No one moved.

“I’m about ten feet behind you, Decker,” Donatti said. “And, at the moment, my nine millimeter is pointed right at the base of your spine. I suggest you listen to the chief.”

Slowly, Decker turned around.

Chris wasn’t lying, except now the gun was aimed at Decker’s Adam’s apple. Donatti shrugged. “Nothing personal… well, maybe a little personal. But primarily it’s business.”

Decker looked back at Merrin—at his porcine expression filled with malice and evil—then returned his attention to Donatti. The gun remained on him—a fixed, permanent object.

“If you don’t do it now, Decker, I’ll shoot you in a five countdown. If you cooperate and slowly lower the gun to the floor, you stand a slim chance of talking me out of it.”

Decker weighed his options, two against one—the professional cop and the sharpshooter. Maybe if he ducked, they’d shoot each other. He smiled internally, but found his body had been seized by the shakes. In the end, he bent down and placed the gun on the cement floor. Then he straightened. He’d given the snub-nose and its one bullet to Jonathan. How he wished he had that gun now.

“Keep your hands up and where I can see them,” Donatti said.

Decker raised his hands to his shoulders. “Is this the part where I try to talk you out of it?”

“No, this is the part where you shut up and listen. Kick the Walther over to me.”

Decker did as told.

Instead of picking it up, Donatti kicked the weapon at least fifty feet behind him, out of anyone’s reach. “One less firearm to go off in my face. Now it’s your turn, Virgil. Put the gun in your holster. I don’t want any fuckups.”

“You don’t want me to do him? The Jew boy?”

“Why would you do him? You’ve got him precisely where you want him. He’ll shit on command for you. Learn to take advantage when fortune shines on you.”

“Now, that’s a very good point, Mr. Donatti. A very good point.”

“And because I’ve been so generous with you, you’ll send something my way, huh?”

“You better believe it, sir.”

“Can I talk now, Chris?”

“No, not yet. And don’t you dare act familiar with me.” He shot the floor, an inch away from Decker’s foot, pulverizing cement into dust. To Merrin: “Didn’t I tell you to put the gun away?” Donatti became suddenly impatient. “You’re pissing me off. Do it!”

Quickly, Merrin stowed the gun, keeping a firm grip on Chaim’s throat.

“Push him on the floor,” Donatti told him. “Let him feel what it’s like to crawl like an insect. Because that’s what he is…a fucking bug.”

Merrin grabbed Lieber by the collar and pushed him to the ground, stepping on his back to flatten him out. Chaim was sobbing.

Merrin grinned. “I don’t know of any bug that cries, Mr. Donatti.”

“Everybody cries, Virgil.”

Three bullets in rapid succession—one in the forehead, one in the throat, and one in the groin. Merrin didn’t even have a chance to react. He just stared out of vacant blue eyes, the same hoggish expression on his face, then collapsed onto Chaim, a sprinkler of squirting blood. Lieber let go with ear-piercing screams—uncontrolled and at maximum volume—flailing his arms and legs, pushing the body from his back. Freeing himself from the corpse, Lieber remained on the floor, heaving deep, big gulps as if he were being choked.