The only problem with the dummy is the wig. Everything else is perfect. He’s my size; he bends easily into a sitting position; his skin tone matches mine precisely. He doesn’t teeter or show signs of wanting to fall out of the chair. Even just idling there in the shadows he seems to have a brooding kinetic readiness. Yes, he’s a little stiff but that only enhances the authenticity. His unblinking, motionless, Beefeatery rectitude is pure Otto Starks. And when we put a Janus cap on backwards, the brim sloping down his neck, the wig is good enough.

Again I run over my checklist. I’ve got a new button with GPS.62 My hiding place behind the crates of lesser MacGuffins is undetectable from most angles but has a clear sightline to the Nakamura sword and the dummy. In order to entice the Rat Burglar into the room I have eschewed many of the normal safeguards—no movie butter on the floor this time—and have placed my body double in a position where it is easy to attack him from behind. To the bottom of my shoes I’ve taped thick sponges. It looks stupid but if I’m going to sneak up on the Rat Burglar sneaking up on me, I need to be silent.

“You ready for this?” Herk says.

“Sure.”

“Gun fully loaded?”

“Yep.”

“Safety off?”

“Yep.”

“Remember the grip? Remember the stance?”

“Jesus. Yes.”

“How’s the finger?”

I wiggle it to demonstrate its full functionality.

“Balls?”

“Huge.” When Herk doesn’t look convinced, I say, “Honest. I’m ready. I’m going to, um, take his ass down.” When I say this last sentence it comes out ridiculous—it’s obviously a stretcher—and I sound like a bad actor uttering a bad line in a made-for-TV mafia movie. It does not inspire confidence.

“All right. Don’t take any chances. No head shots. Aim right for the middle of his back. That thing is loaded with Speer Gold Dot jacketed hollow-points,” he says. “One-shot stoppers. It’s like setting off a grenade inside the soft tissues of the body. It doesn’t matter what you hit, it’s going to destroy everything in the neighborhood.”

“The back?” I say. “Shoot him in the back?”

“Don’t get squeamish on me, Otto.”

“You never said—”

“This guy isn’t an amateur. Do you remember what he did to those French cops?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Do you think you are more qualified than they are to subdue him?”

“No, but—”

“Do you think he is going to let you take him in like a little fucking piggy going to fucking market?”

“Maybe if I could just—”