“Little puta stole my shit,” he slurred, spittle flying.

“I didn’t!” Emilio cried, holding up his hands. “I don’t do the powder, you know that! La familia knows that!”

“You took it and I’m gonna gut you like a—”

“No, you’re not,” Rowan ordered, using her most authoritative voice. She held her pistol at her side, pointed at the asphalt. “Put the blade down and come talk to me. We’ll sort it out.”

“Shut up, lesbiana. You think you have bigger cojones than Luis, si? Perhaps you do.” He gave a nasty laugh.

Rowan let the insult roll off. She’d been called worse. “Emilio is telling the truth, Garcia. I know him and I swear to you he wouldn’t take your blow.” Now, your car? He’d steal that in a heartbeat, but not your coke. “I wouldn’t lie to my own people. Put the knife down.”

To her right, the Lobos’ leader pushed through the crowd, apparently late on the scene. Salazar Romero was tall, muscular, and menacing, with long black hair and a soul patch, arms covered with tats. “Don’t be stupid. Listen to mamacita, Luis. She’s street. One of us, you feel me? Her word is good enough for me, so it’s good enough for the Lobos.”

Finally, a break in the ice. The bigger man visibly wavered, his grip on his quarry loosening. He tried to stare Salazar down, but looked away first, like the dog he was. But that didn’t mean the danger was over. Rowan’s stance remained tense as Garcia let the knife fall from his hand, let go of Emilio’s shirt.

“Climb off him and stand,” she directed. “Slowly.”

Garcia let go a string of muttered curses, but did as he was told. On his feet, he stepped away from the bleeding man and turned toward her, shaking his head. Still cursing. Gesturing and swinging his arms as he became more agitated. She didn’t like his body language. The man was going to lose it again.

“Kneel, hands behind your head.”

His head snapped up. “You said we was gonna talk!”

“First, kneel, hands be—”

“Fuck you, bitch!”

Rowan knew what Garcia was going to do, even as he dropped his right arm, reached behind him to grab something at the small of his back. She reacted a split second faster, brought up her weapon and leveled it at his chest, shouting, “Drop it!”

But he brought the gun around, swung the muzzle toward her, his intent clear. She was hardly aware of her finger pressing the trigger, and the deafening explosion was over before her brain registered the noise.

Garcia jerked backward, eyes widening in surprise. A bloom of scarlet began to spread across his chest as his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground. Weapon still trained on his fallen form, she walked over and kicked the man’s gun from his outstretched hand. Wary, she crouched next to his head and placed two fingers on his neck.

“Dead?” Danny asked.

“Yeah.” She heaved a shaky breath and stood, surveying the few people that were left.

Most of them had gotten the hell out of there when Garcia drew down and his act of stupidity proved fatal. Emilio was still sitting a few feet away, a hand pressed to his bloodied side, grimacing in pain. Salazar and a couple of his lieutenants were with him, praising the kid for facing down crazy Garcia, as though the kid had taken him out himself. The little car thief’s street cred had just risen substantially, along with plenty of temptation for a rival gang to add him to their hit list.

And the cycle never ended.

Rowan holstered her weapon, feeling sick. Oh, God. I killed one of my own. Right here on my home turf, among the people I’m supposed to keep safe. Could I have handled this differently? How?

“Chase!”

Startled, she blinked at Danny, who was right in her face, hand on her shoulder. “What?”

“Whatever shit is going through your head right now, stop,” he said in a low voice. “You gave him every chance to give up. Hell, you almost waited a hair too long to draw down and pull the trigger. It was a righteous shooting. No one is going to dispute that.”

“The baby cop is right, mamacita,” Salazar said in a loud voice. “Luis was broken, man. He acted on his own to jump Emilio, and the Lobos wash their hands of him. There will be no retribution.”

Broken, meaning Salazar had recently demoted him. She supposed she should feel relieved that Luis had already become a problem they wanted erased, or her East Side upbringing might not mean squat. Suddenly aware of several sets of eyes boring into her, studying her reaction, she clamped her mouth firmly shut and gave a curt nod.

Salazar waved a hand at his remaining followers. “Vamanos!”

No retribution. Staring at their retreating backs, she couldn’t work up the gratitude. Eleven years on the force and she’d drawn her weapon less than a dozen times. Never fired it outside the shooting range, before today.

And today, she’d killed a man. No matter his failings, Luis Garcia had a wife and six kids who depended on him. Her breakfast threatened to make a reappearance, but she managed to keep it down.

“Chase?”

Rowan turned, blinking at Captain Connolly. She couldn’t seem to shake the fog that had wrapped itself around her brain. “Sir.”

“What happened here?” he asked matter-of-factly. His weathered face was calm, his blue eyes patient.

Quickly, she gave their supervisor the rundown, in detail. Danny backed her up, and the captain nodded.

“All right. Looks like a clean shooting, but you know what happens next,” he said kindly.

She did. Although she’d never had to fire her weapon, much less kill a suspect, other officers had over the years. They all knew the drill. She exhaled a deep breath. “I guess I’m on leave.”

“I’m afraid so.” Connolly squeezed her shoulder. “At least until the investigation is over. It’ll probably be just a formality in this case, but it still sucks. We’ve got things covered here. Head on back to the station, take care of your paperwork. Make sure all your i’s are dotted and the t’s crossed. Then surrender your weapon and go home. I’ll call you.”

“What about Albright?” She gestured to her partner.

“I’ll temporarily reassign him pending the closing of the investigation.”

“Yes, sir.” Damn, she hated losing a good rookie to another officer. Even if Internal Affairs closed the matter quickly, she’d have to fight to get him back.

“Take it easy,” Danny said, trying to be reassuring. “Everything will be fine.”

“Sure. Take care, and I’ll see you.”

She walked away, aware of eyes at her back, measuring. Wondering whether she’d be the department’s new head case, waiting to see if this would be what finally sent her careening over the edge. First the loss of her younger brother, and now this.

Climbing into the patrol car, she forced herself to start the ignition and calmly drive away when all she wanted to do was sit there and fall apart. Later, she promised herself. She’d pick up a six-pack of beer on the way home and let go where no one could see.

For now, “compartmentalize” was the word of the day and the only way to get through it.

Three hours later, Rowan finished the last of her mountain of paperwork, surrendered her pistol, and headed out the door, thankfully unnoticed except for a couple of buddies who’d heard the news and stopped her to deliver brief pep talks. She felt decidedly naked without the comforting, familiar weight of a weapon at her side and just wanted to get the hell out of there before more of her comrades noticed and wanted to get the lowdown firsthand.

She hurried to her truck and fired it up just as her cell phone vibrated on her hip. With a sigh, she left the vehicle in park, retrieved the device, and checked the caller ID. This one she had to take. “Hello.”

“Hey, it’s me.”

In spite of herself, she smiled. “Hi, me. What’s cookin’?” Her friend, FBI special agent Dean Campbell, never spoke either of their names on the phone. Paranoia was more than in his job description—it was embedded in his DNA.