Click. Elana squeezed the trigger again. Click.

Click.

Click.

A few feet away, DeShawn stood watching her, cornrows tight, grin loose. "Baby, that gun's as empty as your heart." Elana repeatedly pulled the trigger, to no avail. "Word to the wise, you decide to hold a clandestine meeting in your house, make damn sure no-one's home."

Eyes blazing, pistol not, Elana stared at DeShawn, fury clouding her judgment.

"I emptied the clip last night when you were deep in a Valium dream," DeShawn said. "Figured you might not be keen on leaving breathing witnesses."

Reggie pushed himself upright using the bonnet as leverage. "If you emptied the clip, you mind telling me how I got this great big hole in me?"

DeShawn looked over, sheepishly. "Forgot about the one in the chamber."

"Ricky," Reggie said, voice straining. "Shoot this dumb asshole."

Ricky, bending down to pick up his piece, said: "Soon as I'm done killing this crazy bitch." Moving far faster than a man of his girth had any right to, DeShawn was on top of Ricky. Had his semiautomatic poking Ricky's ear before the other man's fingers were in touching distance of the Sig on the ground. "Don't make me get stupid, boy."

Ricky raised his head enough to catch sight of Elana's shapely pins disappearing behind the frame of the Jag. He inched his fingers closer to the platinum grip of the P226, gleaming against the sandy dirt.

"Temptation kill a man quicker'n any disease," DeShawn said, pressing the cold muzzle hard against Ricky's soft lobe.

"That's our money," Ricky said, spittle flying from his lips.

The Jag door slammed shut.

"Wrong, son. That's mister Diamonds paper."

A motor started up.

"Something tells me she ain't planning on returning it to him," Ricky said, straightening up slowly.

"Do you believe in karma?" DeShawn said.

Clutching his shoulder, Reggie said, "Karma? Motherfucker, if somebody don't get me to a damn hospital soon, I'mma come back as a dog, and take a steaming dump on all y'alls graves."

At the same time as Reggie was cursing out his companions, Leland was driving down a country road two miles away. He clocked the dilapidated farmhouse, red-tiled roof half caved in, looming over the overgrown hedgerow to his left. He took his foot off the gas, let the speed drop to thirty. His thick hands gripped the wheel, white-knuckling. Grindhouse-style revenge fantasies playing in the theater of his mind.

He had to check himself, keep his focus on the road.

If the directions Elana had given him were correct, he should see an old corrugated tin barn soon.

Leland spotted the rusted arched structure with its loose, broken sheets. Why hadn't those knuckleheads thought to leave Vic there? By the looks of it, the place had not seen a human being in many years.

Leland pulled in, got out of the car. Followed the hedgerow, on foot, until he found the gap opening on to the trail. Tire tracks were visible in the dried-up mud, thin, made by a dirt bike. He imagined the local teens came up to here to race in the hills. The nearest village was a couple of miles from here. He had counted three pubs, a bank, and a church as he drove through it. The kind of small-town he and Margery had envisioned settling down in back in the States. Somewhere they could raise their daughter in, away from the hotbed of drugs and temptation that is urban life.

He spotted a packet of cigarette papers, torn cardboard packaging where it had been used to make roaches, lying at the edge of the track. Leland's lip curled in distaste. The scourge of drugs was everywhere; liberal fuckheads making Cannabis legal. He thought of Charlene, a 15-year-old professional pothead who insisted on calling her pops, Lay. Not even, Leland. Lay, like he was a packet of potato chips. Not that he could blame her, it is not like he ever tried to be a father to her. He'd given her to Margery's sister when Charlene was eight months old, couldn't handle raising a kid after his wife's passing.

His hand clenched into a fist, quickening his pace. Vengeance is mine, I will repay. All fifteen years' worth of hurt.

Entering the woodland, Leland inhaled the stark smell of soil and trees. The scent reminded him of the holiday season. His mind went to the Christmas when Charlene and Margery arrived home from the hospital. Margery taking to her room while their immediate family fawned over the new arrival. From there, his wife became more withdrawn. Slept fourteen hours a day, complaining of fatigue, and rebuffing Leland's amorous advances.

Post-baby blues. his mother said, give her time. A month passed, and they were sleeping in separate rooms. Not that Leland slept much, his excursions to the land of nod continuously interrupted by a crying infant. He might have turned to liquor, but he had never been much of a drinker. Instead, he turned to Elana, the fiery heat to counterbalance the cold emptiness of his life. A light in the dark.

A thirteen-minute phone conversation extinguished that light. Phone records showed it came through at seven-thirty. Coroners estimated Margery's time of death between eight and ten. Leland discovered her body when he arrived home from work a little after eleven. Phone records also showed the number that called that night had come from the residence of Victor Diamond.

Leland stopped, breathing hard.

Sitting slumped against a tall pine, like Raggedy Andy, legs akimbo, head covered by a black pillowcase hanging down, rope around his midsection; the infamous Victor Diamond.

Vic jerking violently against the rope at Leland's every footfall.

"¡Ayúdame!" his plaintive voice said from under the head covering. Hesitant, fearful of whom he might be imploring.

"Help you?" Leland muttered, "I'll help you all right, ya son of a bitch bastard." The prisoner drew his legs against his chest. "I paid you," he pleaded. "I paid you. You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I do," Leland said, whipping the pillowcase from off Vic's head.

Vic blinked. "You're... You're not one of them."

"I can see why folks call you a genius."

"Get me out of here, and I'll show you why people call me a philanthropist."

Leland shook his head dismissively. "I'm not short of a few bucks. See, after your father-in-law reported me, the department gave me a choice; Resign or face misconduct charges." He paused, waiting for signs of recognition in Vic. Getting nothing but a vague expression, Leland continued, "I resigned without an unblemished record. Went into business for myself. Private security firm. Afghanistan. Had twenty guys working for me, before I cashed out my shares last year. So ya see, Vic, I don't need your money."

Vic sighed, giving the impression this was par for the course. "So, what is it you want?"

Leland almost laughed. The balls on this guy. He bent down slightly to reach into the thigh pocket of his cream cargo shorts. Watched with satisfaction as Vic's world-weary eyes changed, becoming alert. Fear will do that to a man.

Glass pipe in one hand, pill container in the other, Leland hunkered down close to Vic. He rattled the pills in front of Vic's startled face. "I think it is time you went for a trip down that yellow-brick road."

"Who the hell are you?" Vic said, tone jagged.

"Toto." Leland tipped two tablets into the glass bowl. "I'm gonna be with you every step of the way on your little adventure." He brought the pipe to Vic's lips. Head pressed back against the bark, lips puckered, Vic refused to play ball. Leland smashed his fist into Vic's groin, the captive's mouth opening, ejecting a scream.

Leland stuck the pipe into the gaping hole in Vic's face, clicked the electronic lighter beneath the bowl. "Don't try and do a Bill Clinton," Leland said. "If you don't inhale, you're gonna force me to do something truly unpleasant to your person."

A wavering column of chemical smoke wafted over Vic's brow. Leland patted him on his left cheek. "Attaboy."

"Why are you doing this?" Vic said. Whining.

"Why does one do anything?"

"That's not an answer."

"For fifteen years I've been searching for an answer," Leland said, eyes glazing over, staring at his prey savagely. "How's about you tell me why you needed to ring my wife to inform her of my affair with your friggin' gutter slut wife?"

Vic's eyes were uncomprehending, bewildered, though it could be the effect of the drugs.

Leland lifted the pipe and said: "Have another smoke."

Suddenly, Vic's eyes flickered with recognition. "You're.. the DSS guy. The stalker." Leland's hand formed a fist around the lighter, and he drew it back, ready to deliver a savage blow. "Wouldn't let her alone. Clingy—that's what she said. Always with the calls, demanding she come see you, making with the threats. How you were going to fix her good."

Leland dropped the lighter.

"Yes, I called your wife," Vic said. "What would you have me do? My wife was in tears, fearing for her life. She said it was the only way to get you off her back. And she was right, wasn't she? You didn't cause her any more bother after that. You want someone to blame in all of this, buddy, go look in a mirror."

Leland pulled the black-handled hunting knife from his side pocket. Vic's bulging eyes fixed on the serrated blade

At the same moment, Elana blew a strand of hair from out of her eye-line, both hands on the wheel. Talk about an error of judgment. What had prompted her to deviate from the plan like that? The moment she had blasted the goon in self-defense, the idea had formed in her mind. Take out DeShawn, and the hooker. Shooting the goon had required no effort, just a squeeze of the trigger. Easy. And the goon would require medical attention. Hospital staff would notify the authorities the moment they dug the hollow-point from his collarbone.

Assuming he would go to the nearest hospital, she figured, if she dropped DeShawn and Miley, the suspicion would fall on the injured goon. Guy with a record gets plugged, and two bodies get discovered in the general vicinity. Sure, the police wouldn't have enough to charge him with, but detectives would figure they had their culprit. Case closed. And the only two people with nothing to fear from talking to the cops about the kidnapping plot would be dead. Except, DeShawn and Miley were both alive, and both bearing a serious grudge.

What to do now?

She could run. Three hundred grand in the trunk. But running had never been part of the plan. The plan had been to make the drop, with DeShawn as a witness for when the Spanish police came questioning. Then, it would be back home to the US for her. Talk to the Feds, get them to track down the $50 million in bit-coin Vic had hidden somewhere in the dark realms of cyberspace. Uncle Sam had a vested interest in recovering the money, what with Vic outstanding tax debt.

So, she had DeShawn make the drop as per the kidnappers instructions. But, as she sat waiting in the Jag, shed time to ruminate. What if the Feds could never locate Vic's fortune? What if it was lost forever in the black hole of some encrypted account on the dark web? And why should she allow that scheming whore and her criminal pals walk away with three hundred grand of her money? DeShawn warned her against making a move. Told her she was being. Said forget about the cash. Easy to adopt that attitude when you never had any to begin with.

And what about DeShawn? The unknown variable. He had overheard her conversation with Leland, so why hadn't he done anything about it? Why go along with the charade of accompanying her here when he could have called the police?

That puzzled her. What was his angle?

People are more susceptible to manipulation if you understand their motivation. The shyster lawyer was putty in her hands from the moment he confided in her of his debt to the Dutch gangster. He would do anything for money. And not much less for the touch of an attractive female. The first thing the DSS agent said to her at the airport; Your bastard husband killed my wife, eyes brimming with vengeful fantasies. The big bull would run through walls to get his revenge. But what did DeShawn hope to gain?

Sex? No, not once in all the time they had shared the same roof. DeShawn wasn't about mixing business with pleasure. Status? DeShawn was no social climber. Hell, he wouldn't climb a set of stairs unless he had to. Leaving only the old reliable; money.

That presented a problem; Elana had zero intention of sharing.

A cool breeze blew through the open window, Elana's white Versace blouse billowing against her chest. She glanced at the gold timepiece on her wrist. Smiled. Time to start referring to her husband in the past tense. Leland would probably be in his hired car about now, making his way to Alicante airport. About to board a flight back to the States.

Let DeShawn talk. What could he say? And who would believe a domestic with a rap-sheet for cocaine possession and car-jacking over the upstanding daughter of a diplomat? As for the cheap hooker, maybe Elana would break out the old stalker story again. Had her dear departed husband eating out of her hand when she'd spun that one all those years ago.

Or maybe she'd hire a hitman to rub them both out. That sleazeball lawyer knew shady people. And he was in no position to turn her down with what she had on him. Could be the hooker and the help conspired to kidnap her husband, and were themselves the victims of a falling out with their fellow conspirators. Yes, that worked for her.