Karen awoke at the sound of a car door slamming.  She leapt off the bed and peered through the curtains.  Elvis Tweedy was in her yard. She opened the window.

“Hey bro,” she called, “what’s up?”
He just said: “Shayna’s missing.”
Goosebumps rattled over her skin. She bolted the window shut and raced to the door.
“Come in.”
“You ok?” he said. “We been ringing you for the past hour.”
Her eyes fell on her cell, on one of the kitchen chairs. She picked it up. Missed calls from Frankie. From the NDCI. From Sal. And the missed call the night before from Shayna. She sank onto the chair.

Tweedy hovered by the door.
“I missed a call from her last night,” Karen groaned, “around midnight. Shit, I should have called her right back.”
“Better tell Fontaine,” said Tweedy. He looked exhausted. “That’s not all Karen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come outside.”
She followed him into the piercing sunlight. God’s flashlight. Tweedy closed the door behind them. Stuck to the door with duct tape was a sheet of paper. The message, smeared and the color of dried blood read: Missing someone?

Karen stood numb under the shower. The water was cool and it felt good but it couldn’t wash away the heaviness in her heart. Now it was personal. Now he was going to get it. There was going to be no going to the pen. She dressed and twirled her gun in her fingers before sliding it into its holster. No. This was personal. She was going to put one of these rounds in that motherfucker’s brain and no one was going to convince her that anything else was the right thing to do. She pulled on her boots with the silver star studs, tightened her ponytail and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Shield on. Glock on. Game on.