The men swapped looks with one another. Sweeney, the youngest, shifted uneasily. Harwood was first to speak. “Well, all right, Mr.…”

“Joy.”

“Mr. Joy.” Harwood nodded. “Welcome. We’re glad you came; this whole situation has us in a bit of a bind.”

“Luckily for you, I am experienced in situations just like this one,” Joy replied. “First, of course, there is the matter of the fee.”

The men swapped worried looks. Harwood cleared his throat. “We’re actually a little short on funds at the moment, Mr. Joy,” he said. “I’m sure you understand, we’d be happy to pay as soon as—”

“Let me set your mind at ease, Deputy,” Joy interrupted. “It isn’t money Mr. Okafor requires, to purchase my service.”

Bryce Whitmer snorted. “So what the fuck are we supposed to pay you with?”

“Life, Mr. Whitmer.”

The room went silent. Harwood cocked his head. Sweeney shrank back and looked miserable, like he knew whatever the punch line, it wasn’t going to be good.

“Mr. Okafor requires that one of you dies,” Joy explained. “Who, it doesn’t matter, but it must be one of you, and it must be now. That is the price of my assistance.”

“And if we refuse?” Dale Whitmer said.

“If you refuse, I’ll explain to Mr. Okafor that you’ve refused his offer of assistance. And unless you have the money you owe, or the product, that will be bad news for all of you.”

“What if we don’t let you walk out of here?” Bryce Whitmer said. “You think we’re just going to let you come into my fucking house and—”

The pistol was out before anyone could react, and then there was a hole in Bryce Whitmer’s head, and blood and brain matter spattered on the wall behind him. The elder Whitmer fell to the ground as the gunshot resonated. The deputies stared for a beat, shocked stupid. Then Dale Whitmer reached for his gun.

“I wouldn’t,” Joy told him.

“You fuck—you fucking killed my brother. Why did you—what the fuck?”

“I made my position clear,” Joy said, calm as death. “There was nothing to be gained from prolonging the negotiation. Now you’ve purchased my assistance. Shall we discuss how we’re going to solve your problem?”

For a moment nobody spoke, and the only sound was that of Dale Whitmer’s breathing, hard and furious.

Then Harwood reached out, put his hand on Whitmer’s pistol. “Stand down, Dale.”

Whitmer didn’t respond.

“It’s done,” Harwood said. “We can’t do anything for him now, you hear? Stand down.”

Whitmer hadn’t taken his eyes off of Joy. “I’ll remember this,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’d better believe, I’ll remember.”

Joy gave him that smile again. “Whatever gives you comfort, Mr. Whitmer,” he said. “Now, shall we talk?”