“You should mind your own business.”

Cody grimaced with disgust and took the bill Willy was proffering, giving him a baggie of pills to be rid of him.

Willy returned to his corner and his bottle of disguised water.

That was all he needed. He gave himself another ten minutes, made a show of emptying his bottle, and left the building.

He stood in the shadows, motionless, for forty-five minutes more. An interminable stretch for most people, an easy one for him. He’d stayed put for a couple of days in his prime, peeing where he lay, alternating between catnaps and a form of meditative wakefulness, all for the sake of a single rifle round into the right target.

Waiting for Cody Wright paled by comparison.

Cody never heard Willy slip in behind him as he finally drunkenly ambled toward his parked truck. Until, that is, the words, “Move and you die, Mr. Wright,” enveloped him from behind.

Naturally, he did move, as Willy knew he would. People never did as they were told. Cody spun around at the words, allowing Willy to lightly tap the side of his head with his gun.

“What did I just say?” he asked, the gun now almost shoved up Cody’s nose.

“What the fuck?”

“Go to your truck, legs spread, hands on the roof. Lean far enough in that you’d fall on your face otherwise.”

Cody did as he was told, although Willy kicked his feet back to make him more dependent on the truck to stay upright.

“Who the fuck’re you?”

“Cop.”

Cody tried to turn to stare at him, but by now, he was too off balance to make it work. “The hell you are. You’re a fucking cripple.”

Willy tapped him again. “Respect.”

“Ow. Damn.”

Willy briefly tucked his gun under his armpit, quickly displayed his badge—not that Wright could read it—and then switched to slapping a pair of handcuffs around the man’s wrists. It was an unlikely maneuver he’d practiced enough times to make it seamless.

He finished by spinning Wright around, hands now secured behind his back, and pushed him against the truck. The street around them was empty, dark, and quiet.

Willy eased his pistol back into its holster and quietly recited Cody his Miranda rights.

“You’re no cop. I don’t care if you do have a badge.”

“Do you understand your rights as I’ve explained them?”

“No fuckin’ way. That arm is real, man. They don’t hire people like you.”

Willy slapped him, not too hard, but enough.

“Ow. What the hell, man?”

“Do you understand your rights?”

“Yeah, I do. Shit. Stop hitting me. I’m not stupid.”

“You’re standing here in cuffs, Cody. That doesn’t make you smart.”

“This is entrapment.”

“That makes you even dumber.”

Cody was confused by that, visibly trying to figure it out, furrowing his brow. Willy smiled at the effort.

“What do you want?” the hapless dealer finally asked.

This time, Willy patted his cheek gently, making Cody flinch. “That’s better. We may be getting somewhere.”