“You fuckin’ bitch,” the sow screamed-slurred. “You fuckin’ bitch whore!”

The elevator stopped at the fifth floor, where the sow would be booked and put in a titanium cell. At the very least, they’d be done with her.

“What about her sons?” Crush asked when they arrived at booking, where another sow was manning the desk. “I say we go back out and track them down.”

“I’m up for that.”

“You stay away from my boys! Stay away from my boys!”

“Shut upppp!” MacDermot yelled, making Crush chuckle. The woman had no patience for screamers. She never did.

Crush’s phone went off as two uniforms took the sow from him. “Hey,” he told MacDermot. “We got a text from Gentry. She wants us back upstairs.”

“Okay.” MacDermot finished the paperwork the sergeant at the desk needed to book the sow.

MacDermot had just pushed the clipboard across the desk when the sergeant snapped at the uniformed officers, “Don’t uncuff her here—”

But it was too late. The sow spun around, free of her bonds. Facing MacDermot, she swung her big fist and sent the full-human flying out of the room.

Shocked, everyone stood there staring, even the sow. Then, just as Crush was about to panic, thinking about what he could possibly tell MacDermot’s husband at the funeral that would explain this, a bellowed, “You fucking cunt whore!” from the hallway reminded Lou Crushek that Bronx girls didn’t go down easy.

Cella ended up eating her lunch in the restaurant kitchen with Ric Van Holtz. It never hurt to suck up to the boss and get a duo of wild boar and impala with that damn mushroom sauce in the bargain.

“So how’s it going with the rookies?” he asked before picking up the giant burger sitting in front of him for his own lunch.

“Not bad. And not one fight this morning.”

“No bleachers thrown then?” Van Holtz bit into the burger, his eyes closing. He groaned. After swallowing, he pointed at the burger. “Amazing,” he whispered. Then more loudly snapped, “I thought I said I wanted this well done?”

A young wolf, his arms and hands wet and covered in bubbles, stuck his head in from the other room. “You said medium rare.”

“No. I said well done. Get it right next time.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Jeez.”

The kid disappeared back to his regular job and Van Holtz went back to his burger.

“My cousin Stein,” Van Holtz explained, like that told her why he was being such a ballbuster.

“You’re ridiculous,” Cella told him. “I heard you say medium rare.”

“Ssssh.” Van Holtz looked at that doorway. “I have a strategy, Miss Malone.”

“The ‘I’m a douche’ strategy?”

“You break them down first so you can build them back up.”

“And when does that building begin?”

“Whenever I say it does.”

Cella laughed. “You’re worse than my dad. Of his four children, I’m the only one who could handle his idea of training.”

“And look at you now.”

“The reality is I had it easier than the boys because I was daddy’s little princess.”

Van Holtz frowned. “You? Really?”

“What d’ya gotta say it like that for?” She pointed at herself. “Don’t I look like a fuckin’ princess to you?”

“In what world,” Smith’s voice said from behind Cella, “are you a princess?”

Damn Smith, sneaking up on her again. How did she do that? “In the same world that Smiths are considered upstanding and law-abiding citizens rather than backwoods crazies.”

“Sassy talker.”

“Psychopath.”

Smith walked over to Van Holtz’s side, pressing up against him. “You in here chattin’ up my man, Malone?”

“Well, it’s about time he had a woman with some curves.”

“Don’t most just call that back fat?”

“No brawling,” Van Holtz quickly warned them when Cella pulled her fist back and Smith went for that damn bowie knife she kept holstered to the back of her jeans.

Once it seemed that he’d diverted any fights in his precious kitchen, Van Holtz asked Smith, “You want something to eat?”

“Later maybe.”

“Where have you been?” Cella asked, cutting another piece of meat. “I called you earlier.”

“Yeah, sorry. I was checking in with the people MacDermot put on surveillance detail for us.”

“They get anything?”

“Nope. But I did pull some favors and get video footage from stores in a one-block radius of the taxidermist. Printed a few pics.” Smith pulled out a manila envelope and took out several photographs. “Anybody look familiar to you?”

Handing his half-eaten burger to his mate—the man never took Smith’s “I’ll eat later” seriously—Van Holtz looked through the photos, sliding each one across the table to Cella when he was done. After several moments, he retrieved one of the photos he’d passed to Cella, studying it a little more. “This man ... Do we know him?”

“I don’t.” Having finished Van Holtz’s burger, Smith was now working on his plate of fries. “But before I came here, I showed these pics to the surveillance team. They pointed him out, too. Said he met with the taxidermist, but never in his store. Always met him a block away. I told them if he comes back, to put someone on him.”