The target had a two-inch diameter hole punched through the center of its head. Henry readjusted his feet, shot the target again: one, two, right on top of each other, in the middle of its chest.

"Son of a bitch," Henry whispered, imagining Logan Black's smug face as he aimed his pistol. That monster, touching her, like she was his property. Breathing the same air as him; breathing the same air as her. Tangled all around her like a snake. He couldn't live with it; he couldn't. "Fucker," he cursed, shooting the target again, dead on.

Black poisoned her well enough, the snake. Stella Porter, that beautiful girl, kissed Black without a care in the world; kissed him like she had never dared to kiss Henry, back when she was as sweet on him as he was sweet on her. I'll put him down like a dog, Henry thought, reloading his magazine. Won't even be able to have an open casket funeral.

It'd be easy. Everyone on the force knew that the man was head of the largest syndicate in the city; likewise, everyone knew that the man had at least fifteen hits to his name, maybe more. Nobody would miss him. Nobody in the underworld; nobody on the force; and certainly not his own fucked up family. Logan Black would be gone, and the world would be brighter for it. And Cassandra Porter? Well, Cassie would look the other way, he was sure.

He saw the seething hatred on her face when she spied the two of them talking outside the station. The five stages of grief that she went through, as she realized her daughter was looking awfully chummy and flirtatious with the devil himself. He felt those same feelings; felt them keenly as his love for Stella Porter came rushing back to him all at once, when he saw her at that bar, looking as beautiful, even as she stuck her tongue down Black's throat. Black had touched her, defiled her, and Henry was going to make him pay with bullets and blood.

Now, granted, Henry had never killed a man before...but it wasn't like Logan Black could really be considered a man. 'Sides, every gangster in the world meets a violent end. Live by the sword, die by the sword; live by the gun—die by the gun. It'd be easy: one in the head, two in the chest, pop, pop, pop. Wouldn't expect anything in return from Stell, either; just the knowledge that he'd kept her safe would be enough.

Black would pay. He'd pay for everything, because the fucker was ratcheting up the city's violence, plain as day. JJ Moreno, the little girl, and now three others, dead—and mutilated, to boot.

Five murders in two weeks, all gang-related. All, at some point, leading back to Logan Black. No one but Henry could see it. You're too close to the case, Amy told him. It's too personal for you and you've got tunnel vision. Gerry would say the same shit, tell him that Black wasn't the only player in this game, and that anyway he'd been hospitalized for a week, so the timeline of the murders didn't add up—but Henry knew otherwise. He didn't have proof yet, but he knew.

'Sides, he didn't need proof to put the son of a bitch down. He had no delusions about Logan Black facing justice: the man had money, and laundered it well. Even if Henry managed to arrest him—find the proof that he knew existed—the trial would be messy, and he'd probably get off scot-free. No, no: Henry had to kill him. That was the only answer. Had to kill him before he hurt Stell.

"I'm coming for you, you motherfucker," Henry whispered, shooting the target in the head again. "Just you wait."

"You're quite the marksman," said a voice. It was muffled; Henry removed his ear protection.

"Ma'am," he said, addressing Cassandra Porter. "Whaddya need?"

"A favor," she said, crossing her arms. Now, Cassandra Porter was all business. A career woman, through and through, with no room for relationships. She clawed her way up to being the District Attorney through grit and determination, raising Stell, and then later Aaron, all on her own. Made her way there despite the virulent racism that ranged from subtle to not-so-subtle, and did it with her head held high, too. She was a fucking warrior; and truth be told, he admired her, even as he resented her treatment of him at times. She was beautiful, too, but stern: hard lines framed her mouth, and she rarely cracked a smile unless she was talking about Stell.

She was a hard woman, all things considered. The day after he'd been promoted to detective, she invited him to her office, told him to shut up and shut the blinds, and rode him within an inch of his life. Afterwards, she said, "This never happened," and he nodded, stiffly. She fucked him, and it wasn't like being with Stella, who was soft and shy; no, Cassandra tested his mettle, and found him sufficient enough to keep around—but it wasn't out of affection. He'd be her loyal soldier. That was the deal.

"What's the favor?" She was glaring at him, and her eyes were hard, merciless. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from looking away.

"First I need to know that I have your allegiance. And I'm serious. This is some go-to-your-grave shit, Henry."

"Name what you want, ma'am, and I'll ensure it gets done." Excitement was brewing in him. He could feel the enormity of what she was about to ask; could sense the pleasure of it, the wrongness of it. He was ready.

She narrowed her eyes, looked at the glock he held. "You know that Logan Black has put his filthy paws on my daughter." Her voice was calm, but Henry could see tension in the way she said the words and in the way her pupils dilated, taking up the whole of her green irises.

"I do," he said.

"I want you to spy on him. And when the timing is right, I want you to—I want you to—" She clenched her fist, looked away from him.

"Cassie," he said, reaching for her hand. Surprisingly, she allowed his touch. "Tell me. Tell me and I'll do it."

"Take care of him," she said, through gritted teeth. His heart leapt: yes. Yes. This he could do; this is what he'd been put on this planet to do. "Lop the head off this fucking hydra; I'm tired of seeing his face. He's destroyed so many lives, but he had the audacity to make things personal. To touch my daughter."

"He did," Henry agreed.

He saw fire in her eyes. "I want you to kill that motherfucker."

Yes. YES. "I'll do it, Cassie," he promised, breathless. "You can count on me. I lo—I mean, I really care for Stell. I'm not gonna let him hurt her."

"I know, Henry," she said, cupping his face. "I know. Thank you. Be careful."

This was it: she was trusting him, finally. The good, loyal soldier sent on his first real mission. He racked his pistol, chambering a bullet. "I'm always careful."