I waited until his shrieking dissolved into whimpers, then told him, “Now reach down into the well with your right hand and give me that gun.” With a completely unnecessary but totally enjoyable sneer, I added, “Capiche?”

We used to refer to snapped fingers as tweets to the soul. It definitely got your attention, and if not necessarily your respect, your obedience. Corbin was sweating from the pain, but he did exactly as ordered, picking up the gun with his thumb and middle finger and handing it across his body to me. He covered his right hand protectively with his left hand as tears ran down his face. “Hurts like a bastard, right? But you’re lucky. It’ll heal up. Maybe you won’t be tapping your chest for a few months…”—I demonstrated, tapping my chest with the Glock as he had done minutes earlier—“but give it a little time and you’ll be ready to shoot anybody you want.”

I slipped his gun under my seat cushion. I checked again. Russell was staying steady. We passed a large sign promising food and fuel, exit right in two miles. About a mile later I put on Van’s right-turn signal. A few seconds later Russell’s signal light clicked on. Good boy, I thought. “Okay, here’s where it gets interesting,” I told Corbin. “You fuck up, I promise you, bad things are going to happen.” I told him exactly what I wanted to do, throwing in all the requisite threats.

The exit was a long two-lane ramp ending at a traffic light at the crest of a rise. There was an off-brand gas station with a small market about two hundred yards down the road on the right. While we were stopped at the light, I told Corbin, “Call him now.” This was the most delicate part of the plan so I doubled down. As he picked up his phone with his left hand, I reminded him, “Believe me,” I said evenly, keeping any hint of exaggeration out of my tone, “I got nothing to lose. Whatever happens to me, I will kill you.”

Corbin hit the keyboard with his right pinkie. I watched in my rearview as Russell answered. Corbin came acceptably close to sounding normal. He told Francis that before filling his gas tank he should escort the female to the restroom.

“You sure?” Francis asked. “That’s not what the regs say we’re supposed to do.”

Corbin took a deep breath, fighting the pain. “It’s on me.” He closed his eyes. “Just do what I tell you, Frankie, okay?”

“Well, what if she doesn’t need to go?”

Corbin pressed the phone against his chest and looked at me. “Tell him to tell her this is the only time we’re stopping. Her boyfriend says take advantage of it.”

He repeated it exactly. The fight was gone out of him. He was in survival mode.

As we pulled into the gas station, I remember noticing that the price of gas was unusually low, back to pandemic prices, and thinking that was another trade-off to keep people docile. Funny I should remember that. I drove around to the side of the market, as far away from the pumps as possible. There was a row of empty parking spots on my left and I parked in the one farthest away. The Caprice pulled in on my left, meaning Agent Russell had to approach the van on the driver’s side. I looked down, as if fumbling for something in my lap, but with my peripheral vision I watched Russell get out of the car and lock it with a remote. Laura was sitting calmly in the back seat. Russell waddled around the back of his car, putting his jacket on to cover his weapon. His badge was hanging from a lanyard around his neck. He came over to the van, his head down.