Every nerve in Jonathan’s body hummed to an almost-subsonic ring, an internal tornado siren of music. He was vibrating so steadily, the back and forth almost canceled out to a standstill. His knife hand was trembling so hummingbird fast, it was almost steady.

Carly fought against the cummerbund around Marcelline’s neck, her wiry little muscles bunching in the strain, her whole body twisting to thrash the cloth loose, coughing out smoke and calling for help.

But Owen ignored her and matched Jonathan’s retreat, step for step, herding him away.

Carly pulled Marcelline free, collapsing to the ground with her, pulling at the viciously tight bindings. She unwound the purse strap from Marcelline’s ankles and freed the gag. She wrapped up the grown woman in her spindly little-girl arms, their heads together, crying. Marcelline was sobbing into Carly’s shoulder, trying to talk between the hitches, reaching for her bag. Carly helped her.

On her knees Carly turned to Owen. “Are you crazy?”

Jonathan walked backward, slowly away, knife out. He shivered as Owen still held his gaze, smiling at Jonathan in the clamor, calling over his shoulder to the rabidly angry Carly, “What? He only gave me two minutes.”

Carly jumped up as Marcelline shoved a black something into her hands.

Carly pointed the gun mostly downward, teeth bared at Owen, barrel toward his knees, deciding what to do with her power. She jerked one titch to the right and the gun was lined up on Jonathan.

It had been a horrible feeling looking at the black circle of that barrel in Marcelline’s hand the other night. With Carly behind it, it was almost otherworldly. She couldn’t shoot anyone. She was just a kid. She couldn’t knock anyone out either. Or track him down. Or steal a priceless painting. Twice. Except that she had.

Jonathan took another step back. Everything in him wanted to run, but it would be pointless. Owen would catch him. He raked his mind for one more plan. Just one more. Carly drew the low aim back and forth between the two men.

“Perfect!” Owen was grinning. “Can I have that, please?”

Carly’s nostrils flared and she brought the gun up as Owen came toward her. “She could have died!”

“She didn’t.” Owen put his hand around Carly’s, guided it down.

Carly’s groan rolled through the wounded low notes and rose to almost a scream. “What is wrong with you? All of you?”

“I don’t know. But nothing was ever going to happen to her. Not with you around. I knew that.”

Their hands moved apart, a magician’s trick, and the gun was small and completely steady in Owen’s massive fist. And pointed at Jonathan’s middle.

Jonathan dropped the knife. Hands out. “Okay. Let me just leave. What difference does it make now? You have everything. There’s nothing I can do to any of you.”