“Don’t do this!” she cried. “You’re making a mistake.”

“I’m sure I’ll find enough proof in your vehicle to justify a few bodies, but if not, I’ll plant something. I’ve done it before.” He dragged her through a patch of spiky rushes. “I’ve got to tell you, I’m looking forward to feeling your body go limp. That moment is always so good.”

“Don’t!”

“Clean up shouldn’t be a hassle. I know how to get rid of a body fast, even four of them.” He laughed carelessly. “And I know a guy in Fallujah who’ll pay real good money for that fancy Land Cruiser. He’ll give it a new paint job and have it over the border into Syria before sundown.”

“Listen to me.” Huda grabbed at his ankle. “Uday Hussein won’t like this. I swear, he’s going to hang your head on your mother’s gate.”

The Bolt Cutter stopped. He stared down at her, face haloed by sunlight.

“What did you say?”

“The president’s son has marked Hanan Mansour for himself. Uday’s expecting her at his palace this weekend.”

The Bolt Cutter blinked, brain creaking like a rusty cog.

“Uday has plans for the girl.” Huda crawled to her knees. “You can drown me in this lake, but that’ll be nothing compared to what he’ll do if you touch her before he does.”

He shook his head like an angry water buffalo.

“I saw you this morning outside Rania Mansour’s house.” Huda wiped blood from the corner of her mouth. “I told her exactly who you are. If her daughter doesn’t show up, she’ll know who’s to blame. Don’t you know Rania is the president’s favorite artist? She’s painting his portrait right now. These aren’t ordinary people you’re messing with. They’re not like you and me.”

The Bolt Cutter growled and kicked at the muddy beach. Blobs of silt splattered against the water.

“If you’re smart, you’ll get back in your car and leave.” Huda staggered to her feet. “I’ll tell the diplomat’s wife she was right, you were a robber. I’ll say a group of fishermen scared you off.”

She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out Ally’s wedding ring.

“Here,” she said, “take this and go.”

The Bolt Cutter snatched the ring from her hand.

“Maybe your friend in Fallujah buys jewelry too.” Huda tugged a twig from her hair. “But I want twenty-five percent of whatever you make off that ring, understand? We can both work together and make some money. Or Rania Mansour can call the president’s palace and mention your name.”

The Bolt Cutter scowled.

“Fifteen percent,” he grunted. “I’ll give you fifteen percent of what I get for the ring. Not a dinar more.”