Anger boiled under Brock’s skin. “Nothing about that kid was a woman. Get over yourself.”

Frenchie took a small pistol from his pocket. It was gold-plated and matched the lighter.

Of course. Brock chuckled. “We going to do this now? You’re just going to blow my brains out with your fancy one-shot?”

“There is always something distasteful about Americans.” Frenchie paced the room again then stopped and ashed his cigarette over Brock’s leg. “But you don’t seem to care about your life.”

He pretended not to care, but it gave him an idea. “Gimme a smoke and let’s do get it over with. I’m not into big, drawn-out ordeals.”

Frenchie laughed. “Very well. A cigarette, and that will be that. Certainly won’t miss all the crying and pleading that comes with this part of the job.”

Brock dropped his shoulders like a defeated pussy. Dumbass. Frenchie removed a set of keys from his pocket and reached for Brock’s handcuffs. His hands dropped; pins and needles tingled from his fingertips to elbows. He rolled his wrists and massaged his fingers then rubbed his eyes, playing the part of a dead man walking. Well, dead man sitting, readying to smoke his final cigarette. I hate cigarettes.

The Frenchman held the hand-rolled tobacco toward Brock. He accepted, wrinkling his forehead and letting his shoulders hang even more despondently. “At least I got the girl.”

“Whatever, as you Americans say. Seems that would be the least of your concerns.”

Brock’s head rolled, and he eyed the door behind Frenchie, then pathetically prattled about how he’d lived his life with honor. The cigarette stuck to Brock’s lip, and he let it hang until the Frenchman bent over with the lighter. Brock inhaled, savoring the disgusting burn, smiling with appreciation toward his captor. “Merci.”

Frenchie’s beady eyes pinched and acknowledged the thank you.

Brock sucked down another gag-inducing drag of the cigarette. The long embers reddened and burned. Smoke wafted around his head, sliding out his mouth as he let a sickening, relaxed exhale set his mood. Contemplative. Ready to meet his maker.

Frenchie seemed to appreciate the need for the nicotine. His guard was down, and Brock was in prime position. In a flash, he blew the smoke out hard, threw the long end of the cigarette into Frenchie’s eyes, and followed with a right hook to the jaw.

An eruption of pain traveled through Brock’s legs. The pistol skittered across the room. He lunged across the floor. His fresh scabs roared, stinging and throbbing pain. Nauseous from the pain and nicotine, he swallowed a threatening dry heave and snagged the pistol off the floor. A quick look over his shoulder, and he cocked the fancy hammer and let the engraved, plated pistol explode at point-blank range.