The office Nora had mentioned was a kind of island: a shed on the west end of the property that looked like the kind of thing that’d get blown up in a TV comedy skit. With a stand of tall conifers to the right, under which loitered suspect-looking cars that no amount of fresh paint could stop from looking decrepit. Spilling out to the east, the rest of the cars seemed disjointed, unconnected. More like the failed exodus in an apocalyptic movie. A large wooden sign at the entrance proclaimed “Ed’s Bargain Deals & Extravagant Savings.” The paint had faded so much, I hardly noticed it.

I’d spent too much time figuring out where the threat might come from to feel comfortable with this setup.

I parked at the Dollar Store that abutted the dealership. This particular one wasn’t owned by Vilcapampa Corp, and the security camera faced toward the front door. I walked to the corner of the building, the stuccoed concrete a dull egg yellow. Stood there for a moment, checking the place out with my small scope. Any walk up to the shed would provide a clear line of sight for anyone watching for me.

After a second, three men emerged from the shed-shack-office. One was Nora’s husband. The other two registered as employees. One of them must be his trainee. The other one might be Ed. Nora hadn’t told me Ed owned the dealership, but no matter: it was a three-in-one deal.

I took a deep breath, like I was about to jump off a balcony. Walked around the corner, heavy on the cane, started across the gravel parking lot, husband straight ahead, stand of trees to the right, reassuring Dollar Store wall still to my left. I remember thinking it’d be some small challenge to meet all three and then tail the husband without them remembering me buying a car off them. I liked that.

I remember being puzzled in that split second. That infinitesimal moment when the gravel was kicking up dust, like something was underneath it. The gravel jumping. Staring at it like it was inexplicable, or even supernatural.

Until I realized. A silencer.

Bullets.

It was bullets.

A figure had risen from among the cars and conifers. Indistinct, like a phantom. Hillman? I dropped like a sack of potatoes, cane clattering to the side, pulled out my sidearm, returned fire. Saw the figure hesitate, hunch down.

That small motion. That tell. But it was enough. The triad by the office had seen the shooter, but not me. As I watched in surprise, all three drew concealed handguns and started firing back. My jaw dropped. I forgot for a second to seek cover. Like this was something that happened too often. Another fucking day at the office. Another normal afternoon of firing into the tree line. The rattle-ricochet of bullets off car metal. The splat-split of windshields cracking.