“Because you’re a coward, Ken, and you’re afraid of Hunter. You were the only person who knew I was going to Colombia. You hoped that by sending him after me we’d end up killing each other. You didn’t expect either of us to come back.” Wetherby tried to sit up, his hands coming up imploringly. Rickard placed the toe of his boot to the man’s chest and pressed him down again. “You must have hated Joe Hunter a great deal to decide you’d set me up as well. Did you not consider what that would mean if I survived?”

“I did hate him, Rickard. He threatened to close my business down, I couldn’t let that happen. So, yeah, I jumped at the chance to have him murdered. When Gutierrez contacted me looking for someone to do the job, you were the first name that came to my mind. I knew you were better than him. I knew that you could take him wherever you met.”

“I thought you said you had nothing to do with sending him after me?”

“Jesus, Rickard, you’re putting words in my mouth.”

“No, Ken, I’m putting this in your mouth.” He jammed the end of the suppressor against Wetherby’s teeth. “Say aah!”

Wetherby cried now. Rickard thought it strange that someone could screw their eyes so tight and still produce tears. His lips were equally puckered.

Rickard pulled the gun away.

“Open your eyes, Ken.”

Wetherby couldn’t. The prospect of a horrible death had such a powerful hold on him that his brain function temporarily rebelled. He just lay there mewling like a broken-backed cat.

“Open your freakin’ eyes. Look at me like a man, not crying like a little girl.”

Rickard kicked Wetherby in the backside, toe digging painfully into the bullet wound. The pain did the trick and Wetherby’s eyelids shot open. His pupils remained unfocused for a few seconds afterward, but he finally looked up at Rickard.

“Jesus . . . God . . .”

“Shut up, Ken. You’re embarrassing yourself. You’re beginning to sound like my goddamn wife.”

“Don’t hurt me . . . please!”

“Well,” Rickard said, “I’ve nothing else I can come up with. I was going to let you take the Fireblade back, but I can’t have you bleeding over such a beautiful piece of machinery.”

Rickard smiled, making the ill-concealed lie even more obvious.

“Please . . .”

“Can’t allow it. You betrayed me. Good-bye, Ken.”

He shot Wetherby in the chest.

The life went out of Wetherby like a tire with a slow puncture, his arms flopping in slow motion by his sides, mouth drooping open.

Rickard ejected the magazine from his gun, checked how many rounds he’d used. Still plenty left, so he pushed it back in place. While unscrewing the suppressor, he looked down at Wetherby dispassionately.