The "delivery guy" stops a good thirty feet away from the side entrance, which is my first clue that something's off. Real delivery people get as close to the door as possible - less walking, faster turnaround, bigger tips.

  "I've got your eye on him?" I ask Derek quietly as we step outside.

  Derek nods almost imperceptibly, his nostrils flaring slightly. "Something's not right."

  We approach cautiously. The guy's wearing a standard red pizza delivery uniform with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but his posture is all wrong - too relaxed, almost performative in its casualness. And the pizza box he's holding looks too light, balanced wrong in his hands.

  "Small?" he calls out, his voice carrying across the parking lot. "Order for Small?"

  "That's me," I reply, stopping about ten feet away. "I don't remember ordering a pizza, though."

  The delivery guy grins, adjusting his cap so that I can see the big, round, obnoxiously purple glasses hiding about 90% of his face.

  "Special delivery," he says, giving a theatrical bow, maintaining the pizza box in one hand - spinning it, really, like he's spinning a frisbee or a plate on a stick. "Rush Order. Customer satisfaction guaranteed or it's free."

  Derek tenses beside me, his entire body going rigid. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here."

  "And hello to you too, Wolfman Jack," Rush Order replies, his smile never faltering. "Relax. If I wanted trouble, you'd already be in it." He 'hup!'s the box up into the air for a second, catches it with both hands, and thrusts it out towards me like a spear. "Peace offering. It's pepperoni. Everyone likes pepperoni."

  I don't move to take it. "How did you find us?"

  He taps the side of his glasses. "Trade secret. But don't worry - I didn't share your little hideout's location with anyone who doesn't need to know."

  "Like who?" I ask.

  "Like my colleagues, who are on their way as we speak." Rush Order glances at his watch - a flashy thing with too many dials. "They know where I am. As far as they know, I'm at some random house in Mayfair, following your dad's trail. I'm polite like that."

  Derek's breathing has gotten heavier, a low rumble building in his chest. I put a hand on his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles.

  "Easy," I murmur. "He's right. If he wanted trouble, we'd know by now."

  Rush Order smirks. "I'd speed blitz you like I'm whipping omelettes if that was my game. But I don't get into random fights with no reason, lover boy. I heard you have yourself a Nazi problem? Say what you will about our nihilist accelerationism, but at least it's a functional ethos... man!"

  "Do you talk in anything besides pop culture references?" Derek snarls.

  "No," Rush Order snaps back between grit teeth. "We may be a bunch of criminal lunatics, but we're American criminal lunatics."

  "You're quoting something again," Derek growls back at him, like serving a tennis ball.

  "I--"

  "Enough!" I interrupt. "We got your message," I say, ignoring his pop culture reference. "About my dad. I mean, like, we got it when you released it. But now we're cashing in."

  "Gun Dad! Man of the hour." Rush Order's smile widens. "How is the old sharpshooter? Shoulder still giving me trouble, you know." He rotates his right arm with a slight wince. "Guy's got good aim."

  "He's fine," I reply flatly. "What I want to know is if you meant what you said in that video."

  Rush Order's expression shifts, becoming marginally more serious. "About the protection? One hundred percent. It's in effect as we speak." He gestures expansively. "Every Rogue Wave associate within the tri-state area has standing orders to watch for your pops and step in if there's trouble. That's been true since the video went out! Everyone that saw it that's under contract follows the rules. Come on, Smalls. I know you know how the contracts work."

  "And you can verify that?" Derek asks skeptically.

  "Better than that. The big boss himself is coming to discuss the particulars." Rush Order glances back toward the street. "Speaking of which..."

  A nondescript, dinged up black sedan has pulled up at the curb about a block away. Two figures exit - one tall and blonde in a crisp charcoal suit, the other even taller and broader in denim pants and plaid. Neither is wearing a mask or costume, though the woman in plaid has an incongruous paper birthday hat perched on her head.

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  They stop to consult with each other for a moment. I don't hear what they're saying, but there's a little bit of gesticulation, and she puts the birthday hat back in the car.

  "The delegation arrives," Rush Order announces. "Shall we move this party somewhere more private? Perhaps around back by your dumpsters? Less chance of curious eyes."

  Derek and I exchange glances. "Wait here," I tell Rush Order. "I need to talk to my mom."

  Rush Order settles against a nearby wall. "Take your time. Well, not too much time. Busy schedule and all that."

  We retreat inside, where Mom is waiting anxiously by the door.

  "It's Rush Order," I tell her without preamble. "And Monkey Business and Birthday Suit just arrived."

  Her face turns ghost white. "I feel like I should know these names. Rogue Wave... From the news!" Her face turns whiter.

  "They want to meet behind the building," I explain. "More private."

  "I'm coming with you," she says immediately, reaching for her jacket.

  Derek steps forward. "Mrs. Small, with all due respect, that's not a good idea. These people are dangerous."

  "We had an agreement," she replies firmly. "Non-negotiable, remember?"

  I sigh. "Mom, Derek's right. They're literally supervillains."

  "Exactly why I need to be there." She pulls on her jacket with a determined tug. "I'm not letting my sixteen-year-old daughter negotiate with criminals alone."

  "She won't be alone," Derek growls. "I'll be there."

  "For how long?" Mom challenges. "The sun sets in what, two hours? Then what?"

  Derek doesn't have an answer for that.

  "Look," I say, trying to find a compromise, "how about you stay back a bit? Close enough to hear and see, but not right in the middle of things? Stand at the door?"

  Mom considers this, then nods reluctantly. "Fine. But I'm still coming. Even if I can't protect you, I want to look these people in the eye and know what we're dealing with."

  We head back outside, where Rush Order is casually filing his nails with a little emery stick. He looks up as we approach.

  "Family conference over? Excellent. This way, please." He pushes off from the wall and starts walking toward the back of the building without waiting for a response.

  I glance at Mom, who gives me a tight nod, and we follow. Derek takes the rear, keeping himself between Mom and Rush Order.

  Behind the building, Monkey Business and Birthday Suit are already waiting by the dumpsters. Seeing them without their usual performance trappings is jarring - Monkey Business especially looks almost normal in his expensive suit, his blonde hair neatly styled. Without his monkey mask, his square-jawed, symmetrical face has an almost artificial perfection to it.

  Birthday Suit is even more imposing in person, up close like this. She stands at least six feet tall, wearing a button-down plaid that's rolled up to her upper arms and jeans. I am no longer looking at Birthday Suit.

  "Bloodhound," Monkey Business says, his voice smoother and deeper than I expected. "A pleasure to finally meet you face to face."

  "It's Sam," I correct him. "Sam Small."

  "Of course." He smiles, revealing perfect teeth. "And this must be your mother. Rachel."

  Mom stiffens behind me but says nothing.

  "And Derek," Monkey Business continues, nodding to Derek. "Elias sends his regards."

  Derek's jaw tightens. "Does he."

  "Indeed. He was quite moved by your message." Monkey Business gestures to the space between us. "Shall we get down to business? I understand time is of the essence, particularly for Mr. Taylor here."

  "How do you know about that?" Derek demands.

  "We make it our business to know things," Birthday Suit says, speaking for the first time. Her voice is low and raspy, with a hint of an accent I can't quite place.

  "Elias told us," Rush Order says, earning him a glare from literally everyone present.

  "Nevertheless, we have eyes and ears throughout Philadelphia," Monkey Business explains, as if reading my thoughts. "It's how we maintain our market share. We're willing to put these resources to use for your protection at the right price."

  "Let's cut to the chase," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "Rush Order declared my father under your protection. I need to know if that's real."

  "It is," Monkey Business confirms without hesitation. "Mr. Small earned that protection when he demonstrated both conviction and restraint. He could have killed Rush Order - he chose not to."

  Rush Order rubs his shoulder. "Could've shot me somewhere less painful, though."

  "The protection is real," Monkey Business continues, ignoring the interruption. "And it has been in effect since the moment Rush Order made his declaration. Your father has been watched over whenever he ventures into public. I've heard through the grapevine there was an incident at your school last spring? You should know that it works by now."

  "But now we need more. He threatened everyone I know," I confirm. "Not just my immediate family. He's insane, and we're sure the only thing he wants in life is to make me suffer as much as possible."

  Monkey Business nods thoughtfully. "A comprehensive threat. Difficult to counter through conventional means. You'd have to find him to stop him from carrying it out, and he's not exactly making himself easy to find."

  "Which is why you've come to us," Rush Order interjects with a grin. "Smart move."

  "I didn't have much choice," I reply.

  "There are always choices, Ms. Small," Monkey Business says. "You chose the pragmatic one. I respect that."

  "Are we going to keep dicking around or are we going to get to the point?" I ask, watching the setting sun paint the fall sky orange-red behind them.

  "We've been at the table the whole time, Ms. Small," Monkey Business replies, pulling out a cigarette box from his pocket. He pulls out a small white stick, puts it in his mouth, and then crunches it to pieces, pulling it in with his tongue. "Sorry, old habit. Have to sort of... quench the beast. What can we do for you, and what are you offering for it?"

  "Oh no, dickhead. I know how this game works. Whoever speaks first loses," Derek interjects.

  Monkey Business raises a perfectly clean eyebrow, freshly threaded. "What excellent sloganeering from your freshman year of business school. I'm impressed."

  "You're being sarcastic," I point out.

  "A little bit. Sorry. Fuck off, Mr. Taylor. We're not here for you. Keep being a bodyguard, you can get your thoughts in at the end," Monkey Business says, quietly offering me a candy cigarette with his hands while the rest of his body does an entirely different thing aimed at Derek.

  "Kill yourself," Derek responds.

  "Later,"

  "Shut up! Jesus." I put both hands up, trying to get them to stop wasting time. "Monkey Business. This is what I need. You ready?"