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Clarence’s face wrinkled in anger, but she didn’t care. In fact, she liked it. She wanted to get a reaction out of this a.s.shole, this goose-stepping a.s.shole. How could she have ever thought she loved a coldhearted machine like this?

“What do you think, Dew?” Margaret screamed. “If you were ordered to do it, that would make it okay, wouldn’t it?”

“Margaret,” Clarence said, “please calm down.”

“Didn’t I tell you it’s Doctor Montoya? Didn’t I, Agent Otto?”

“You don’t understand, we ha—”

Margaret threw a straight right jab. He was still talking when she did. Her fist hit the bottom of his left front tooth. His head snapped back, from pain, not from the force of her punch, and his hands shot to his mouth. She had seen anger on his face before, but his new expression went way beyond that. This was fury. His eyes cut through her rage a bit, made her realize that no matter how mad she got, she was still a small woman and someone his size could hurt her. Hurt her bad, anytime he wanted to . . . or anytime he lost control.

His nostrils flared. He stood up to his full six-foot-three-inch height.

“You broke my tooth,” he said. His voice remained quiet, but it was no longer calm. Agent Clarence Otto, her lover—correction, former lover—was about one ounce shy of knocking her right the f.u.c.k out.

“Leave, Otto,” Dew said.

Clarence’s head snapped to the left and he glared at Dew. For a second, Margaret thought his rage might manifest itself on Dew Phillips.

“That’s an order,” Dew said quietly.

Clarence glared at him for another few seconds, then looked at Margaret, hate in his eyes. He turned and walked out of the trailer.

“You need to get a grip, Doctor Montoya,” Dew said. “We’re in a very bad situation here, and you’re smart enough to understand the big picture. Do you have that first-aid kit in here?”

“Why the f.u.c.k do you need a first-aid kit?”

Dew pointed down to her right fist. “Because you’re bleeding all over the place.”

Margaret felt the hot wetness a second before she lifted her hand. Only when she saw it did she feel the pain. Her right ring finger was split wide open at the base knuckle, cut by a piece of broken tooth wedged between the torn skin and the bone.

With her left hand, she opened a cabinet and pulled out the plastic first-aid kit. One-handed, she lifted its lid and rummaged for a suture needle and some gauze.

Dew held out his left hand, palm up.

“I don’t need your help, Phillips.”

“Yes you do.” His hand was still waiting for hers.

“My left hand is fine,” Margaret said. “I’ll be happy to split that one open on your tooth if you push me.”