"Get out," she said, motioning to him.

"I see the money first."

Brazil opened his door and stepped out as an engine roared in from the rear. A dark, old van with no windows bumped toward them at a high rate of speed. Brazil was shocked. He scrambled back inside his BMW, throwing it into reverse. But it was too late. The van blocked him, and there was nothing ahead but a thicket and a deep gully. Trapped, Brazil watched the driver's door open. He took in the big, ugly shim with pumpkin-colored hair woven in cornrows close to its skull. It jumped out, its smile serpentine as it walked towards Brazil, a large-caliber pistol in one hand, the other rattling a can of spray paint.

"We got us a sweet one," Punkin Head said to Poison.

"Might have some fun. Teach him what we do with snitches."

"I'm not a snitch," Brazil let Punkin Head know.

"He's a reporter," Poison said.

"A reporter," it mocked, its anger raging out of control as memories of Black Widow stories unfurled and flashed and infuriated all over again.

Brazil's stories were the furthest thing from his mind as he thought fast. Poison laughed. She zipped open a switchblade.

"Get out of the car and give me the keys," Punkin Head moved closer to its prey, a. 45 caliber pistol pointed between Blondie's eyes.

"All right. All right. Please don't shoot." Brazil knew when to cooperate.

"We got us a beggar." Punkin Head made a harsh, horrid sound that was supposed to be a laugh.

"Please don't shoot," it mimicked.

"Let's cut him first." Poison waited outside the BMW's door, knife ready to carve this reporter boy where it hurt.

Brazil turned off the engine. He fumbled with the keys, dropping them to the floor. He groped for them as West squealed around the corner, turning behind the abandoned apartments. Gunshots exploded. BAM BAM and BAM-BAM. Her siren screamed and screamed as a gun fired four more times. Hammer turned in four seconds after West, hearing the gunshots, too, flipping on her siren, while backups closed in from all directions of the Queen City, the night a red-and-blue flashing war zone.

West had her gun drawn as she bolted out of her car. Hammer, her partner, was right behind West, pistol racked back and ready. The two women scanned the parked van with running engine. They took in the two bloody bodies not breathing near an open switchblade and a can of spray paint. They locked on Brazil clenching the borrowed. 380, as if his victims might hurt him, the gun jumping in his locked hands.

Cahoon walked closer to the crime scene, staring at the dead, and then all around at the lit-up skyline, where his building towered.

West went to Brazil. She carefully took the gun from him and enclosed it in a plastic evidence bag, along with spent cartridge cases.

"It's okay," she said to him.

He blinked, shivering, as his shocked eyes met hers.

"Andy," she said.

"This is very traumatic. I've been through it, know all about it, and I'm going to help you every step of the way, okay?

I'm here for you now. Got it? "

She took him in her arms. Andy Brazil dug his fingers in her hair. He shut his eyes and held her hard.