Billy turned from the window, looked at her, then at the door, the catwalk. More shouting came from inside. He took the Glock, pushed it into the belt at the small of his back. The Python went into the front, butt angled to the right. He gripped the rifle.

“Billy, don’t go out there. Don’t do it.”

Then he was through the door and gone.

When Morgan got to the man on the ground, he was facedown, motionless. Morgan kicked the AK away, went past him to the door, pulled on the handle. It rattled but didn’t open.

Shots from inside, the chatter of an AK and then another gun, spaced shots. Flashes in the windows above him. He went to the loading dock, pulled himself up onto it. There was another door here, set in the wall beside the roll-up gate. He tried it. Locked. He aimed the Beretta at the keyhole, fired three times, metal fragments and wood splinters flying back at him, then kicked at the door, felt it give.

Alone in the room, Sara swiveled to look at the pipe. She pulled on the cuff again, saw her wrist was bleeding, but there was more give, the elbow sleeve looser than before.

From down below, the sound of Billy’s rifle, then other shots, bullets whining off the catwalk. One flew into the room, winged off the ceiling above her. Dust drifted down.

She slid the cuff up onto the horizontal pipe, braced her hips and back against the concrete floor for leverage, raised her right foot. Outside, the popping of the Bushmaster echoed away, fell silent. Then other, scattered shots. Pistol fire.

She kicked, the heel of her sneaker thudding into the underside of the horizontal pipe. Once, twice. Pain in her heel, her ankle, but the slight squeal of metal giving way. She kicked out again, felt the pipe loosen, the sleeve almost free.

When Morgan came through the door, it was all over. Flynn stood in the center of the big room, lit by the glow of a camping lamp atop a crate. An automatic rifle lay at his feet, casings scattered on the floor. In his right hand, he held the big revolver Morgan had seen before, a Colt Python. His left was pressed against his stomach, and Morgan could see blood there. The room reeked of gunpowder.

Morgan stayed in the shadows, unseen. There were two bodies on the floor, about ten feet apart. One was facedown, an AK just out of reach. The leader. The other was slumped in a sitting position against a wall, ski mask shredded, half his head shot away, a handgun in his lap. Moths flitted around the lamp.

The leader shuddered, coughed. Flynn walked stiffly toward him.

There were three short steps from the loading dock to the main floor. Morgan went down them without a sound.

The man on the floor moaned. Flynn stood over him.

“What was that?” Flynn asked, his words slurry. “I can’t hear you.”

Another moan. Flynn bent, caught a fistful of the man’s shirt, dragged him over onto his back. The man cried out in pain. Flynn pulled the ski mask away.

“Still can’t hear you,” he said and pointed the Colt at the man’s face, the muzzle inches from his right eye. The man looked up at him.

“Kolan guete…” he said. “Maman ou… Bouzin.” He spit.

“Didn’t work out the way you planned, did it?” Flynn said and pulled the trigger.

When she heard the gunshot, Sara drove her heel up again into the pipe and it bent abruptly, the metal sleeve popping off, clattering on the floor. The two pipes sagged, ends falling away from each other. She ran the cuff along the top pipe and then it was off and she was free. She rolled to her feet.

Morgan stepped out of the shadows, pointed the Beretta at Flynn’s back.

“Don’t turn around,” he said. “Just drop the gun.”

Flynn didn’t move.

“Drop it or you’re dead right here, right now.”

Flynn tried to straighten, the gun hung at his side.

“You can still walk away from this,” Morgan said. “You just need to tell me where that money’s at. But first you need to drop that gun.”

Flynn gave a flat laugh that turned into a wet cough. He spit blood on the floor. Then he started to turn.

Sara looked around. No weapons in the room. She could hear talking below, then Billy’s laugh, a cough. She looked at the half-open gearbag, caught it by its straps, felt its weight. Then she was out on the catwalk, looking over the railing at the two of them below, lit by the single lamp, the black man called Morgan, gun up and steady. Billy, bloody and bent, turning to face him.

Morgan’s finger was tightening on the trigger when he heard the shout. He looked up and there was the woman deputy, at the catwalk railing, lifting something over her head, throwing it at him. He raised the Beretta.

She swung the bag, aiming it as best she could, the weight tearing it from her fingers. It turned over twice in its flight and Morgan stepped back, away from it, gun up, and Sara heard the shot, saw the bag jink in midair as the bullet hit it, and then it was falling the rest of the way, and she knew her only chance was gone.

Morgan stepped away and the bag thudded onto the floor with an upkick of dust, packets of money flying out. Flynn stumbled back, a hand raised against the dust. Then he saw the money, realized what it was. He brought the Python up and the woman screamed no no no no no and then the Python’s hammer fell with a dry click on a spent shell.

Morgan shot him three times.

THIRTY

The shots sounded almost as one. Sara saw Billy spin away, the Colt fly from his hand. He twisted, fell hard, and then she was running down the stairs, and when she reached the bottom, Morgan was pointing his gun at her.

“Just stay right there,” he said. “No need to come any closer.”

She didn’t move. After a moment, he lowered the gun, crouched, turned the bag right side up, gathered the bricks of money from the floor, put them back in, watching her. When he had them all, he tugged at the zipper, got it halfway closed. Then he lifted the bag by a carry strap, looked at her, slung it over his left shoulder. He shook his head.

“Foolish,” he said. Then he turned his back on her and walked away.

• • •

Morgan went back the way he’d come. Up the steps to the loading dock, through the ruined door. The bag was heavier than he expected, the strap cutting into his shoulder. It felt good.

He scrambled down from the loading dock. The man in the dirt hadn’t moved. Morgan headed for the trees.

Billy was still breathing. She ripped his shirt open, the flannel already soaked through with blood. Four entry wounds, three in the chest, one in the stomach.

He coughed once, looked up at her. Don’t die, you son of a bitch. Don’t die on me. Not like this.

“Your cell, Billy. Where is it?”

His eyes seemed to drift in and out of focus. He raised his right hand toward her.

“Where’s your phone?”

She patted his jeans, felt the bulk in his right pocket. She reached in, got the phone out. A handcuff key tumbled after it.

She opened the phone, fingers slick with blood, turned it on. She waited for it to glow into life, then punched in 911. As the call went through, he touched her face gently. She could feel the warmth of his blood.

Halfway through the woods, he ejected the clip from the Beretta, replaced it with a full one. The moon was high and bright, made it easier to find his way.

He began to feel flush, hot. He stopped for a moment, let the dizziness pass, felt the first glow of pain in his right side. He caught a tree limb, held on to it for balance. The strap slid from shoulder to elbow.