Naomi stood stock-still, her eyes squeezed shut. Ralf didn’t dare pull the trigger. The risk of hitting Naomi was too great. He had never fired a real pistol before, and besides, he was shaking uncontrollably.

But he knew one thing for certain: whatever happened, he wasn’t going to hand his gun over to Mikey. No fucking way. The moment he did that, he would lose all control of the situation. Then they would both be at Mikey’s mercy.

“I don’t have all day, buddy.” Mikey tightened his grip on Naomi’s hair. She was panting through clenched jaws, her eyes squeezed shut.

Ralf locked eyes with Mikey, concentrating as hard as he could. He could see or hear nothing else.

“I won’t ask you again.”

Was he imagining it, or did Mikey’s voice sound more uncertain? His demeanor seemed to be shifting too; he was moving away from Ralf, very slowly, as if he wanted to back out of the situation altogether. Ralf’s hand gradually ceased its trembling.

“You’re asking for it,” growled Mikey. The razor-sharp tip of the knife pressed against the soft, thin skin of Naomi’s throat. Pushed down harder. Her eyes shot open.

“Don’t!” exclaimed Ralf. “I swear it, I’ll—” He stretched out his arm, stared tensely down the barrel of the gun. His finger on the trigger.

Mikey pulled Naomi closer and shrank, hiding behind her body. Then he swore and took the knife from her throat, pointing it toward Ralf and pouring a torrent of abuse at him. At that exact moment, Naomi sprang into action, bringing her heel down forcefully on Mikey’s foot and swinging her arm downward. Her fist landed squarely on Mikey’s crotch. He emitted a muffled squeal and struggled to stay upright as Naomi fought her way free.

Ralf leapt forward, grabbed Mikey’s wrist, and lashed out with the pistol. The heavy metal collided with Mikey’s temple. He struck him again, and again, as hard as he could, holding Mikey’s wrist in an iron grip. The knife fell to the carpet with a faint jingling sound as Mikey tottered over, pulling Ralf with him.

Ralf heard a loud bang, followed by the sound of breaking glass. A dull pain ran up the side of his body. The panels of the coffee table had been forced apart under their combined weight, and the black glass tabletop had shattered into countless shards. Amid the fragments of glass and particleboard lay flat white packages, wrapped in transparent plastic.

Mikey saw them first and emitted a shriek.

Ralf instantly understood. “There’s your fucking three thousand euros,” he panted. He crawled away through the shards of glass toward his gun, which had been knocked from his hand and was lying by the wall, underneath the radiator.