The back room was just as they’d left it, too bright and packed with crap. Mitch closed the door to the office, then stopped to fiddle with the key ring. He tried a handful until one turned.

“That’s cold, man.”

“Just being thorough,” Mitch said. “Nice work.”

“You too.” They stood in masks, grinning at each other like kids.

“All right. Let’s get out of here.” Ian pushed open the back door and stepped out.

Into the glare of headlights. What the-

“Fuck!” A man’s voice.

Everything slowed into crystalline cocaine clarity. Ian saw Mitch freeze behind him, one hand still on the door, the bag over his shoulder. The orange rental car parked twenty feet away. Beside it, two figures, one of them Jenn, her hands going to her mouth. The other a guy, in silhouette. He was moving, keys falling from his hand as it swept behind his back, holy shit, coming back with a gun. Ian stared, his mouth open, as the man slid into a target shooter’s pose, feet apart.

Then the thought hit. You have a gun too.

He started to raise his pistol.

“Don’t.” The man’s voice was high, unsteady. “You,” he said over his shoulder. “Lady. Don’t move.”

You can do this. This guy has three targets. He’s nervous. He’s not ready. You are.

“You two! Drop your guns!” The man in the leather jacket swung jerkily from person to person.

All you have to do is wait for him to turn again.

“Oh God,” Jenn said.

It was coming down fast, but he was faster, he could feel it. Just like playing cards, there came a moment when someone’s bluff looked so good that you wanted to fold. The mark of a real player was the strength to see past that fear.

The man said to Jenn, “Move over by them.”

His attention on her.

Mitch yelled, “Ian, don’t-”

He let his body take over, lowering to a crouch as he brought his pistol up. The man swung back to him. Ian stared down the barrel, finger moving for the trigger.

JESUS BUT HIS HEAD HURT.

Alex’s temples pounded and throbbed. His vision was blurry, one eye closed, sweat and blood on his face. Through his good eye he saw Mitch’s and Ian’s feet walk past, saw the door close. There was the sound of keys.

Why had Ian hit him that hard? All they needed was to show Johnny that he was clean, not lose an eye in the process.

Relax. You’re in pain, not thinking straight. The worst that happened is maybe he cracked a bone in your cheek. You’re probably fine. He forced his breathing to slow.

Near him, Johnny wriggled, trying to worm his way to a sitting position. Alex thought he ought to do the same, but even the idea of moving was enough to send fresh agony sheeting through him.

It’s over. At least it’s over. Other than the hit to your head, everything went fine. The pain will fade. What you did here will change your life. Cassie won’t move. You’ll have enough money to figure out what you want to do. Quit bartending, maybe go back to school.

It’s over.

Then, muffled by the walls, he heard yelling, and a gunshot.

Part II. The Rules Change

CHAPTER 12

SOMEONE WAS KICKING THE DOOR. Alex watched through a haze as it bowed and buckled. They’re doing it wrong. You don’t kick the middle. You kick the side. Hadn’t they ever watched a cop show?

Shock. This must be clinical shock. That’s why the pain felt farther away, why he hadn’t panicked at the yelling, at the-

Gunshot.

Jesus!

There had been a gunshot. How long ago? Time seemed strange and elastic. Maybe thirty seconds? He strained to hear, listening for voices. As if on cue, another shot rang out.

What was happening? Who was shooting?

Oh God. Who had been shot?

The thought made him blink and focus, which brought the pain throbbing back. He had to get out of here. See if his friends needed help.

Johnny had made it to his knees. He was trying to shout something, his voice coming out vowels behind the tape. The person on the other side of the door kicked again, and a boot broke through the hollow-core door in a shower of splinters. Someone swore, and then the foot was pulled back and a hand replaced it, fumbling for the knob. A moment later the door swung open, and a figure, someone he knew, who? The other bartender. Chip. His name was Chip. Why had it been hard to get the guy’s name? They’d worked together for years.

“Oh my God,” Chip said. He stood wild eyed, frozen. Johnny made incomprehensible sounds, held up his arms. Chip got it, hurried to him, started pulling the duct tape. “Are you OK?”

Johnny coughed as his mouth was freed, gulped a breath. His face was slapped-red where the skin had been peeled. “What does it look like, you asshole? Do my hands.”

Chip started to unwrap them, then Johnny said, “Scissors. In the drawer.” A moment later he was free. He took the hand Chip offered, stood up. “Call the police.”

“What about him?”

“I’ll take care of him. Go!”

Chip turned and sprinted out.

Johnny groaned, stretched. He knelt beside Alex, pulled the tape from his mouth. “You all right, kid?”

No, I’m fucking not, there was someone shooting out where my friends are. But he couldn’t say that, couldn’t give any hint of concern. “My eye.”

“It’ll be OK. We’ll get it checked out. Hold still.” Johnny leaned over, put the scissors against the bonds holding Alex’s wrists. He started to cut, then stopped. Rocked back on his heels.

“What?”

Johnny held the scissors up, stared at them. “We need to talk.”

The shock wasn’t thick enough to block the sudden fear. Had he slipped up? “What? Cut me free.”

“In a minute.” His boss glanced sideways, then reached over to push the door closed. “We don’t have a lot of time, so listen up.”

Alex moaned, and Johnny leaned forward and tapped his cheek. It felt like a blow from the wrong end of a claw hammer. “Jesus!”

“I said listen. You’ll be OK. It doesn’t look that bad. But in a minute there are going to be a bunch of cops here, and I’m gonna need you to stand up.”

“Stand up?”

“Kid, you’re loyal, but you ain’t too bright. We’re going to get you taken care of. I’ll cover the medical bill. But you need to do something. The cops are going to ask a lot of questions. I don’t know what happened out there, but right this second, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we tell the same story.”

“Johnny, my head really hurts.” He tried to speak calmly, but his body was slicked with sweat, and his voice came out hoarse. He had to get free, had to find out what was going on. Were his friends OK? Had one of them…

“Here’s what you tell the cops-exactly what happened, that two guys came in with guns and robbed us. But don’t mention the meeting or the duffel bag. Other than that, tell them anything they want to know. They ask if you wear pantyhose, you tell the truth. But not about those two things. You got it?”

Alex took a deep breath. The world was wobbling and pulsing. “You want me to lie to the cops.”

“You do this, I’ll get you taken care of, cover the bills, and pay you for the trouble. A lot more than a couple hundred.”

He could hear sirens now, rising and falling. “I-”

“You tell them anything else, then I’ll be forced to say you were in on it. That daughter of yours? Next time you see her, you’ll be wearing a jumpsuit. Get me?”

Everything seemed to be moving at a weird speed, jerky fast, awkward slow, like a projector eating a filmstrip. Someone had been shot outside, maybe more than one person. One of his friends could be hurt, dying. Johnny leaned in, the scissors in his hand, inches from Alex’s good eye. He could see light play off the edge of them.