Hundreds of Santa Muerte statues are arranged along the street. Porcelain figures of various shapes, sizes, and colors stand on every porch and clutter every yard. They even fill the island in the center of the neighborhood and surround the gazebo. Their skeletal faces seem to watch our slow-moving convoy as we proceed up the block.
“What the hell is this?” David mutters.
I exchange a look with Paige. “This wasn’t here before. Something’s not right.”
“Which house?” he asks, ignoring my warning.
I direct David to the last house on the top. The vehicles circle around the loop and park. My attention is drawn, again, to the center island. The gazebo is now fully decorated as a shrine to Santa Muerte. Fresh flowers have been strung on the posts. Glass containers hold votive candles. The stone fire pit has been cleaned of all graffiti. Statues stand on the perimeter, guarding the altar. And thousands of flower petals cover every inch of the area. Huge piles swell with each passing breeze as if emerging from the ground itself.
“Stay here,” David warns as he exits the vehicle. He doesn’t go far but stands beside his car and directs the two officers from the second vehicle to remain stationed outside. All four uniformed officers arm themselves with shotguns and visually sweep the area for danger.
“What do we think about all these statues?” Paige asks, looking around.
“Nothing good,” I respond. My stomach groans in the anticipation that we’re walking into a trap. Something in my body is telling me we’re in trouble. “I think she’s here.”
“Melchora or Santa Muerte? Shit—doesn’t matter. We should warn David,” Paige says as she watches four SWAT team members approach the front door. They signal to each other.
I open the door and swing my legs out of the car. David turns to face me the moment I do. “I told you to stay inside.”
“David, none of this was here before,” I say, standing. “They knew we were coming.”
“Wait,” he says, holding a hand to stop me.
The SWAT officer on point opens the door and sweeps his weapon as he enters. The other officers quickly follow to clear the inside of the house. They disappear inside. David waits patiently, a hand on his radio.
I speak up again. “I’m worried this is a trap.”
His radio crackles to life. “We’re all clear.”
David looks around, assessing the situation. “Shit. Too late to back out now.” He waves to uniformed officers to follow, as well as the field investigative technicians. He turns to Paige. “Do you still have your gun?”
She nods, patting the pocket of her vest. David waits. “Oh!” she chirps and pulls it out.
He follows the team, and Paige and I follow him.
“Finger off the trigger,” I remind her.
The place is as it was before. Dirty. Dilapidated. Deserted. The tobacco spots remain on the dingy carpet—remnants of Detective Ed Snyder’s significant time spent here.
Two things immediately throw me off. One, I can smell something cooking in the kitchen. And two, there’s no SWAT team here.
One of the investigative technicians steps into the room and approaches the map on the wall. “Is this the map?”
Brilliant detective work.
David’s eyes and gun sweep the area. He searches for the rest of the team then sidles next to me. “Answer him casually,” he whispers to me as quietly as possible.
“Yep. That’s the one.” I pull Paige close. The three of us take a defensive position—back-to-back-to-back.
Oblivious, the technician continues to examine the map. He points. “That’s Detective Snyder’s place. Detective Brice. Lin. All here.”
I peer into the kitchen. I can see a big pot on the burner. Something is boiling, and steam rises from inside.
Two gunshots echo from outside the house. David rushes to the door and carefully cracks it open. In the distance, I can see Hugo and a handful of other men marching down the road, armed with assault guns. Two officers lie dead on the ground.
One guy aims, and a bullet splinters the doorframe. David ducks and slams the door shut. The rest of us hit the floor.
“Shit.” He points at the female officer. “Watch the back.” He looks at the other officer. “Call for backup.”
The second officer grabs his mic. “This is One-Adam-Fifty-Six. We’ve got two officers down at Sterling Terrace in Montecito Heights. Numerous assailants converging on remaining officers. Requesting immediate backup and helicopter unit!”
The female officer shouts, “I see at least two more coming up the back!”
The radio crackles to life. “Copy that, One-Adam-Fifty-Six. All units, we have a code three at Sterling Terrace…”
David turns to me. “Other entrances?”
I point through the kitchen.
David gestures for the second officer to guard. He crawls toward the kitchen door. I look at the boiling pot. The steam rising from the top thickens then redirects itself through the air. It snakes its way toward the door. The vapor slowly begins to materialize into little ashen clouds. As I watch, the clouds turn into tiny feathers.
Feathers. Shit.
“No!” I slam the door shut. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! The feathers puncture the door from the other side, their needlelike shafts barely penetrating the wood. The officer shoots me a look, and I shout, “Someone’s in there!”
He quickly aims his gun at the door.
I turn to Paige. “Melchora.”
She visibly tenses, looking around. If Melchora’s here, there’s also a good chance Santa Muerte is here.
Another technician shouts, “We’re surrounded!”
I hear gunshots. Bullets fly into the house around us. Bits of wood spray across the room like confetti. Glass shards rain down on anyone unlucky enough to be near a window. We all dive and cover our heads. The moment the barrage ends, I rise and sprint for the stairs.
“Darcy!” David shouts.
More bullets fly through the first level as I race up the stairs and land face-first on the upstairs carpet. A bulky vest jabs my stomach. Under me is the dead body of a SWAT office, his open eyes frozen in
