“Ever watch the show Cops? Let’s clear an opening on the floor and set them up right here.” Nathan kept his gun up while Harv went to work. After a minute or so, he’d kicked enough crap out of the way to place two chairs about three feet apart. Harv hauled the two men into sitting positions and wrapped several layers of duct tape around their chests and the backs of the chairs to keep them from slumping over. The guy on Nathan’s left was thin and lanky and might weigh one-fifty with his clothes on. Blood was seeping through a gauze bandage taped on the triceps portion of his arm. That bandage looked uncharacteristically clean, Nathan thought. It didn’t track with this environment. Beneath the guy’s shaved head was a narrow, pointed face with a mustache shaped like a horizontal butter knife. His brother was compact and fit. He had a square face with strong cheekbones and short dishwater-blond hair that looked like he’d combed it straight up with bacon lard. This guy weighed two hundred, and looked somewhat formidable.

“Knife and Fork,” Nathan said, nodding toward them.

Harv stepped back, stared for a few seconds, and smiled.

The Bridgestone cousins were dressed in dirty blue jeans, white tank tops, and scuffed work boots. Their hands, arms, and faces were smudged with motor oil and grease. The bigger guy had a tattoo on his arm that looked like it had been etched with copper wire and a blowtorch. It was impossible to tell who was older—they both looked twenty years past their actual age.

“Let’s bring them around,” Nathan said. He reached down, grabbed an empty beer can, and crumpled it in his palms. As if shooting a free throw in basketball, he tossed it at Fork. It bounced off Fork’s forehead with a metallic clink sound. A few drops of stale beer splattered the man’s nose and cheeks. His eyes fluttered open, then grew wide with terror.

“Nothin’ but net,” Harv said and gave Knife a firm shake. Knife’s eyes registered fear, then changed to rage. He whipped his head back and forth, trying to dislodge the tape covering his mouth.

Nathan dragged a chair over and sat down. Without taking his eyes off Knife, he pulled a thin pair of black gloves from his front pocket and slowly pulled them on. Harv did the same.

“Here’s the deal,” Nathan began. “We aren’t going to play good cop, bad cop with you two miscreants. For one, we aren’t cops and the other, we’re both bad. We don’t work for the FBI, CIA, NRA, PTA or the ASPCA. We’re…” He looked up at Harv. “What are we?”

“Independent contractors.”