The BMW reached the stop sign, but instead of circling the building to park on the street, the driver turned into the parking lot.

“Get down.”

Rina slumped down in her seat without question, but lifted her head enough to see.

The Beemer passed behind Pike’s Jeep and Cole’s Corvette, then turned onto the next row and parked by the sidewalk. The driver got out, stepped over a low hedge, then crossed the street. Pike made him for his late twenties, maybe average in height but with a heavy frame. He looked like a hitter, and probably thought he was good at it. He let himself into the building with his own key.

Pike said, “Here’s where you leave.”

Rina went directly to Cole’s Corvette, and got in as they had planned. She did not dawdle, stare, or draw attention to herself. Pike liked that about her.

Cole’s voice came from the phone.

“You want Jon to come in?”

“I’m good. Get her gone.”

Cole backed away, and cruised out of the parking lot.

The bagman was inside for less than ten minutes. For him, picking up cash from four prostitutes was just another stop in a day filled with stops—something to be accomplished quickly, and without wasted energy. The girls probably felt the same.

When the man merged from the building, Pike stepped out of the Jeep, but hung back to be sure he was returning to his car. When the man angled toward the Beemer, Pike made as if he was heading for a nearby car, but Darko’s boy never once looked at him. He passed in front of Pike within ten feet and swung around the Beemer’s rear end. As he opened the door, Pike closed the gap. When the bagman slid in behind the wheel, Pike came up along the passenger’s side, and lifted himself over the door and into the passenger’s seat.

The man lurched in surprise, but by then it was too late. Pike showed him the .357, down low so no one could see.

“Sh.”

The man’s eyes went wide as oncoming headlights, but he was a burly guy who was used to muscling people. He lunged for Pike’s gun, but Pike rolled his hands down and away with a minor wing chun deflection, and snapped the Python up hard into the bottom of the man’s chin, popping his jaw like a rat trap. The Python flicked again, and this time Pike hit him in the Adam’s apple.

The bagman clutched at his throat, choking. His face turned bright red.

Pike took the key from his hand, fit it into the ignition, the convertible top. He had to keep the button depressed throughout the process, but that was okay. His arm was a steel bar with his tattoo in the bagman’s face. Pike wanted him to see the red arrow.