“Let’s think about this, Bala,” Cargill says. “You know how much she’s worth to a man like Gavin Lester? Or screw that, she knows things. About Lester’s business. We could make a killing.”

“Oh, Brad,” I say, “I didn’t know you cared.”

“Ah, fuck you, you curly-headed cunt.”

“Enough,” Bala says, already bored. He holds out a silver-plated revolver, butt first, to Cargill. “Kill her.”

Cargill recoils. “I’m not shooting anybody.”

The howler monkeys are definitely scared. And also pissed. “You’ll want my help finding Tane,” I say to Bala.

“If you knew where he was,” Bala says, “you wouldn’t have asked this cabrón. Or me.”

He’s got a point, plus I’m just stalling. Soul Patch is a little too close to me, which could be good. But who has my shotgun, and is it pointing at me? There are too many men, any one of whom could put a large hole through me if I so much as sneeze.

Bala gestures at Cargill with the revolver. “Take this and shoot her.”

“Why do you want me to—”

“Because you led her here,” Bala says. “Because you couldn’t handle her, and now I’m going to make you handle her. Take this and shoot her.”

Cargill looks at Bala, looks at the revolver. He doesn’t look at me. Slowly he reaches out and takes the revolver from Bala’s hand. I can feel the men behind me moving off to the side, getting out of the line of fire.

“Brad,” I say, “think about it.” Cargill keeps looking at the revolver, not moving. “Think about my uncle,” I say, my voice steady. “Gus Cimino is at the bar right now. You know what my uncle would have Gus do to you if you hurt me? You’d wake up in a basement tied to a radiator and a car battery, and Gus would be standing in front of you with a rusty knife.”

Cargill raises his head to look at me. His expression is blank.

“Do it,” Bala says.

“Shut the fuck up,” Cargill says, but his eyes are on me. He raises the revolver and points it at my head.

“Brad,” I say. My heart is trip-hammering and my brain is like a bird trapped in an attic, frantically trying to find a way out. I do not want to die because of Brandon fucking Cargill. “Don’t do this.”

Cargill’s hand doesn’t shake. The bore of the revolver’s barrel looks big enough to drive a train through. “Get down on your knees,” he says.

“I’m not getting on my knees.”

Cargill thumbs the hammer back with a loud snick. “I said—”

There’s a wet sound, like someone smacking a raw hamburger patty between their hands, and a clot of something dark and wet hits my arm. I look to see Bala, eyes wide and round, blood pouring down his shirt front.