He lunged into the car and felt a wet crunch under his hand—a fragment of something, something that had been part of one of these guys. With his other hand he pulled at the bag—but it wouldn’t move. The kid’s body was pinning it to the floor.

“Spencer!”

Spencer had to put his shoulder on the passenger seat in order to free up both hands. It brought his face within inches of the blood-doused fabric. Even through the aroma of gasoline he could smell urine. Pistol Pete had pissed himself when he’d been shot through his seat. Spencer slid his left hand under the kid’s shoulder, feeling ragged flaps of skin. His fingers slipped in mush as he tried to lift the corpse a few inches to free the bag.

Sweet Jesus, how did I get here?

Spencer knew he’d see that kid’s face with its fucked-up eyes and George with his bloodied cravat judging him for the rest of his days. He was barely out when there was a great woomph and the car was engulfed in flames. The heat buffeted his face as he staggered backward, unable to take his eyes off the ungodly tableau.

The Yo-Yo threw the faceless corpse of the first kid in the back. By some macabre fluke, he landed in his original seat, sitting up. Spencer watched his hair smoke and then flare, watched the outline of his body in the crackling flames. A child. Someone’s child. What chances had he had?

And then McGrath was beside him. “This’ll just look like a case of thieves falling out.” He spoke almost soothingly. Don’t worry, this might seem a little hectic but it’s actually all that and a bag of Fritos really.

The burning kid keeled slowly over in his seat. Spencer dragged his eyes away to look at McGrath. He wanted to see what made this man tick, this man he’d thought he could smooth talk into a harebrained scheme to sell some fancy cars. McGrath had been funny, charming, mischievous. Yeah, there’d been something, something dangerous. But Spencer hadn’t thought of anything like this. Maybe some dodgy deals, a little stash of cash, some fun with the wrong women at the right parties, perhaps even a shallow friendship based on mutual business advantage. That’s what Spencer thought McGrath would bring to his table.

McGrath took a deep breath through his nose, held it inside for a few seconds, like he was enjoying the smell of burning leaves in his garden, and then exhaled with a content smile. He looked at the vortex of ash and sparks billowing into the night sky. My, what a goddamn fine evening it’s turned out to be.

McGrath put his hand on Spencer’s shoulder. Gave it a friendly squeeze. “Shall we take you home, my man?”

“What shall I do with this?” Spencer held up the bloodied bag.