Air, humming. Jack stood there, holding the wall. His insides felt sweaty. Outside the door, he heard something: voice of a man. Soft. A creak on the metal stairs. Then he heard the long, sharp honk of a horn. Ava.

Jack said, “Tell me where Matty is.”

Bardem’s hand slid to the shotgun grip. He seemed troubled by nothing at all. “I’ll give you one day. You will bring me the briefcase. You will lay it before me. If you don’t, I will kill your brother. Do you understand?”

“How do I find you?”

“Ask Ava. She’ll know.”

Silence, complete. Jack’s lips formed the word. Ava.

“You should move,” Bardem said.

Jack snapped off the light and stepped away from the door as it swung open. In the sudden dullness, the man with the gold teeth launched into the room with a gun. Bardem shot twice, so fast it sounded like one long gunshot. Part of the man spread across the wall.

Jack’s ears were ringing, he could barely stand. Blood on his coat. Part of the doorframe hung loose off the drywall, and blood dripped from the splintered plywood. He backed out through the doorway and took one last look at Bardem standing there looking back at him in the weak light. Then Jack turned and reeled away, past the rooms and down the stairs.

By the time he lurched onto the sidewalk, he was starting to hear beyond the ringing. Find Matty. He couldn’t think that far yet. Ask Ava. She’ll know. Starting across the walk, he saw the F-150 parked on the street. Something tugged on his coat, at the shoulder. The pistol shot was just a quick muzzle flash in the pink morning light. He turned and set off at a dead run. Sliding on ice. He didn’t know where he was going. When he was halfway across the street, all of the glass in the store window in front of him shattered into pieces. He spun around. The hatted man stepped out from the cover of the truck and opened fire.

The deep heavy choom of the shotgun sounded like a cough rattling off buildings. The hatted man fell down instantly. Blood everywhere. Spattered on the snow. Jack didn’t even see where the shot came from. He looked up. Bardem was on the balcony of the motel, above him. His elbows resting on the rail, his eyes watching. The shotgun in his hand. He tipped his head at Jack, and then he went back into the motel room.

Jack stood, teetering. A tang of gunpowder hung in the cold air. Everywhere silent. Go, he told himself. Don’t you stand there. You go find Matty.

He turned and loped down the street, his bootprints red in the snow behind him. When he got to the parking lot, he could see Ava waiting in the car. He opened the door and got in.

“Drive,” he said.