“Jennifer, Ian, do me a favor?” The man smiled. “Say cheese.” He pointed his phone in their direction, and she heard a faint click. He’d taken a photo. A trophy, and another violation. They were toys for him, a way to amuse himself.

“If all you wanted was a picture, you could have asked,” she said. “I might have posed.”

He smiled. “That’s a generous offer. But this way is better, I think.”

“What do you want?”

“Little late to play innocent, don’t you think, sister?”

“Yeah, but what do you want? Why are you here?” It was part anger, part hope that he would tell her. “Did Victor change his mind? Because you can’t get into that safe-deposit box without me. Even if you have the key.”

“But we’re not trying to get into the bank, are we?” His eyes hardened. “Are we, Jennifer?”

“Oh God,” Ian said. “You’re here to kill us.”

Jenn looked over at him. He was wax and sweat, all pale and runny. How hard had he been hit?

“Alex has the stuff you want, and you know that. So once you get it from him, you’re going to kill us. Right?” Ian leaned forward. “Please. Tell me that much. I need to know.”

“Why?”

Ian’s arms were trembling. “Listen. I’m a trader. I make deals. Let’s make one.”

“Like what?” The man sounded genuinely amused.

“You know that we got the chemicals when we robbed Johnny Love.”

“So?”

“So we took money, too. That’s the reason we did it.” Ian’s eyes darted. “Promise to let me live, and you can have it.”

What the hell was Ian doing? He couldn’t possibly believe that a promise meant anything. Could it be some sort of play? Was he making a move, trying to distract him?

Then the words hit more clearly: Promise to let me live.

Was he selling her out? Was that what he had been saying, with his reference to the game? Explaining in advance what he was going to do, assuaging his conscience for betraying her?

Jenn stared at him: expensive suit spotted with vomit, skin pale and shiny, arms shaking. He didn’t look much like the cocky player she knew, the one who hid behind a mask of wit and sarcasm. The man she considered a friend.

She thought back to brunch, Ian talking about the game, its results. How if both people betrayed, they both got medium prison time; if neither did, they both got just a little. And the worst result of all, if one was faithful and the other betrayed. One walked free and the other suffered for a decade.

Is that what he was setting her up for? If so, then according to the rules of the game, the best thing she could do was betray him right back.

Only, what would that mean? How could she betray him?

More important, did she want to?

She’d no sooner thought of the question than she had the answer. It was like the dream she’d had earlier, the one where she was pregnant. When she’d woken, she’d been genuinely sad that it was just a dream. Not because she wanted a kid. Because she wanted things to matter. She wanted to live as though they did.

So screw the rules of the game. Whoever this guy was, he likely intended to kill them. Maybe they could get out, find a way to help Mitch. Maybe not. But either way, she’d rather go out being faithful.

Ian said, “I mean it. There’s a lot of money at stake. More than two hundred thousand dollars. You let me live, you can have it.”

“I know all about the money, Ian. You think you stole it from Johnny Love, but really, you stole it from me.”

“Well, this is your chance to get it back.” Ian paused, let the words sink in. “Look, I understand you don’t trust me.”

“Not too much, no.”

“Let me prove I’m serious.”

“What do you have in mind?”

Ian took a deep breath, then glanced at her. “If you look in Jenn’s right hand, you’ll find a pair of scissors. She picked them up when you weren’t watching.”

CHAPTER 33

VICTOR WORE THE SAME OUTFIT he’d had on earlier, a charcoal suit and a white shirt, the top button open. His hair was neat and his smile broad. Leaning by the entrance of the bar, he looked like a man who had already won.

And there was a reason for that, Mitch realized, looking at the four bottles on the bar top. Looking at himself, a busted rib and cut hand and screaming headache; at Alex, blood drying on the side of his face from the broken glass, the wound on his eye bound in butterfly bandages. Both of them unarmed and worn down and out of their depth. And, Mitch realized, not done with the discussion they’d been having. He wasn’t sure which way Alex would have gone. Which meant that, again, each stood alone.

Johnny Love was behind Victor. He had on a mauve silk shirt. The pistol in his hand was bright chrome.

Game over.

“Where are you off to, Mitch?” Victor slid his hands in his pockets.

“Just… away from here.”

“Away from me, you mean.” The man shook his head. “That’s not playing by the rules.”

“You’re selling chemical weapons, and you’re talking about rules?”

Victor’s eyes hardened. “I see you’ve been busy.”

“Let me ask you.” He knew he should be frightened, and was, but there was more than that. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe it was just exhaustion, and the fact that he couldn’t think of any other way to behave. “How do you live with yourself?”

“How do I live with myself? You mean, as a nasty evil arms dealer?”

“Yeah.”

Victor smiled, then strolled across the room. For a second, Mitch considered tackling him, taking a shot, but Johnny had the pistol up and aimed. He’d be dead before he started moving. Think, goddamn it. You have to find a way. Victor walked behind the bar like he owned the place. Took a highball glass, set it on the back bar, then eyed the scotch. Chose a dusty bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. “Is this the part,” he said, his back to them, “where I’m supposed to tell you that I’m just a businessman, that people will find ways to kill each other whether or not I’m involved?”

“Is that true?”

Victor shrugged, then turned. “Sure. But you know what else?”

“What?”

“I don’t really care.” He sipped his scotch. “All that moral relativism crap, it’s for people who feel bad about what they do. It’s for little people.” He pointed with the glass. “Like you two.”

“We may be little people. But at least we don’t sell chemical weapons. Who are they going to? Al-Qaeda? The Taliban?”

“The Michigan Militia? The KKK? MS-13? The next Timothy McVeigh or Ted Kaczynski?” Victor smiled, shrugged. “You know who they’re going to? You really want to know?” He leaned forward. “Whoever pays me.”

Though Mitch could hardly have expected different, the words still floored him. The simple ease of the man, his comfort playing such a monstrous role, it was unlike anything Mitch had imagined. If the man had been a true believer out for a cause, that would at least have made sense. But this?

And that wasn’t the really terrible part, he realized. The terrible part was that it was his fault. Their fault. Whatever happened, whoever this plain-looking poison went to, whichever poor crowd of innocents suffered and died, the weight of it was on them.

How many people had they murdered?

FOR A MOMENT, nothing happened. The room was silent. Then Ian felt the couch shift as Jenn threw herself at him.

He yanked his hands out from under his thighs, barely got them up in time to catch her wrists. The wicked curve of the manicure scissors gleamed inches from his cheek.

“You fucker, you motherfucker-” Jenn screamed at him. “What’s wrong with you?!”

He struggled backward, surprised at how strong she was, or how weak he was. It must have looked comic, him in a business suit, bent halfway backward over the arm of the couch while a hundred-and-fifteen-pound woman came at him with nail scissors. The man with the gun laughed. “Sister, you really are something.”