorite,” Nianna tells her firmly. Kate gives her a playful shove in response.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Nianna gets up, waving her nails to dry them. “Go tell Jax you’re done with binders. He wants to take you shooting before it gets too late.”
“Okay.”
Kate scoffs. “You’re going to ruin all my hard work.”
“I’m careful,” Nianna replies, deftly moving the binders into a pile.
“Hmpf.”
They keep talking as I go down the hall. Pausing, I listen for a moment—Jax is still on the phone, voice low. When I knock, he immediately stops talking. A beat later, he opens the door, hand raised.
“Hold on,” he says into his phone. A girl on the other line replies, her words lost in a high-pitched laugh. A jolt of jealously shoots through me. What the hell? Nothing to be jealous of. I don’t care. I have Matthew.
“What?” he asks.
“Nianna told me to tell you I’m done with the binders.”
“Oh,” he replies. “Well, go do whatever you want ’til Mako comes back.”
Somewhere behind me the front door opens and shuts. Mako’s voice echoes down the hall, calling for Kate like the husband on an old sitcom.
“Never mind, then. Give me a few more minutes.” Jax puts the phone to his ear again and shuts the door.
Whoever’s on that other line must be a hell of a person to have hooked Jax. The ridiculous part of me is disappointed—but it’s better this way. Jax is my leader, nothing more.
A few minutes later, he comes back out. I get up from the couch where I was waiting. “Who was that?” I ask.
He ignores me and cups his hands around his mouth, making a mini megaphone. “Yo, Mako?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s take Valentine shooting.”
“Yes, sir.”
I wait as Jax pulls on a steel-gray thermal and dark blue vest. He reaches behind the door. A drawer opens and shuts. When he comes back into view, there’s a shiny black gun in his hand.
“Jesus,” I say, jumping back.
“It’s not loaded,” he replies, a laugh in his voice. “We’ll go over the basics here. More light in the kitchen.” He makes a shooing motion with his hands, and I scoot back toward the kitchen.
I take my usual seat. Mako produces another gun from a leg holster and puts it on the table. Even Jaws peers at the spectacle from over in the foyer. I didn’t hear him come inside, but I don’t mind him being there. I’m oddly fond of Jaws: knowing that it’s somebody’s job to guard us, to be in and to become the shadows, is comforting.
Two sharp taps on the table pull my attention forward.
“First rule,” Mako says. “Never point a gun at anything you don’t want to shoot.” He pulls back the top of the gun. An oval-shaped hole on the side opens up. “Always check it yourself to see whether or not it’s loaded. Here’s the chamber. Even if the gun isn’t loaded, there can be a bullet in there. Always check.” He tilts it. “This is where the magazine goes.”
Bullets. For a moment I’m not there—I’m in the back of an ambulance hearing a paramedic say there were two bullet wounds …
“Val?”
“Sorry.” I give Mako a nod. “I’m listening.”
“So this is a Glock. Nine millimeter, semiautomatic. Here. Hold it.”
I take the thing and point it at the ground. It’s heavier than I thought it’d be. I knew joining the Wars would mean learning how to shoot, so I did research online and at the library. Glocks are made by one of the most popular manufacturers, I remember that much.
My fingers run along the metal etching on the grip. I shift the gun a few times until Mako shows me how to hold it properly. He has me grip it with two hands. On the night I was recruited, not one of them held their guns that way.
My skin feels too soft, the pads of my fingers too delicate. You’re new at this. Just be patient. I shake out my hand and take the gun again, holding it the way Mako showed me, finger near but not on the trigger.
“’Atta girl,” says Mako. “How’s the grip feel?”
I flex my hand. “Good.”
“Fit and grip are really important.”
“This is good.”
“Okay. Now, lift it up toward the window.”
I do. On top of the gun is a small tab with a notch in it. At the end of the gun is another raised bit.
“That’s the sight,” he says. “To aim, you put the front sight level and in the center with the back one. Try it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” He laughs. “It’s not loaded.”
Finding a bit of mold on the window blinds, I level the gun at it until the sights align. I set the gun down on the table again. My hands tingle.
“Got it.”
Mako walks me through a few other basics: how to rack the slide, where empty casings are ejected, and how new cartridges are loaded automatically. Finally, he looks at Jax. “All right, chief. Roll out?”
“Roll out.”
The three of us pile into the car, leaving me alone in the back seat—as if I didn’t feel enough like a child already. Mako drives us a short way down toward Lake Merced. We pass a pair of joggers and an elderly man out for an evening stroll. The streetlamps are just coming to life, their orange glow fading into the lavender twilight.
We pull over at a low building surrounded by a chain-link fence. A huge CLOSED sign hangs over what would be the entrance. Below it is another one labeled PRIVATE PROPERTY.
“Is this it?” I ask as we get out. Beyond the fence there are long rows of grass and gravel. I don’t see any targets.
“Yep,” Mako replies. “Place got closed down a year or so ago. Jax’s mom bought it for us.”
“No, no—she bought the land,” Jax says, his voice low in mock seriousness.
“Yes. How could I forget?” Mako laughs. “The land. That’s all.”
I stop short, stunned. It’d cost an obscene amount of money to buy such a large plot in San Francisco. Right on the lake, no less. Just how rich is she?
Jax pulls out a key to get us through the gate, then another to get us inside the shack of a building. An alarm beeps to life. Jax types in the code as Mako flicks on a light.
The former gun club is musty and dimly lit. The walls are lined with old flyers and dotted with holes, souvenirs from picture frames that used to decorate the space. There are a few empty shelves, a cash register, and a locked safe bolted to the ground in the back. Jax unlocks it as well and sets a box of bullets on the counter.
We head to the back. Mako goes over the points with me while Jax sets up a target. I can hardly see the faint outline until Jax flicks on a set of spotlights. He walks back toward us. Mako slips two earplugs into my hand.
“Won’t have these out in the field,” he says. “But I’d feel bad if you went deaf on my watch.”
“Thanks.” I twist the bits of foam and put them into my ears.
Mako loads the magazine. “She’s all yours. Remember how to hold it. And remember it’s going to kick back at you.”
“Right.”
I pick up the gun, rack the slide like he showed me, and level the sight. Closing my right eye, I focus my vision.
“You got it,” Mako says from behind me. Jax doesn’t say anything.
In the brief moment of quiet, the two sides of my brain take up arms.
Leo died this way. Someone pulled the trigger that sent the bullet ripping through the chambers of your little brother’s small heart and—no.
No, you have to learn so you can kill the Boar who shot him. Nothing matters but that. Now aim. Aim like that paper is Leo’s murderer.
Rage wins. I fire.
There is a kickback, but I manage to keep steady. Adrenaline rushes through my limbs. I fire again and again until the clip empties.
I set down the gun and back away like Mako told me to. He jogs out to fetch the target. He holds it up to the light, and I’m surprised at the cluster of holes near the center.
“You’re a good shot.”
“Apparently.” I stretch my arm.
“Do another one,” Jax says. I try to catch a glimpse of whether he approved of my shooting. Instead, I see a tiny flame. He’s lit a cigarette.
Luckily, Mako’s got me well taken care of. This time, he loads the clip then removes it and has me put it back on my own, loading and unloading it several times.
Whatever beginner’s luck I had in my first round wanes. When Mako gets the target, he hands it to me more abashedly.
Jax steps up behind me. Apparently, he’s remembered this is important. “You’ll have to practice.”
“Obviously.”
“Every day.”
“All right.”
He nods.
Then, quick as a leaping cat, he takes two long steps sideways, pulling his own gun out from his waistband as he does. The shots come in quick succession. I jump back as Jax fires away, barely aiming. He keeps his weapon steady until he empties the clip.
“Fuck, man,” says Mako. “There’s never any warning with you.”
Jax laughs. “Come on. Let’s go home. It’s cold as fuck out here.”
I nod in agreement, but I don’t stop trembling. Not as Mako and Jax finish locking up the place and gate. Not as we climb back into the car.
My thoughts bleed with the reminder that I’m dancing with demons, flirting with monsters. The Stags can help me avenge Leo. Jax said so. I was so giddy with hope that it didn’t hit me exactly why it rang so true.
The Stags can help me find Leo’s killer, because they are killers, too.
It’s nearly nine when we get home, and I’m more than ready for bed. I’m about to say my good nights when Jax calls from his room.
“Kitchen. Everyone. Now.”
The Stags do as they’re told. When we’re all ready, Jax clears his throat and holds up a piece of pale blue paper. It’s the old-fashioned kind with perforated tear-aways on both sides. Faint gray text works itself down the page. Jax raises the paper for us all to see. “Ty wants to meet.”
Nianna recoils like she’s been bitten. “Why?”
“He says he has a proposal for me.”
“Sounds romantic,” Mako mutters.
“Who’s Ty again?” I whisper to Micah.
“Ty Boreas, the Boar leader,” he replies to me, then addresses the rest of the group. “Are you gonna meet him?” he asks, shifting on his feet.
Jax nods. “Yeah, I’ll meet him. It’s through IRIS. He can’t fuck with me. It’s against the terms.”
“Sounds good.” Micah tucks his hand into his sweatshirt pocket, leaning back against the fridge. “You want us with you?”
Jax thinks. “Yeah. It’ll give Valentine some experience with the other gangs. I’ll let Ty know when and where.”
Jax turns to go and the others start to disperse.
“Did the IRIS thing say anything about the Herons?” I ask. I catch myself before the words Or about Matthew Weston? slip out.
Immediately the mood of the room changes, and I regret saying anything at all. Fuck.
“Nothing from the Herons,” says Jax. “Camille keeps pretty quiet. Might change, though. New man in their ranks.”
“We expected that,” Nianna says. Her eyes settle on me. “We’ve been watching the Herons groom him for months.”
Him. Matthew. She knows we’re close. Was she watching that night I was recruited? Did she see our kiss? Anger and embarrassment rise in my chest. That was private, only for us.
And what does she mean by grooming him? Matthew told me it was always his plan to join, but only because he had to because of his family. Did he actually want to be part of the Wars? He’s not like the Young Herons. He wouldn’t even join the football team because he didn’t like the idea of hitting people, let alone really hurting anyone.
Jax turns away for real this time, and Nianna locks eyes with me. “Don’t ask about the Herons again,” she says, her voice carrying a strong tone of What the hell were you thinking? “Jax tells us what we need to know. Even if there had been something, it’s not our fucking business until he says so.”
“Sorry,” I reply sheepishly.
“Better be,” she says. “You really gotta learn.”
“I said I was sorry,” I reply, eyes starting to sting. Assuming we’re dismissed, I go and shut myself in the bathroom. There, I let a few tears fall and silently blot them with toilet paper.
I’m tired, my arm aches, and I feel as small as ever—not to mention confused. There’s no way the Herons have been grooming Matthew … so why does a small part of me believe it’s possible? Since the breakup, we haven’t talked as much. Matthew did quit student council abruptly, and whenever I asked why he’d change the subject or brush me off. I should have been more on him about it. Now that we’re apart, I can think of so many other questions I wish I’d asked him, and just as many things I wish I had said.
But I can’t change the past, just like I can’t shake the one thought that scares me more than anything: if what the Stags say is true and Matthew has been groomed by the Young Herons for months, then Matthew chose not to tell me.
And if he really does love me, then why the hell didn’t he?