Kelly decided to try the window, maybe some of the streaks were large enough to provide a view inside. She crossed the street, unclipping her holster and keeping her hand low, ready to draw quickly. Something about the whole scenario felt seriously off. She’d lost her partner a few cases back. No matter how she felt about Rodriguez, she didn’t care to lose another.

Kelly edged along the window farthest from the door. One section of peeling paint was at shoulder height, and she ducked slightly to peer in. Newspaper was taped along the insides, blocking it.

A movement to her left. Kelly spun quickly, drawing her weapon. A Latina woman emerged from a doorway across the street, saw her, and did a double take. She was hauling a shopping cart filled with purses. She raised both hands and backed into the building, leaving the cart where it stood.

Great, a sweatshop, Kelly thought, releasing her breath slowly and tucking her gun away. The accidental killing of an illegal immigrant would pretty much guarantee her reassignment to Dubuque.

A police car approached. She motioned for it to slow and it eased to the curb, parking at an angle. Two young officers got out.

“Special Agent Kelly Jones,” she said in a low voice. “Either of you know this place?”

They both shook their heads. “Not much happens over here. We cruise by every few days, but it’s quiet. Our other sector is in an all-out gang war, so…” He shrugged.

“Okay. It might be nothing, but Agent Rodriguez’s car is parked down the street and I have reason to believe he’s inside. I need you to cover my back.”

They looked skeptical, but nodded. Kelly could imagine what they were thinking: a female suit was afraid to enter a bar alone, so she dragged them away from where they were really needed. Didn’t matter to her. Going in without backup was a recipe for disaster, and she couldn’t afford the fallout.

She checked the straps on her vest. Felt the cops’ impatience pouring over her like water on rocks. Took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

A roomful of eyes shifted in their direction. There was a line of fifteen men at the bar, all carbon copies of each other: large, bald, thick. Identical outfits, too: jeans, black tank tops, work boots. Each of them had a bottle of beer in his hand, she noted-bottles that could quickly become weapons, not a good sign.

Kelly paused on the threshold before stepping all the way inside. They watched as she entered, cops flanking her. No one said a word.

“I’m looking for another agent,” she said, taking a step forward. The three of them against fifteen guys who looked recently paroled weren’t her favorite odds. Worse yet if some of them were armed.

No one answered, and the tension in the room ratcheted up another notch. The men at the bar stared at her, motionless. Poised. Ready for the situation to get ugly, looking forward to it even, judging by their expressions. She should have called for more backup. Apparently one of the cops agreed. He unhooked his radio and said, “Dispatch, this is unit fourteen. We’ve got a Code 8.”

“He ain’t here,” said the bartender, an enormous beard differentiating him from the others.

“Who said it was a he?” Kelly asked, drawing her Glock.

The bartender gazed at her for a long moment before replying, “Lucky guess.”

“You should pick up a lotto ticket, I hear the pot is at twenty million.” Kelly took another step forward, making sure there was no way for the exit to be cut off. One of the cops fell in next to her, the other stayed by the door. They seemed to have the same read of the situation, she noted with relief. Hopefully they’d know how to handle themselves if things went south.

“I’ll do that.” The bartender carefully polished the glass in his hand, although Kelly doubted cleanliness was the clientele’s chief concern.

“Don’t suppose you’d mind if I look around,” Kelly said.

“I’d expect to see a warrant for that.”

“I can have one here in ten minutes.”

The bartender shrugged without answering.

They all heard it at the same time, a muffled grunt from behind a door marked Employees in crooked letters. Everyone froze. Kelly saw the cops pull their weapons, the guys straighten at their stools, the bartender setting the glass down, hard, then reaching for something behind the bar.

“Hands where I can see them!” she barked, aiming for his chest. He waited a beat before raising them.

“The rest of you drop the bottles and raise your hands. I want you to stand up and take a step back.”

The guys on the stools exchanged glances. The bartender nodded slightly and they did as she asked, almost in unison. Kelly watched as the cops got them down on the floor, hands behind their heads. She hoped they had enough zip ties.

She kept her Glock steady on the bartender’s chest. He was watching her, calculating. Kelly got the sense he was waiting for something.

“I’d like to take a look behind that door. Now.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He moved down the bar slowly. “Keep those hands up!” Kelly ordered as they started to drop. She was careful to stay out of arms’ reach as he approached the door.

“Open it.”

“I don’t got a key.”

“Bullshit. Open it now.”

“I’m telling you, lady, no key. Locks from the inside.”

Kelly examined the door. It looked cheap, plywood. She glanced quickly over her shoulder: both cops were still occupied, halfway down the line of prisoners. “Kick it in.”

“What?”

“You look like a big strong guy. Kick it in.”

He raised a boot halfheartedly, gave the door a tap.

She took another step forward until he could feel the Glock’s barrel at the base of his skull. “I’ve got reason to believe there’s a federal agent in there. I’m not fucking around with you.”

“What, you going to shoot me?”

“Try me.” She pressed the muzzle harder against his spine. He lifted his knee again and drove his heel into the door. It flew open with a splintering of wood.

Kelly slipped to the side, keeping him in her sights but out of direct line of the door. From her angle, she could see a foot.

The bartender suddenly dove into the room. Kelly followed on instinct, clearing the door frame. In a flash she saw Rodriguez in a chair, bloodied almost beyond recognition. Then the bartender whipped around, a twin-barrel shotgun in his hands.

Madison sat on the cot, one hand wrapped around her knees, the other holding her DS Lite. The screen was flickering with a low battery warning. She’d done everything she could to reconfigure it, but the last bit of juice was draining away. It would stop transmitting in a few hours, tops.

She dropped her head in frustration. She’d known it was a long shot, chances were no one would be searching for the signal, but still. She’d allowed herself to hope, which was probably a mistake. Her only choice now was to give up on the idea, or ask Lurch if he’d charge it for her. There was a chance he’d do it. Since that torture session he’d been gentler with her, almost paternal. Small gestures, like the cake, but she got the sense that he didn’t want to hurt her. Unlike his partner.

She shuddered involuntarily. She’d ask Lurch. After all, it wasn’t like she had anything to lose. Once the battery was dead, it was just a hunk of metal anyway.

The door to her room swung open and she glanced up. The other guy stood there, leering at her. She paled and reflexively skittered away from him.

“Time for some more fun,” he hissed. His attention shifted to her hand. “Whatcha got there, kitten?”

Madison tucked it under her legs. He crossed the room in three long strides and caught her wrist, twisting until she yelped in pain. His eyes narrowed as he yanked the DS Lite from her grasp.

“Where’d you get that?”