"Don't think so." Playboy gestured at Cruz with his free hand. "Stand up, sister."

Cruz started to rise, made it halfway, then staggered. Her legs went wobbly, and she moaned and fell. Tried to catch herself, her hands tangling up with her ankles. Jason lunged to help her, moving without thinking. She'd seemed stronger a minute ago. Standing up must have been the problem. "I think she might have a concussion."

"Yeah?" The voice bored.

"She's not part of our business."

Playboy snorted. "Man, pick your bitch up."

Jason's fingers tingled, that old battle rush. He knew then, knew with certainty. Playboy was here to execute them.

Jason had seen it more times than he could count. Mass graves and abandoned bodies. Hands tied or cuffed, two in the head. Sunnis at first, but before long plenty of Shi'as, too. Regular folk, mostly, caught up in a war they hadn't chosen to fight. Victims of political rivalries, or kidnappings, or plain evil luck. Caught beneath the wheels of circumstance and shredded like dolls.

But knowing Playboy's intentions didn't change anything. They were alone in a wasteland, unarmed, and damn near helpless. Jason grit his teeth and put an arm under Cruz's shoulder, lifted her slowly to stand. Her weight was awkward. Her right arm flopped behind his back, and it seemed heavy the way it hit him.

Playboy regarded them from five feet away, the gun sideways in a gangster grip.

"You're holding your weapon wrong," Jason said.

"That a fact."

"Yeah. The recoil is going to throw your aim off. Hell, a big.45 like that, you might end up punching yourself in the face."

"Want to bet," rocking the hammer back with his thumb, "whether it'll work or not?"

Icy water flowed through Jason's veins. This couldn't be the way. He hadn't walked beneath Middle Eastern suns to die on the banks of a shitty river. Hadn't found Cruz just to die with her. "Why are you doing this?" Fighting for time, his eyes darting.

"Mother fucker." Playboy's voice a chipped razor. "You really asking after what you did?" He stepped forward. "C-Note was like my brother. He and I been tight since we was shorties. You shoot the man in his bathrobe, and got the nerve to ask me why I'm doing this?"

"I didn't kill C-Note."

"Yeah, and my black ass is mayor." Playboy's eyes burned. He stepped forward, the gun level with Jason's eyes. "I loved that man. Not ashamed to say it. Nothing I ain't prepared to do to get those that killed him."

"We're not them." Anger powered the truth in his voice. Bad enough to think of losing now, when they were so close. But to die because of the handiwork of his brother's killer? The irony was too cruel. "It was DiRisio killed C-Note."

"A man staring down a gat'll say anything to survive."

Cruz moaned and sagged like she were losing consciousness. Her head flopped on his shoulder, and Jason tightened his grip on her. As he did, he felt her hand tap his back again. There was something weird about it. He looked over at her, expecting to see dilated pupils, pale skin, the classic signs of shock and concussion.

Instead, from behind the wet hair that screened her eyes, she winked at him.

"You know what?" He turned back to Playboy. "You're right."

Jason moved fast, a quick lunge sideways. Brilliant fire exploded in front of him, the bullet ripping the air where his head had been. In the sudden glow he saw the other two gangbangers scrabbling at their waists, guns coming up, and then Cruz stepped forward and pressed a small automatic pistol under Playboy's chin.

"Don't believe the movies," Cruz said, her posture straight and her voice steady. "This is a Glock 27. It'll fire under water. Our little swim won't even slow it down."

Playboy stood frozen, his gun arm out, pointing at nothing. Jason locked the gangbanger's arm with his right hand and twisted the Ruger free with his left. He sighted down the barrel at Playboy's soldiers. They had weapons up, the taller one swinging the gun back and forth between Jason and Cruz.

In the silence, Jason could hear the rain patter on the river. Tension tightened his shoulders, made his muscles sing. The twitchy one was making Jason nervous, swiveling back and forth between him and Cruz. "Curtis. You look like a man making a decision. But stay cool for a second. I just want to talk."

The tall man didn't say anything, but stopped swinging the gun.

"Now," Jason said, hoping his voice didn't betray his tension, "it would be the easiest thing in the world for us all to open up right now. We could all die here, beside this shitty river. But if we do, nobody gets any satisfaction. You know why? Because we didn't kill C-Note."

"You say so." Playboy's eyes were half-closed, like he couldn't be bothered with the situation.

"Think about it, man. Who set you on me in the first place? DiRisio. And I'll bet you he was the one said that we killed C-Note, wasn't he?" Playboy's eyes confirmed it. "I thought so. How'd he know a thing like that? The cops hadn't even left the scene, he knows what's going on?"

"Street knows what it knows."

"Does the street know that DiRisio is also selling hardware to La Raza and the Latin Saints? You didn't think you were the only ones getting some of his love, did you? He's arming your enemies."

Playboy shrugged. "Says you."

"You want proof?" Jason gestured to the river. "Go for a swim. It's in the back of the car you drove off the bridge. We were going to use it to take DiRisio down."

"Not just him," Cruz said quietly. "A dirty cop, too. Tom Galway. He works gangs."

"That a fact."

"It is." Jason stepped forward. "They killed your boy, then sent you to finish us before we brought them down. Hell, this way they don't even have to get their hands dirty. You've been conned, man. We all have."

Playboy narrowed his eyes, then reached into his pocket. Cruz pushed the Glock harder into his neck. He looked down at her with a bulletproof smile. "Easy." Took his hand out slowly, turning it up to display a pack of Pall Mall Menthols and a green Bic. Pulled out a cigarette and lit it casually, using both hands, like he were chilling in a club instead of standing on the bank of a polluted river with a pistol at his throat. "Saying that's so. What then?"

"We're going to go take care of him."

Playboy shook his head, blew smoke. "Can't let you two walk out of here."

Cruz laughed. "You're not letting us. We're walking. The question is whether you are."

Playboy shrugged. "Ain't afraid to die."

"I believe you," Jason said. "But I also think you're not stupid. DiRisio killed your friend. He's equipping your enemies. He's just as much a problem for you as he is for us. But he's got connections, so you can't take him on directly. We can. Him and a dirty cop." Jason shrugged. "There's no angle to killing us."

"Unless y'all are lying to me."

Something tightened in Jason's chest. This would be the most dangerous part. "You're right. After all, a man will say anything when he's at gunpoint." He swallowed hard, then slowly lowered the Ruger. Lightning raced up his thighs. He locked the safety, then, adrenaline shaking the world, spun the pistol butt first and held it out to Playboy. "So we're clear, I don't like you, man. But you're not my enemy, and I'm not yours."

Cruz looked at him wild-eyed. "What?"

"It's okay, Elena. Let him free." Jason kept his eyes locked on Playboy's. "Go ahead. It's not a trick."

The gangbanger looked at the gun, looked at Cruz. She had her teeth clenched, the line of her jaw hard. She seemed unsure. He didn't blame her, but she could still blow it.

"Elena." Jason spoke softly. "I need you to trust me."

She stiffened. He could see her wrestling with it. Then, slowly, she stepped away. Kept the gun in her hand, but lowered.