I tilt the bag, pretending I’m ready to pour it out. “I know I’m not getting out of this alive, Marco. But I’m not going to make it easy for you unless she goes free.”

Marco’s face is turning red. He grits his teeth and growls, “Logan, give me those goddamn diamonds.”

“Suit yourself,” I say.

I toss the open bag into the air. Diamonds spill out as the bag sails toward Marco. Marco tries to grab the bag with his free arm, but only slaps at it, knocking it to the ground. Diamonds rain down into the water and skitter on the rock like hailstones.

“You son of a bitch!” Marco roars, bending over to collect the diamonds. “Jasper, kill this motherfucker.”

I’m already surging forward, pulling the gun out of my shorts. Jasper’s eyes narrow, as if he is trying to figure out what I’m doing, then his eyes grow large with recognition. He turns the gun from Claire to me. I punch my finger through the plastic bag, take aim at the center of Jasper’s face, and fire.

The gunshot echoes off the granite all around us.

I turn even before Jasper’s body falls to the ground.

Marco rises. “What the—”

I swing my gun on Marco. He throws his arm out just in time, slapping the pistol aside. The bullet hits his shoulder. Marco gasps and tries to bring his own gun up, but he is holding it in the injured arm. I drop the two-shot pistol and grab Marco’s wrist. With my other hand, I grasp a handful of his hair and wrestle him toward the bank. We fall in about eight inches of water, clawing and struggling. I gain leverage and put my knee on Marco’s chest. He cranes his head to bring his mouth out of the water, and I press down harder.

Marco is trying to speak. All I can make out is “shoot” and something that sounds like “Jill”—maybe “kill”—and then I hold him under. An eruption of bubbles comes out before Marco closes his mouth and holds his breath.

I twist the Beretta out of Marco’s hand—with the bullet wound, there is very little strength in his arm—and point the gun an inch above the water where Marco’s face stares back at me. The gun has gotten wet, but I think it will probably still fire.

I’m right.

Marco’s body goes limp.

I rise up, my chest heaving. A cloud of smoke hangs over the water. The gun lies on Marco’s chest, still in his hand, partly submerged in water so opaque it looks like red paint.

“Good-bye, old friend,” I say.

I start to turn and then pause. What had Marco said?

Shoot Jill?

Shoot, Jill!