But tearing apart these human vermin would be different. It would be just. It would be satisfying. Maybe.

Would Wil want her to do it, if it gave her some peace? Or would he want Lev’s justice to prevail? Would he want the parts pirates captured and turned over to the Arápache Tribal Council? To bring them back alive would require incredible restraint and forbearance on Una’s part. Even if she isn’t callous enough to tear them apart, she has no qualms at all about shooting them dead.

So she hopes they find them. And she hopes they don’t.

• • •

It’s night in a seedy Minneapolis neighborhood. Perhaps not as seedy as other neighborhoods in other cities, but even Minneapolis has armpits and nether regions. Una is necessarily alone, because even with his long hair, Lev is still highly recognizable.

“I wish I could go with you into these places,” he said before she first put herself in harm’s way.

“You couldn’t anyway,” she replied. “They’re all bars, and you’re underage.”

Of course, at six months shy of her twenty-first birthday, Una is underage as well—but her ID says otherwise.

She walks into the third bar this evening—twelfth one since arriving in town. Her long black hair is pulled back with a colorful ribbon, the kind that Wil always would untie because he liked her hair to flow free. There is a pistol in her purse. Small and dainty, a little .22 caliber. She much prefers her rifle, but that’s not exactly something you take with you into a bar. Even a sleazy one like this.

For three nights she has been trolling these gutter spots, where bad news meets more bad news and maybe gets lucky. But no luck for Una. She hasn’t come across a single sign of the parts pirates she seeks.

This place—the What Ales Ya Saloon—has long faded from a glory that wasn’t so glorious to begin with. Greasy booths where the dark leatherette seats are held together by matching duct tape. A linoleum floor that may have once been blue. Light low enough to rob what little color there is left to the place. The only thing sorrier than the establishment is the clientele, sparse and mostly sullen.

Una sits down at the bar, and the bartender, a man who’s had some exceptional good looks bashed out of him by a hard life, comes over to her. Before she’s asked, she shows him her ID, and flashes her medical alcohol license. Sometime around the Heartland War, they made alcohol a controlled substance. So now everyone has a medical alcohol license. Scalpers sell them on street corners, and you can even buy them from medical vending machines. So much for separating mankind from its favorite vice.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks.

“A pint of Guinness.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re a gal after my own heart.” He has a Texas twang to him that is out of place in Minnesota. Una offers him a pained grin that says Just get me my beer.

When he returns, she drinks it slowly, taking note of the people around her. There are two tattooed guys playing darts, not seeming to care about the drunks crossing their path as they launch their sharp projectiles. Deep in the dim booths are couples making deals she doesn’t want to hear. Sitting with her at the bar is a predictable collection of lonely-hearts and career alcoholics. The one sitting at the far end of the bar pays for her drink without her permission, and gestures to her with a two-finger wave and a grinning display of yellow teeth that say it’s Halloween all year. Una’s response is to put her own cash on the bar when the bartender passes.

“Here,” she says. “Give Skeleton Jack his money back.”

The bartender, who must see exchanges like this on a regular basis, is happy to oblige with a chuckle. She doesn’t know if he’s pleased with her self-reliance, or just enjoying the drunk’s misfortune in the matter.

When the bartender seems to have a free moment, she delicately broaches the subject that brought her here. “Maybe you could help me,” she begins, trying to be more polite than she actually feels. “I’m looking for two gentlemen who make their living in the flesh trade.”

The bartender laughs at that. “First time I ever heard parts pirates called ‘gentlemen,’ ” he says. “Sorry to disappoint you, darlin’, but parts pirates only brag to one another. They don’t tell the likes of me their business.”

Una ignores him and continues. “Their names are Hennessey and Fretwell.” Then she watches the bartender for a “tell.”

“Never heard of ’em,” he says, then casually goes about his business of washing dirty glasses—but Una notices him washing a glass that was already clean. Bingo!

This is closest thing to a lead she’s had in three days. Now it’s all up to her. She must play this carefully. She wonders what this man is worried about. Is it that he just doesn’t want to get mixed up in business that’s not his? Does he think she’s a Fed come to crack down on his patrons? Well, whatever the reason for his silence, perhaps she can appeal to his wallet.

“Too bad,” she says. “I hear they’re the go-to guys for a high-value catch.”

The bartender doesn’t meet her eye. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“And,” adds Una, “I was planning on a nice finder’s fee for anyone who could put me in touch with them.” Then she finishes her beer, pushes the empty glass in his direction, and puts a fifty beneath it.

He glances at the bill, but doesn’t take it.