Excerpt:

Merry Havok woke up the morning after her thirty-fifth birthday and decided she was going to kick serious ass for a living.  That's what it would say on her business card, so it was a matter of truth in advertising.

When the alarm went off promptly at six, she reached under her pillow for the pistol Raz'r had left behind when he'd skipped town and shot the little fucker (the alarm clock, not Raz'r, who had drained her bank account and ruined her credit and knew better than to come back to her apartment if he valued his balls at all.)  She landed four shots and missed the other five, but she figured that was pretty good for having one eye still glued shut with a tequila hangover.