At nine forty-five that morning, Shea arrived at Iron Goddess to retrieve her Glock. The Smith & Wesson was tucked in an ankle holster, just in case Bonefish and Lizzie Black made an encore appearance.
To her surprise, Terrance’s 1956 industrial green Ford Hauler pickup and Lakota’s 1950 Harley Panhead were parked in the parking lot.
Shea walked into the workshop. “Hello?”
A rapping on the office’s window drew Shea’s attention. Terrance beckoned her with his finger. As Shea crossed the workshop floor, she spotted her Glock on the floor. She holstered it and continued on into the office.
“Morning,” she mumbled.
“You all right, girl?” asked Lakota in a mothering voice. She hugged Shea tightly.
“Ow, ow, ow.” Shea pulled away, her hand pressing against the bullet wound under her arm.
“O
