The agent’s name was Frank Kelly and a desperate Mace had written to him from prison and explained her situation. Kelly had actually come to West Virginia to see her. He was a big, solid fellow with a no-nonsense attitude. He’d read up on her case and told her he believed her to be innocent. But while commiserating with her situation he’d been blunt. “You’re never going to get your record clean. Too many obstacles and crap in the way. Even if you do find out some stuff, proving it to the level necessary will be pretty much impossible. There will always be people aligned against you, people who don’t want to believe you. But what you can do is get back in the saddle when you get out. You go out on your dime and nerve, no cop shop backing you up, and lay your ass on the line like I did. Then you have a shot at being able to clean your record de facto, in the court of public opinion. There are no guarantees,” Kelly had added. “And I have to tell you I got real lucky. But at least this way you can control your own destiny a little. You at least have a shot. Otherwise, you’ll never be a cop again.”

“That’s all I ever asked for,” Mace had told him. “A shot.”

He’d shaken her hand and wished her luck.

That’s all I want, a shot to be a true blue again.

There were those on the police force who believed that because she was Beth Perry’s sister Mace received preferential treatment, when actually the reverse was true. Beth had gone out of her way not to show favoritism and had actually driven Mace harder than anyone else under her. Mace had earned every promotion, every commendation, and every scar, including those hidden and those in plain sight. She’d graduated from the Metropolitan Police Academy with some demerits but a far greater number of superlatives. Instructors who’d handed out these black marks also thought she was, hands down, the best police recruit to join the capital city’s thin blue line since, well, since her sister had graduated at the top of her class years earlier.

In record time she’d gone from rookie beat cop to sergeant, and then made the leap to CID, or the Criminal Investigations Division where she’d been assigned to the Homicide and Sex Offenses Branch. She’d cut her teeth on stacks of gruesome murders, sex assaults, and cases so cold the files had turned blue along with the bodies. She’d made up procedures on her own, and while she’d sometimes been dressed down for doing so, many of these same methods were now part of the investigative techniques curriculum taught at the police academy.

During her career she’d made friends because she was loyal and had never rolled on any of them even if they deserved it. And she’d made enemies that she would keep until the day she or they croaked. But Mace had also made enemies who could be convinced that they owed her. That was why she was here.

Mace parked her Ducati in front of the shop with the fancy red awning over the top of which was the name of the establishment: Citizen Soldier, Ltd.

Cute.

She tugged open the door and walked in.

Shelves lined the walls and were filled with pretty much every conceivable personal defense item on the market. Behind barred wall cabinets were shotguns, rifles, and assault weapons just waiting for itchy trigger fingers to set them free. Inside belly-button-high locked display consoles were a wide variety of auto and semi-auto pistols and old-fashioned wheel guns.

“Hey, Binder,” she called out to the man in the back near the cash register. “Still selling whack jobs SBRs built from reconfigured AR-15 pistols without getting ATF approval and paying the appropriate taxes?”

Binder wore cammie pants and a tight-fitting black muscle shirt that showed off his buffed pecs, delts, and biceps. Military boots were on his feet. They were worn down and looked like the real deal. That’s because they were, she knew. He’d pulled years in the uniform of Uncle Sam but also had some stockade time and a dishonorable discharge because of a little drug dealing on the side that had nearly cost two fresh-from-boot-camp grunts their lives from injecting ill-cooked crystal meth. He wore his hair in a big throwback afro that reminded her of a young Michael Jackson. This was quite remarkable-looking since the man was white, had nearly pupilsize freckles all over his face, and his hair was flame red except where it was edged with gray at the roots.

“Send in the clowns,” she sang under her breath.

Binder wheeled around. A Garrett handheld scanner was in one hammy fist and a tactical folding knife in the other.

“Wow, you look really happy to see me,” she said.

“When the hell did you get out?” This came out more like a hurled piece of spit than a question formed with words.

“I didn’t. I escaped. You want to turn me in for the reward?”

He put the tact knife on a shelf containing a pile of other blades, all with price tags attached. “I’m busy,” he grunted. “I know you ain’t a cop anymore more, so harassment time is over.”

Instead of leaving, she dug into the pile of blades on the shelf and picked up a knife that had twin wooden handles. With a flick of her wrist she flipped free the six-inch razor-edged shaft. “Whoa, a channel-constructed handmade Filipino Balisong with an IK Bearing System. Very cool. But unfortunately their importation into the U.S. was banned in the eighties.”

Binder didn’t look impressed by this information. “Is that right?”

“And the Balisong can technically be considered a gravity or butterfly knife or a switchblade. They’re illegal in D.C. and Maryland and you can’t sell ’ em in Virginia.”

“Somebody forgot to send me the memo. I’ll talk to my lawyer.”

“Good, while you’re doing that I’ll call the Five D commander and let him run a second set of eyeballs over your inventory list. If you want to dress in drag I can recommend a very nice facility in West Virginia for the next few years.” She eyed his bushy redtop. “And the really good news is you won’t even have to get a haircut.”

Binder leaned down into her face. “What the hell do you want, woman!”

“Some equipment. And I’ll pay, just not full price because I’m poor and cheap.”

She held up the Balisong and with a flick closed the blade. “And next time, Bin, hide the plainly illegal shit in the back. I mean, at least make the CID guys work for it. Otherwise they’ll get rusty.”

“What kind of equipment?”

“My wish list starts with a UV blue-light lamp, fluorescent dye, and contrasting spectacles. FYI, pulling out the cheap made-in-China crap will not make me happy. I got enough lead in my system from eating prison food.”

“I’ve got a nice kit for three hundred plus tax,” he mumbled.

“Great, I’ll give you fifty for it.”

His broad face swelled with anger, making his freckles look like giant amoebas. “That’s a ripoff. You know what my damn rent is here?”

“You won’t have any rent in prison. But I do know the Aryan Nation scuzzballs are partial to redheads.”

Binder deflated as quickly as he’d inflated. “What else?” he said sullenly.

“Well, let’s have a look-see at all the goodies,” she said sweetly.

After she’d finished, she loaded her purchases in a large backpack she’d made Binder throw in for free. A belt with an extra feature loaded in the clasp that she’d purchased from him had already been slipped around her waist and tightened down. She’d paid and was heading to the door when he called out, “Twenty bucks says you’re back in prison in six months.”

She whipped around. “And I’ve got fifty that says any illegal shit left in this place gets confiscated in forty-eight hours by MPD’s finest.”

Binder slammed his fist against the counter. “I thought we had a deal!”

“I don’t remember anything about a deal. I just mentioned switchblades and you gave me a really nice discount. I thought it was like a code word for preferred customers.”