I had a decision to make. If I had gone unnoticed I might be able to get the drop on whoever it was in the little storage unit. But if they had seen me they could execute an ambush. If I tried to backtrack they might follow and bushwhack me from behind.

There were other options. I could circle around back, set the building on fire, and wait for the driver to rush out. But the stolen money could very well be in the unit. I didn’t think that Mr. Jericho or Eddie Brock would appreciate me turning their wealth to ashes.

I could wait for hours and hours as I often did in war.

Or I could carefully approach the little hut, armed and ready.

My patience had worn thin, so I decided on the straightforward option.

It was a small building, a tarpaper-and-pine toolshed, surrounded on three sides by shrubbery. The path to the front door was laid in brick. Upon that brick was the body of Kirkland Larker. He’d been shot a few times in the chest. There wasn’t much blood, so he’d probably died immediately.

His skin was still warm to the touch.

There was an expression of innocent surprise on the veteran’s face. He looked like many dead boys I’d seen on the long road to Berlin.

Next to Kirkland’s corpse was a metal footlocker. It didn’t take much imagination to see that Lola had known where the storage shed was located. She’d called him or his accomplice, telling them to go there and collect the blood money.

Whoever she called got there, but the money was well hidden just in case someone from the orchard needed a pair of pruning shears. Unlucky Kirkland and his armed confederate had been searching for a while. They knew I was coming. One of them knew I was there.

A sound, from off to the left, somewhere in the shrubbery.

Ever since Craig Kilian had come so silently into my office I had been remembering the war and the things I had to be able to do. The sound might have been nothing, but I pivoted, went down on one knee and aimed. The shot was no more than a pop. Before I registered the bullet thudding into the door behind, I fired twice.

She screamed once and the shooting stopped.

The woman I first knew as Donata Delphine was leaned up against a broad bush that held her like a thick, springy pillow. She was bleeding from the chest and in pain.

I took off my T-shirt, balled it up, and pressed it against the wound. The .32 pistol was in her hand but she didn’t have the strength to lift it. I took it from her anyway.

“Help,” she pleaded.

“Don’t talk,” I said.

“We can still make a deal.”

“After we stop the bleeding.”