David lifts a shoulder in response. "I wasn't sure it would lead to anything. But I got a call today. Guzman is hanging out in the swamps behind Qualcomm Stadium. If we can get to him before the cops do, the reward is ours."

Quite a payday. I open the gun case and withdraw a weapon I haven't used since becoming a vampire. Still, the little .38 Smith & Wesson feels comfortable in my grip. Then I open the paper bag. Inside are a torn Windbreaker not unlike the one David is wearing and a ratty black knit cap. I slip on the Windbreaker and check the cylinder on the .38 before clipping it onto the waistband of my jeans.

The stadium comes into view. David's ripped jeans, the tattered Windbreakers, the caps. All designed to let us blend in with the inhabitants of San Diego's infamous tent city.

San Diego is, for the most part, reclaimed desert. In years of drought, Mission Valley is an arid depression, every inch developed up to the banks of what is known euphemistically as the San Diego River. Occasionally, though, in times like the last couple of years when we've had three times the average rainfall, the San Diego River actually becomes one. The riverbanks come alive with man-tall reeds, scrub oak and chaparral, a family of plants indigenous to Southern California. The seeds of these plants lie dormant for decades and germinate at the first really good rainfall. In a matter of weeks, a desert forest blooms where dust used to reign.

It's that way now. Even a few of the roads connecting Hotel Circle and Friars Road have collapsed or are under water. The embankments on either side of the roadways form a shelter under which the homeless, and often the lawless, pitch their tents, hidden away from prying eyes in a tangle of dense brush.

One of those flooded roads is Fashion Valley Road. As we near it, David pulls the Hummer to the curb in front of a large condominium complex. He motions to our right. We can just make out the pitched tops of a makeshift tent city under the bridge.

"Guzman is supposed to be in there," he says. He pulls a flyer from the pocket of his Windbreaker and unfolds it. Then he hands it to me. "Here's Guzman's wanted poster. My contact says his hair is longer now, but he's still clean shaven. He has a two-inch scar on his left cheek."

I look at the photo, committing it to memory. The stats say he's five foot ten, 175 pounds. "Any idea what he's wearing?"

David shakes his head. "No. But we can be sure he's armed, so don't take any chances. Dead or alive, we collect the reward."

Something in his tone makes me shift my gaze from the paper in my hand to David. He's looking at me with uncharacteristic intensity. "What's up?"

He waits a beat too long to shrug off my concern.

"David?"

He expels a breath. "Guzman has nothing to lose. He's facing the needle."

He has shifted in his seat, turning his face away from me. It doesn't take much to read the meaning behind the words. He's thinking back to an evening last summer. "Hey. David." Anger sparks like a flare. "You didn't have this problem a few days ago. What's changed?"

Color creeps into his face, his jaw tenses.

"I thought you'd gotten over what happened last summer. You called me a half hour ago and now suddenly, you're…"

When the truth hits, it's like a fist to the gut. "Oh, god." I jam the cap over my hair to keep from reaching over and punching him. "You were with Gloria when you got the call from your friend, right? Gloria told you I couldn't handle this. She said you should bring someone else in. That's why you said you could call Jerry for backup."

It's clear now, David's sudden change in attitude. Jerry Reese is the bondsman we often work for. It doesn't surprise me that Gloria would suggest David contact him instead of me. What does surprise me is that David actually had the guts to go against her. At least until now.

"That's it, isn't it?" I'm so angry I'm shaking.

I shove open the car door and jump down. "When are you going to see what's going on? Gloria is an asshole. She wants to break up our partnership."

David climbs out and comes around to meet me at the front of the Hummer.

"I've really had it with that bitch. How long are you going to let her pull this crap?"

But David isn't listening. His attention has been drawn to something else. I can tell because his eyes are not focused on me, but over my shoulder. Irritated, I turn to follow his gaze.

There are three men walking on the other side of the road, heading toward the embankment under the bridge. All are dressed in jeans and Western shirts. The one in the middle glances over at us and looks quickly away.

Guzman.

I grab David by the shirt and swing him toward me, raising my voice. "Are you listening? I won't go through this again. You have to make a choice. Gloria or me. You can't have us both."

The men on either side of Guzman are watching us.

David picks up the cue. "I'm sick of your ultimatums. You're crazy if you think I'd choose a junkie like you over that sweet piece of ass."

One of the men laughs and says something to the others in Spanish. Guzman still does not look our way.

Without thinking about it, I reach up and smack David across the face.

He isn't expecting it and he recoils in shock. "What the fuck?"

We have the attention of all three now. Even Guzman is smiling. But they've reached the edge of the bridge and without pausing, they disappear into the brush.

We wait a minute to be sure they're really gone, then David rubs at his cheek with the palm of his hand. "Ouch. That hurt."

I strip off the Windbreaker and the cap. They've seen us. No way will we blend in with the residents of tent city now. No use in trying.

David glares down at me. "I said that hurt."

"I had to make it look good, didn't I?"

He slips out of his Windbreaker, too. His Glock is nestled under his armpit. He draws it from the holster and checks the safety. "Next time," he grumbles, "come up with something that doesn't involve slapping me, okay?"

I have to struggle to keep the smile from my face. I won't tell him how really good it felt to give in to a purely human impulse and whack him. The only thing better would have been if it had been Gloria's face. I force the corners of my mouth into a frown. "So how do we do this? It looks like Guzman has picked up a couple of friends."

David is quiet for a couple of seconds.

A smile tickles my mouth. "Let's continue the farce. They heard you call me a junkie. I'll go down there and try to score."

"Wait a minute," he says. "You can't go down there alone. It's too dangerous."

"I won't be alone for long," I counter. "Will I?"

"No. But—"

I knot the Windbreaker around my waist to cover my gun. "I'll go in the same way they just did. You cross to the other side. I'll give you five minutes to get set."

David looks across the street and then back at me. "Okay. But don't do anything stupid like approach Guzman on your own. Wander around looking sad." He narrows his eyes at me. "After all, you just lost your boyfriend. Let him approach you."

"I know how to handle this," I snap. "You just be ready."

I turn and walk across the street.

David calls out, "You junkie, skank whore. I'm gone, you hear me? I hope your low-life friends take care of you because I'm out of here."

He climbs into the Hummer and screeches away from the curb.

Good job, David. A little too enthusiastic maybe, but they should have heard that all the way to the stadium.