When he reached the top of the marble staircase, Ricky heard the garbled voices coming from inside the nearest bedroom. He paused outside the door, listening intently. Puzzled. A foreign dialect been spoken, with unfamiliar sounds and patterns his brain didn't recognize. The speaker sounded male. What the hell?

His spine stiffened. This could get messy. Then a squeal of tires. The television. Wifey sat in bed watching TV, just like Reggie'd predicted. Ricky hoped he was right about the valium part, too, make his job so much easier.

He pressed down on the lacquered brass door handle and pushed the door open. A topless woman sat up in the bed, her knees making a tent under the covers. The blonde bob, the round, perky breasts—it couldn't be. Then she turned her head, and he was looking directly at the face he had pictured in his mind for the past two nights. Miley.

Dumbstruck by the sheer improbability of what he was seeing, Ricky cursed aloud. Jesus fuck, rookie mistake. Would she make the connection? Saw the flash of recognition in those amber eyes and knew life had found a fresh way to screw him in the ass again.

"Judd?" she said, in that dreamy dulcet tone of hers, making it impossible for him to do the one thing he needed desperately to do. Think straight.

"Shut up," Ricky said. An image of Miley lying in bed telling him about her cancer-ridden father, transposed by one of Miley, teary-eyed, spilling her guts to a smiling detective.

"What's happening?" Miley said. "Why are you doing this?" Guilt and anger sumo-wrestling in Ricky's brain right now. Could he kill her? This woman he had forged a connection with. How many years would a Spanish court dish out for a kidnapping conviction? His mind cracking under the weight of the moral dilemma, and the overwhelming need for self-preservation.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he said, slapping his left palm against his forehead. Miley looking at him, scared, tears forming in her eyes, covers bunched up around her neck.

"Get dressed," he said, acting on impulse. No idea what he would do.

"What are you going to do to me?" Miley said, fingers clawed around the sateen sheet she'd pulled up to her chin.

"Now." He hadn't meant to shout so loud. Had to drown out the voice of reason instructing his brain not to regard her as a person but as the one thing standing between him and a fifteen-to-twenty bid.

The fabric of the ski mask staring to itch, his face burning up under there.

Ricky whipped the mask off and let his skin breathe. He glanced over at Miley, climbing into her sequined dress. Now, staring right at his unveiled face. Not that it mattered much.

He started toward her, watching her tremble, eyes stricken with terror.

Ricky raised his hand.

Miley's head cowered.

"What?" It clicked that his gun was pointing at her. "I promise I won't hurt you," he said, lowering the piece, "but listen, we've got—"

"Whatcha doing, mate?" Chris said, stood on the threshold, mask on, silver Glock held at chest height. "You been having it off with the missus, you dirty birdy?"

"It's not what—"

"I ain't having a go. She is fit." Eyes squinting behind his mask, "That don't look nothing like the bird in the picture downstairs."

"What're you doing here?"

"Reggie sent me up to see what's taking so long. 'Ere, why you got your mask off then?" Then, looking back at Miley, "Who's this bird? She the maid or something. I thought you lot wore them frilly black French outfits."

"She's a domestic, not a stripagram."

"Worm food is what she is," Chris said, leveling the Glock at Miley.

"Put that away," Ricky said, leveling his gun at Chris. "Or I put you down."

"Have you gone completely radio rental?" Gun still held in the firing position.

Ricky aimed his pistol at Chris' head. "Guess we're gonna have to do this Mexican-style."

"Okay, okay, you mad lunatic." Chris lowered his gun, "You do realize she's seen your ugly mush."

"It had occurred to me."

"And?"

"I'm taking her with me 'til this deal is done." Without thinking he'd made a plan. Of sorts. He could finesse the finer details later.

"Reggie won't like that."

"He probably wouldn't appreciate you mentioning his name every chance you get, either."

"Shit."

"Exactly. Now, grab that pillowcase and give it to me."

Ricky placed the white Egyptian cotton pillowcase over Miley's head and ordered Chris to check the other bedrooms. "It's going to be all right," he whispered to Miley, taking her hand in his and leading her out of the room.

As they negotiated the top steps of the staircase, Reggie appeared in the hall, hunched over and grunting, hauling an inert body across the tiles.

"Christ on the cross," Ricky said. "Is he dead?"

Reggie let go of Vic's shoulders and looked up. "You mind telling me why you bringing her down here looking like she's your date for a Klan rally?"

"It's... Is he dead?"

"No, he ain't dead, though he's lucky he ain't. Crazy motherfucker come karate-chopping at me, like the man been watching too many Bruce Lee movies. I hadda knock his old ass out. Now, if you wouldn't mind explaining to me why she's wearing a pillowcase on her head, 'stead of cable-ties 'round her ankles?"

"She's seen my face," Ricky said.

"How she gonna do that?" Reggie said, "and you wearing a mask."

"I took it off."

"You took it off?"

"It was making me itch."

"You making my brain itch, you so goddamn dumb." A groan came from the bound body by his feet. "Where's that other ass-clown?" Reggie shouted, frustration boiling over.

"I sent him to check the other rooms," Ricky said, helping Miley down the last step. "Find the wife."

"The wife?" Reggie's eyes looking like they might pop out from behind the mask. "Who in the fuck is this bitch?"

A muffled voice said what sounded like, "Help me," came from the gagged body, arms and feet cable-tied, before Reggie aimed a boot at his exposed midsection. "One more word outta you, Kato," Reggie said. "You're gonna feel my fists of fury a second time."

"Chill," Ricky said.

"Chill? This is a goddamn shit-show, right here."

"It's all good."

"All good—are you huffing glue? You standing here next to be with a witness can describe you to the popo, and you telling me we alright."

"I'mma take care of it."

"You gonna take care of it," Reggie said. "Why you bring her ass down here? You afraid of messing up the bed covers?"

Miley whimpered underneath the pillowcase.

"Not like that," Ricky said, squeezing her sweaty palm. "I'm taking her with."

"Are you up out your goddamned mind? She's not a stray puppy you found by the side of the road, you gonna feed treats to, she a grown-assed woman. A grown-assed woman could send us down 'til we so old our nuts have descended to our knees. You dumb piece of shit."

"We only need to keep her out of sight 'til the handover's gone down. Soon, as we get paid, it's not our problem any—"

"Not our problem," Reggie said. "We tie a man up and drag him out his home. How you figure it's not our problem?"

"This slippery prick's dirty," Ricky said, looking down at the wriggling body. "The wife ain't involving no police."

"Man, you can't even find the wife, and you gonna tell what the bitch be thinking." Voice calmer, now.

"You know I'm right."

"I don't know shit, and you sure as shit don't know shit."

"I'll take her back to mine," Ricky said. Tone serene. He didn't feel in the least serene. Couldn't envision a happy ever after ending to this story. His gut telling him to get Miley out of her in one piece, worry about the consequences after. "Call me when shit get done."

"How you gonna take her?" Reggie said.

"Your car."

"Oh, hell no. I ain't about to—"

Chris came clambering down the stair. "No-one up there."

Ricky, now at the bottom of the stair, he and Reggie at eye-level. So close they could count each others crows feet through the slit in the ski-masks. Hoping his eyes were communicating a composure he didn't feel, Ricky said: "It's my face she's seen. I'll handle it."

Reggie fished the keys from the pocket of his boiler suit and handed them over. "Things don't work out the way they oughta. You do what you gotta do. You feel me?"

Ricky nodded.

"Where they going?" Chris said, watching Ricky lead Miley into the living room.

"On their honeymoon," Reggie said, dragging Vic up by the sleeves of his salmon pink polo shirt. "Now, grab a hold of his ankles before my sciatica act up, and I really get mad at a fool."

Ricky lifted the pillowcase off Miley's head. She blinked twice, looking around to get her bearings.

"Funny, I've been here twice," she said, looking at the silver-framed blown-up picture of Elana hanging on the back wall. "And I never noticed that. How could I not? It's freaking ginormous."

"This isn't the time to be getting sentimental," Ricky said, dragging her by the hand. Adding, "Plenty of time for that later."

"Will there be, though?"

"Not if the cops arrive, and we have to shoot it out." Miley needed no more cues to pick up the pace.

The security lights flashed on, the moment they stepped outside the house, the glare taking Miley by surprise, almost tripped. They hurried around the edge of the pool, sheets of rain sending rippling explosions rupturing the serene surface of the water. Miley could hear the pellets of rain thudding against the lime-green inflatable lounger. Lime-green, another of those details she'd never picked up on. Of course, the last time she had seen the lounger, Elana was lying naked atop of it, so, her powers of observation were stymied.

When they reached the open gate, Ricky ripped his mask off and stuffed it in the pocket of his drenched overalls. He turned to her and said, "Are we cool?" It seemed like the most insane thing she had ever heard anyone say, and she had to fight down the urge to laugh.

"You're kidnapping me," Miley said. "How cool am I supposed to be?"

"Technically, it's false imprisonment."

"Semantics."

"Facts. Kidnapping is taking somebody away by force, and demanding money for their release." He said that like it was the last thing on his mind, as though they were just a couple of lovers strolling down the rain-swept street.

"So, that isn't a gun in your pocket," Miley said. "You're just pleased to be in my company."

"I'd rather we were seeing each other under different circumstances," Ricky said, sounding sincere. "But here we are. Life chucks you lemons, you can be bitter, or you can make lemonade."

Could he hear the words his mouth was uttering? Had he the slightest conception of how insane he sounded? Even though she knew it was inadvisable to ask, she had to know. "What planet are you on? I mean, what is your brain thinking?"

"Right now it's thinking, do I let you ride up front, or do I stick you in the trunk."

They reached the end of the street and turned the corner. The MG was parked under a stubby palm tree.

"Which is it going to be?"

"I'm cool." Ricky opened the passenger door and waited for her to get in. The door slammed shut, and the sky produced a thunderous roar.

"Where are you taking me?" Miley asked. Ricky slid into the driver's seat. He didn't answer, fumbling with the keys and cursing.

He switched on the overhead light, his boyish face lined with tension. He slipped the key in the ignition, and the motor purred into life. Glancing over at her, he said, "I won't hurt you. In a few hours all this will be over, and you can go back to your life. No biggie."

"Oh yeah," Miley said, "because this sort of thing happens me all the time. Every other day, people are sticking guns in my face and dragging me into their car."

"Think of it as an adventure."

"My idea of an adventure would be to ride the Orient Express."

"Yeah? I'd love to do that."

"Too late—it stopped running twelve years ago."

"Timing is not my forte."

"Oh, you have a forte, do you? Can criminality be considered a forte?"

"Bit harsh," Ricky said, "seeing as how I saved your life."

"My life wasn't in danger," Miley said. "Until, you burst into the room. I was quite content sitting in bed watching my movie—"

"Hana Bi—great movie. Takeshi is the bomb, but I prefer him in, Brother."

"I've not seen that." She listened while Ricky outlined the plot and the essence of what made Brother, in his view, the superior movie.

"Beat's a badass," Miley said. "I didn't think Westerners knew Beat existed."

"I like Japanese cinema," Ricky said. "Best horror movies of the last thirty years have come from Japan."

"I prefer a mystery thriller."

"There's a great one I saw a while back. American flick with a half Japanese cast, about rare smuggled turtles and a serial killer." The Man from Reno, they said in unison.

"Oh my God," Miley said, "You're the first person I've ever met has seen that flick." Getting lost in a deep discussion of their favorite scenes. Outside the car, the rain continued to hammer down amid intermittent flashes of lightning. Inside, the mood had changed. Just two people, talking, minds connecting like they had that night at the club. And the rest of what had happened in between seemed like a faraway dream.

They both saw the blue light flashing up ahead and knew it wasn't a naturally occurring electrical phenomenon. And things briefly forgotten came sharply back into focus.