“Dude.” Duncan’s voice dropped thirty degrees. “That’s no bag you’ve got there. That’s Nell’s precious little sister. You don’t get any further from a bag than that.”

Jack gritted his teeth. “I didn’t mean to imply that she was a—”

“Stop being such a contrary dickhead. I send a hot, sexy little redheaded thing to liven up your monotonous existence, and you complain? Jesus, Jack! Get the fuck over it!”

“Oh, shut up,” Jack growled.

“Hah! You’re the one who woke us out of a sound sleep at six-thirty in the morning. Just stay on your toes, man. Because those bastards are looking hard for her, and if they find her, she’s meat. And so am I, incidentally, if Vivi doesn’t stay okay. So make her lay low.”

“Yeah, right,” Jack scoffed. “Like I can ‘make her’ do anything.”

“Sweeten her up,” Duncan said impatiently. “Take her to bed. You’re suffering from testosterone poisoning anyway, man. Unload some of that energy before you hurt yourself. Use your dick, use your tongue. Melt her brain. Do what you have to do. Find a way. Keep her safe. Or else.”

Jack hung up on him. He slumped in his chair, dropped his throbbing head into his hands, shifted uncomfortably in his jeans. He was going to rip out his seams if this shit went on much longer.

Sweeten her up. Take her to bed. Use your tongue. Melt her brain.

Right. Duncan’s helpful suggestions contained a small but problematic snag.

The brain in question that was melting was Jack’s own.

John did a drive-by of the Jersey City address stamped on the outside of the mailer. The one with the Vivi D’Onofrio art box in it. Excitement pulsed through him. Finally, a new lead, after these weeks of waiting, listening to Haupt’s shrill lectures. Two weeks ago, he’d ordered the gift box from Vivi D’Onofrio’s website, for the modest price of $115. Today, it had arrived. Finally, a chunk of meat to throw to the old bastard. Finally, something to fucking do.

He was trembling with sexual anticipation. Vivien was a skinny little thing compared to her older sisters, with no tits to speak of, but her ass was nice and round, and he liked the fiery hair and the full, pink lips.

He bet she was excellent at sucking cock. She’d have ample opportunity to demonstrate her skill. Girls tried so hard to please when they were motivated. And bad-boy Johnny knew just how to motivate them. Oh, boy, did he ever.

He no longer even bothered to ask himself why he hung around to take the abuse from Haupt. John was a skilled professional, at the top of his game, very highly thought of, in certain select circles. He didn’t need the money, God knew. He could retire right now if he wanted to.

But he wouldn’t. He’d gladly kill for free, for the fun of it, but he didn’t advertise that fact. Bad for business. And besides, he liked money just fine, too. But this job had gone down the tubes weeks ago. It was like he was cursed. It had gotten under his skin. He’d lost his professional detachment, gotten personally invested in the outcome. That was dangerous. A man had to be able to walk when he reached a point of diminishing returns.

His returns on this job had been diminishing almost from the start, but here he still was. Taking it, right up the ass. Day after day.

He couldn’t help himself. He’d been insulted, thwarted, shot at. Stabbed, for God’s sake. That sneaky bitch Antonella had practically punctured a kidney. He’d needed internal and external stitches to fix the damage. He was still on antibiotics. It was still bruised. It still hurt.

Those girls were his now. All three of them. He wanted to feel their hot blood pumping over his hands. Wanted to feel each of them in turn flailing desperately in his grip. Hear them shriek and beg.

Vivien was the obvious one to target. Security was too tight around the other two, at least for now. When the dickheads currently fucking Nell and Nancy were put down like rabid dogs, the situation would be different. Then the way would be clear. Much simpler.

But Vivien had not cooperated with his plan. She’d dropped out of sight. She could no longer be found on the crafts fair circuit. Nor had she been spotted, on vid or in real time, outside her sisters’ residences.

Maybe she was hiding here. In any case, whoever lived at this Jersey City address was going to get a long, chatty visit from John about that mail-order business, and where its owner could be found.

A car stopped outside. John slumped, watching. Four large, burly men in dark suits got out and trotted up the steps of the place.

They entered without knocking. The subtle bulges under their jackets were immediately recognizable to a trained eye. Oh. Shit.

John’s teeth began to grind, and he clicked open his laptop, typed the street address into a search engine, scanned the hits.

Fuck. Braxton Security? He knew the name. It was the security firm that rich prick Burke, Antonella’s boy toy, was affiliated with. She’d based her fucking mail-order company out of a goddamn security firm. Swarming with ex-military types, mercenaries, spies, techs.

John was not going to have stimulating chats with anyone today.

Probably cutthroat computer geeks were analyzing all e-mails that arrived at her site. And the addresses to which her merchandise was sent. He accelerated out into the street and peeled away, infuriated.

Fortunately, he was smarter than that. The addresses he’d used were untraceable. The address at which the package had arrived was a busy post office in Queens. He was confident he had not been observed.

But even so. How dare she. Challenging him. Flipping him the finger. He drove for a while, until he came to a large chain store with a vast parking lot and pulled into it. His laptop was still open, so he put it on his lap and pulled up his short list of Vivi D’Onofrio favorites.

One was Brian Wilder’s art gallery. Her work hadn’t been in the Wilder catalog for years, but John was confident Wilder would remember her. Any guy who had sold pieces of art for twelve, fifteen, even eighteen K, would remember the artist who had produced them.

He called up Vivi D’Onofrio’s own commercial website. Clicked on her bio for the photos. She smiled in the sunshine, hair blowing free, wearing a diaphanous white blouse. In another photo, she was decked out like some pagan bride from the Bronze Age in her own jewelry designs. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings, armlets, chokers, even a headdress.

Smiling that mischievous angel smile into the camera. He rubbed his tingling dick as he stared into those gray eyes.

Slut. Laughing at him, from the computer screen. That full, pink mouth wide with mirth. You idiot, those eyes said. You dumb fuck. You just can’t get us. You can’t get close enough. You’re not smart enough.

He could actually hear her shrill, mocking laughter in his mind.

The white mailing box sat on the seat next to him. He wrenched it open and pulled out the gift box. Imagining how her hands had touched it, rubbed it, caressed it. His erection was painfully hard.

The box was made of variously sized chunks of translucent, sand-smoothed bottle glass, both brown and green. Edges lined with strips of copper foil. Soldered together by a webwork of fine silver wire. Her business card was tucked into the bottom of it.

His hand closed over the box in a tight, shaking fist, crushing it. Pieces of glass cracked. Pain stabbed into his hand. Blood dripped out between his fingers. He forced them to open.

The box was mangled, shapeless, poised on his bloody, shaking claw. The business card with Vivien D’Onofrio’s name was crumpled, bloodstained. He liked the effect.

He stared at the chunk of garbage and began to laugh.

Uppity bitch. She thought she’d won. Thought she was smarter. But she’d see who was boss, in the end. Oh, yes, she’d see.