A scowl twists her lips.

After a moment, she steadies herself.

"Good to know. I'll need wheels in the meantime."

"I think I can help you there."

He stands and sets his drink down, before leading the woman around to the lot behind the shop, where a few finished cars sit in the evening light.

He motions to one of the cars.

"I'd loan you any of 'em, but knowing you, I'm guessing I know which one you'll pick."

The car in question is a sleek black musclecar with two thick white stripes running down the hood from the windshield.

Looking the loaner over gets the first hint of something other than steel from her expression. "Yeah, it'll do. Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

She accepts the keys and gets in, throwing a comment over her shoulder as she does.

"I'd ask you to blacklist Iosef, but."

The man sets his jaw in a sad grin and nods silently, before making his way back inside.

Hailey drives home.

She carefully cleans the house.

Sweeps up the glass.

Scrubs the floors clean of blood.

Then she goes to the shed.

She gets out a sledgehammer, then goes back in, and heads down to the basement, her footsteps heavy, hammer leaning on her shoulder.

Step.

     Step.

          Step.

               Step.

                    Step.

                         Step.

                              Step.

She drags a rug out of the center of the room, then lines the hammer up with the middle of a discolored patch of cement, and swings.

The first hit cracks it.

The second makes a dent.

Crack.

Crack.

She screams as she hammers her way through the cement, rage and grief spilling out of her.

After the final swings, she brushes aside the cement chunks to uncover a wooden chest, and opens it.

At the top are a pair of foam-lined trays. The left contains silencers, grenades, knives, and spare magazines. The right contains twenty-four stacks of twenty gold coins each, grouped into neat rows of eight, laid out horizontally.

She takes out those two trays, and underneath are a high-powered sniper rifle, a shotgun, an automatic rifle, and several scopes.

She carefully inventories everything, and checks the condition of all the weapons.

This chest laid the foundation of her life with Violetta. It feels fitting, now, to reopen it to hunt the boy who tried to take that from her.

The old phone on the desk behind her rings.

She'll answer it.

"What," she snaps.

"Hello Ha—" he pauses, then starts again. "Hello Hailey."

He clears his throat.

"I'm—I'm sorry to be calling you so late. I know you must be tired."

"Do you now."

Her voice is curt and cold.

She clenches the receiver tight enough that the plastic creaks audibly.

"I… yes, well. I guess… it must be fate. Or, happenstance, or just bad fucking luck for our paths to cross again…"

"Or bad genes," she scoffs, metal clicking as she disassembles and cleans the shotgun, handset wedged against her shoulder.

"Well now, let us not resort to harsh words. I think we can both agree that it is for the best if we settle this like m— like civilized adults. There is no need for anger or passion when we can simply be reasonable and evenhanded and set these things behind us. I—"

She can't help but cut him off, voice gradually building from a growl to a roar in her rage.

"Set this behind us? Viggo, how exactly d'you expect me to set behind me the fact that your son stole my car and maybe killed my wife?"

Silence, for a moment.

"…I would hope that you could see the bigger picture here, and understand that cool heads and calm discussions are what is best for all of us."

For a moment, the only sound is Hailey racking the shotgun and setting it down as she finishes cleaning it.

When she speaks, her voice has returned to that low, sharp edge of frost.

"I fail to see what you've got to offer beside a clear path to your son's blood and my car."