Michael took his eyes off Elena; felt his cold center expand. What was the trigger pull on a Remington twelve gauge? Three and half pounds? Less? He looked at Stevan, spread on the tractor. Most of his face was gone, fingers clipped off and lying in the dirt. Hours of work, there. Lots of screaming, lots of noise. Jimmy had hung a mirror so that Stevan could watch the work on his face. That meant Jimmy had felt free to take his time, enjoy himself. Michael guessed that whoever else had come south with Stevan was dead now, too. Jimmy wouldn’t run the risk, not with Stevan alive. “I think we understand each other.”
“Weapons on the ground, please.” Michael removed both guns, placed them on the ground. “Kick them away.” Michael did as he was told. “Lift the shirt.” Michael did it. “Pant legs.” Michael did that, too. “What’s with the book?”
Michael lifted it. “It’s Otto’s.” Jimmy hesitated, hand tight on the dowel. “The numbers you want are inside.”
“All of them? Accounts. Passwords. Routing numbers?”
“Everything you need.”
Michael watched Jimmy’s mind churn. He wanted to hold the book, check the numbers, but his hands were literally full. He gestured with the gun. “If the woman would step out where I can see her better…”
“It’s okay,” Michael said. “Just do as he asks. Nice and slow.”
Abigail stepped sideways, duffel bag at her side.
Jimmy cocked his head. “That doesn’t look like ten million dollars.”
“It’s just a start,” she said. “I can get the rest.”
“How fast?”
“I just need a computer.”
“Bring it closer.”
Abigail glanced at Michael, who nodded. She walked closer, and when Jimmy told her to stop, she did.
“Drop it there.”
The bag landed in soft, dry dirt.
Jimmy took his hand off the dowel and stepped out of the shadows. His shirt was bloodstained under the left armpit, his nose swollen and split. Other than that, his eyes had the same cold, crazy light Michael had seen so many times. The man was a narcissist and a psychopath, an unpredictable, deadly son of a bitch. He pulled a second pistol from his belt, kept one trained on Michael and pointed the other at Abigail’s face. “Open it.”
She looked scared, uncertain.
“Get on your knees and open it.”
Abigail felt the lump of steel at her waist. Something sharp dug into her skin, but all she cared about was the gun in her face. It had a giant, black muzzle, a circle with a silver sheen on its edge and a center that was dark and deep and smelled of burned powder. It moved, and her eyes followed it as they would a snake. Left and right, small circles. She felt the same vibration at the back of her skull. Headache. Dizziness.
“Open it!”
Jimmy thumbed back the hammer, leaned in so the muzzle was inches from her right eye. Abigail stared into it. She swayed once, then told her knees to bend. They were stiff; they fought. But once they bent, they broke fast. Her legs failed, and she hit the dirt, hard.
Hair swung over her face.
The thirty-eight fell out of her pants.
Before Abigail could move or blink or utter a word, Jimmy kicked her in the head, sent her sprawling in the dust. He kept a gun on Michael. “Uh-uh.” Michael forced himself to stillness. Jimmy kicked Abigail in the ribs, drove her on her side, where she rolled halfway to the wall. He took quick strides; kicked her again. She came off the ground and hit a wall covered with tools. A shovel fell, the handle cracking her on the head. Metal rattled and scraped. A sledgehammer toppled on its side. A jar of nails spilled with the sound of dull, metal chimes. Jimmy waited, but Abigail didn’t move. She slumped, on all fours. Her head hung loosely, eyes swimming. He tapped her on the head with the barrel of his gun. “Stay there, you crazy bitch.” He looked at Michael. “Can you believe that? Jeez. People.”
Michael risked a glance at Elena, then back at Jimmy. “I didn’t know she had that.”
“You think?” Sarcastic. Biting. “I didn’t train you to trust a woman with a gun. Jesus. Give them anything more dangerous than a salad fork, and they’re liable to ruin somebody’s day.” He tucked one of the pistols back into his belt. “Now, where was I?” He looked at the bag of cash. “Ah.”
Jimmy stooped for the bag. Michael surveyed the room. His pistols were seven feet away, which may as well be the moon, fast as Jimmy was. A collection of knives and other edged instruments sat on a table by Stevan, but again, too far. He looked at Abigail. She was breathing, eyes open, but barely. Near her were axes and scythes and sickles. He’d never get his hands on them.
Across the room, Elena was crying.
Jimmy lifted the duffel, and kicked the thirty-eight into the far corner of the barn. A smile lit his face. Account numbers were great and all, but there was something about cash-and he could see large, green bundles of it. “You never cared enough about money.” He stood with the bag, waved the pistol. “That was always your problem, Michael. Priorities. The scale of your ambition. I could never get you to see past Otto Kaitlin, to see the things you could be.”
“We had the same job, Jimmy, did the same things.”
“But I was never content. That’s the difference between big men and small. You’d have been Otto’s whipping boy for the rest of your life.”
“Otto was a great man.”
“Otto fed you scraps.” He shook his head, disgusted. “But you took it, didn’t you? You were all about family this and family that. Otto never loved you like you think he did.”
“And yet he left his money to me.”
“But it’s not all about money, is it? It’s about being more. About seeing and taking and making the world
“With you as king?”
“Who’s more your father than me? Otto may have found you, but I made you.” He gestured at Elena. “She understands. She gets it. That’s why this is such a disappointment. You used to care about family.”
“Family? Are you serious?”
“It’s not too late. You can have the girl. We can still do great things.”
“Don’t screw with me, Jimmy. I know you better than that.”
“Well, okay. She’d have to die. But you and me…” He grinned. “No one would stand against us.”
“I just want us all to walk out of here alive.”
“That’s your answer?” His voice hardened. “That’s your sole ambition?”
“Take the money, Jimmy.”
“You really think that’s all I care about, don’t you?” He stepped toward Stevan, spread on the tractor. “You’re the one who made this personal. You’re the one who left. And for what? A woman?”
“It’s a lot of money.” Michael spread his fingers. “Just let us go.”
“You never change, do you? Always in control.”
“Just like you taught me.”
“Always chilly.” Jimmy kept the gun trained on Michael as he heaved the bag up and dropped it squarely on Stevan’s bloody stomach. “This guy, though…” Jimmy patted Stevan’s ruined face, smiled. “Finally good for something.”
He looked back at the cash, and Stevan-tortured, skinless and half-dead-turned his head and sank perfect, white teeth into the meat of Jimmy’s hand.
