“Yeah, maybe I’m just rationalizing,” he said, adjusting his aim to Whitfield. “And if Dresner had offered me a couple hundred grand, I’d have probably told him to screw off and reported it to you five minutes later. But he doesn’t work in those kinds of numbers. So, while I regret having to kill all of you—and I really do—it might make you feel better to know I’m getting Learjet- and private-island-money to do it.”

The quiet crack sounded again and Whitfield crumpled to the floor. This time, though, he wouldn’t be getting back up.

Smith looked down at the bleeding hole in the man’s chest, blinking hard as his focus seemed to waver. When he turned back toward Deuce, the gun was moving back to Randi, creating a colorful trail through the air that looked a little like a rainbow. Randi went for the soldier again, refusing to go down without a fight, but tripped over her own feet and sprawled on the floor.

*  *  *

JON! WAKE UP NOW. Come on. Jon!”

Smith opened his eyes slowly, seeing nothing but a halo of light around something hovering over him. The image began to sharpen and he finally recognized it as Marty wearing a respirator with “Home Depot” stenciled on the side.

“What…What happened?” Smith said, the muffled sound of his voice suggesting that he was wearing a similar mask, which his numb face didn’t register.

“The house’s defenses don’t end at my front door.”

Smith managed to prop himself up on his elbows and Zellerbach grabbed him under the arm, dragging him to his feet. Once he’d regained enough balance to stand on his own, he looked over at Randi, who was lying partially on top of Deuce. No blood in evidence.

“Is she—”

“She’s fine. He didn’t have time to get off a shot.”

“Didn’t have time to get off a shot? Whitfield’s dead. Why didn’t you—”

“The gas is activated by my remote. I couldn’t get to it until that Deuce jerk stopped paying attention to me. Now let’s get out of here before he wakes up or those other people come back.”

Smith staggered over to the two men and collected his phone and their guns, stuffing a Sig Sauer and Randi’s Beretta down the back of his pants before handing the others to Marty.

“What do you want me to do with these?” he said as Smith struggled to get Randi into a fireman’s carry. Zellerbach always had exactly one backup for everything—thus the fact that they were both wearing masks and she wasn’t.

“Get rid of them,” Smith said, inadvertently slamming Randi’s head into the wall as he started toward the bathroom.

Zellerbach rushed to a massive metal cabinet and locked the guns in it before speed-walking awkwardly past him in the hall.