“What a peach.”

Alex shook her drink hard. Too many people thought you were just supposed to mix it, but the whole point of a martini was to shake till the ice cracked into tiny slivers. After a minute, he poured it into a glass, skewered a couple of olives, set them on top. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she said, and smiled. She reached into her purse, pulled out a cell phone. “So I programmed the message for the boys in advance. One line. It took, like, five minutes. Is it just me, or is texting the stupidest form of human communication ever invented?”

“I think that’s MySpace.” He poured himself a shot of vodka, clinked glasses with her, tapped his against the bar, and then threw it back. A group of twentysomethings in shiny shirts came in, talking loudly, and he went to serve them. As he poured their drinks and made their change, he could barely hear the noise of the bar over the contrary thoughts jumbling in his mind, skidding and colliding like cars out of control.

He wanted to call the night off. He wanted the night to go forward, but for it to be over. He wanted to be twenty again, he and Trish and Cassie still together, a family, the future open and bright. He wanted to pull Jenn off the stool and take her in the back and yank the straps of that dress off her shoulders. He wanted a cigarette.

None of that matters. Only Cassie matters. This is just one more thing you have to do for her.

“Goddamn. There is such a thing as angels.” The voice pulled him from his trance. Johnny Love looked Mafia chic in an orange shirt with a paisley silk tie, his hair slicked back. He leaned on the bar next to Jenn like he owned the world.

“Johnny,” she said and smiled. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too, sweetheart. Here for that dinner?”

“Not tonight. I just came to see Alex, have a drink.”

“You know, you’re breaking my heart.”

“You look like a big boy.” She brushed her hair behind her shoulder. “You can take it.”

Johnny laughed, gestured to her glass. “You’re empty.”

“That’s OK-”

“Nonsense. Can’t let a woman like you go thirsty.” He turned to Alex. “Make her another, huh? Grey Goose, on me. Then let’s go back to my office.”

The muscles of Alex’s shoulders locked tight, and something soft traced the inside of his thighs. He fought the urge to look at Jenn. “Sure.”

Johnny said, “Forgive me, gorgeous, I got work to do. But stick around. Maybe we can have a drink together later.”

Alex picked up the shaker, his fingers numb on the metal. He didn’t hear the rest of what Johnny said to Jenn, didn’t hear her responses. He focused on the cocktails. Hers was easy, but his-one part shit-scared, two parts resolved, a twist of a prayer, knock it hard and bang it back-that one was tough.

He set the martini down, then followed Johnny to the back room. At the door, he risked a glance over his shoulder. Their eyes locked as she reached for the cell phone.

Point of no return.

HE KNEW IT WAS PROBABLY NOTHING, but Mitch couldn’t help but think of the way Jenn had kissed him. They hugged all the time, and she threw in a cheek kiss often enough. Just a friendly gesture. But this time, something had felt different. When he’d put his arms around her, he hadn’t been hugging her like a friend. And she hadn’t seemed to mind. Had, in fact, seemed to lean into it a little bit.

And that wasn’t all. Ever since that night at Ian’s, when he’d spoken up, took control, he’d felt strange in a good sort of way. Like something inside him was breaking loose. Standing up to Alex, the thing with Jenn, it was part of the same process. All of it tied to this thing they were doing, this crazy chance. Four normal people who had never won deciding to storm the casino. Could life really be that simple?

The phone in his pocket vibrated and he jumped like he’d been stung. He pulled it out and keyed the button to read the text.

time to go good luck boys

The philosophical mood vanished like smoke. Jesus Christ. They were really doing this. He stared at the screen, blinking.

“What?” Ian looked over with wide eyes. “What is it?”

Mitch could hear his pulse rage in his ears, feel his face begin to flush. This was going to go wrong. He knew it, felt it.

“Are we going?”

It had been a game until this second, but playtime was over. His lungs felt like they had a leak.

“Mitch?”

“Yes,” he said. “We’re going.”

Ian spun the car in a U-turn. A guy in a pickup heading the opposite way laid on his horn. Ian gave him the finger.

“Easy.”

“I’m easy.”

Mitch took a deep breath, then another. Get it together. She’s depending on you. They all are.

He opened the glove box, took out a pair of driving gloves. His fingers were sticky, and he had to fight to get them on. He set the mask in his lap, the black cotton staring up at him like a Hallow een ghoul. Outside the windows, twilight was giving way to purple dusk, about as dark as the city ever really got. A group of teenagers hung on a corner, chatting and laughing, and for a stabbing second he envied them.

Envying teenagers? Now you know you’re scared.

The thought made him smile inside, just for a second, but it helped.

They passed the restaurant. At the corner, they turned left, then left again into a narrow alley behind the building. Ian drove thirty yards to nose the car up to a rusting steel Dumpster, then killed the engine. The music died with it, leaving only the sounds of their breathing.

“Is this really happening?” Ian’s face was pale.

Mitch rubbed at his temples with gloved fingers. Huffed a breath in, one out. Then he straightened, passed a mask and gloves to Ian. “Here.”

“Are we-”

“It’s too late now.” Mitch looked over. “Just keep it together.” He opened the door and stepped out. The alley smelled faintly of rotten milk. The summer air was humid. He rapped on the trunk, waited as Ian fumbled for the release.

The brown paper bag holding the two remaining pistols looked harmless. Mundane. He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing. Latin music played faintly, tinny like it was coming through a cheap radio. He unrolled the top of the bag and took out one of the guns, a black automatic. He started to tuck it behind his belt, then froze. Pulled it back out, staring down at the unfamiliar metal in his hand.

And flipped the safety off.

As Mitch closed the trunk, through the rear window he saw Ian hold his hand to his nose. He wasn’t-goddamn it, he was. He yanked the driver’s-side door open. “Give me that.”

“What? No-”

Mitch snatched the amber vial from his friend’s hands. He wound up and threw it overhand down the length of the alley. It landed with a soft plink.

“What the fuck?”

“You’re a moron, you know that?”

“Jesus, relax.” Ian stared up at him, one eye still swollen half-shut. “I needed to be on my game.”

“You’re stoned out of your gourd already.”

“I’m not. I just had a moment of panic, that’s all.” He stepped out of the car. “Give me my gun.”

“Leave the keys.”

“What?”

“The keys. Leave them in the ignition. Remember?”

“Right.” Ian bent back to insert them, then closed his door. They stared at each other, the ticking of the engine mingling with the distant music and the muffled sound of laughter. Mitch felt like he had stepped behind the world, like the world was a stage set and he’d wandered into the wings.

Does that make it the beginning of something? Or the end?

“Listen to me,” he said, and got in close to Ian’s face. Anger gave him strength, and the strength felt good. He tapped into it again, the new-and-improved Mitch. “You get your shit together right now. We’re depending on you, Ian. All of us.”

The man stared back at him, something flickering in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”