I’m shaking my head midway through his speech. “That makes no sense. First of all, Vicky didn’t have a ‘Lauren problem’ until a couple days ago. And second, for the last two months, Vicky has been thinking about two things and two things only—grabbing that money and grabbing my cock. I fuck her like she’s never been fucked in her life, and in her mind, I’m the guy who can quadruple her money, too. This is what I do. I draw in my targets. I’ve never missed. I’m not missing now.”

I pull the Glock with the silencer out of my gym bag. Gavin marks a spot, about ten feet away.

“Besides,” I say, “I’m too close to that money now. I’m not letting some blondie shake her ass for Simon and fuck me out of it. Whatever the risk, it’s worth it. It’s twenty-one million dollars, G. Nothing is risk-free. If something happens down the road and we hit a bump, we’ll figure it out.”

—

I aim the gun at the empty soda can resting on top of the tree stump, and fire. A popping sound, nothing remotely approaching the sound you’d expect from firing a bullet. The silencer works just fine. The problem is the person firing the gun.

The soda can and tree stump, ten paces away, sit undisturbed.

“It’s harder to aim with a suppressor,” says Gavin. “You can’t see the sights as clearly.”

“I can’t hit anything. I’m zero for five.”

“Yeah, but I’m making you shoot a soda can from ten feet away,” he says. “You’ll be shooting at a person’s body from two feet away. It’s hard to miss. Just aim for center mass and shoot. You won’t miss. I’d fire several times, if it were me. The mag holds seventeen rounds. Bang-bang-bang. Just keep firing.”

I drop the gun to my side. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Hey, look at that,” Gavin says. I follow his eyes to a nearby tree, a spare tire hanging from a tree branch, a makeshift swing.

“That would be a good backup,” he says. “You always need a backup plan, right?”

“I’ll drop an inner tube on her head?”

“No, dipshit, the rope.” Gavin walks over to the tree, looks up at it. “You can tie the rope around your waist. That would look right for a Grim Reaper costume, anyway.”

“A rope for a backup? How about a knife or something?”

“No, no, no.” He shakes his head. “A knife is no good. You don’t want to use a knife. Too much of a chance that you cut yourself and leave DNA behind, or maybe you get her blood on you. A rope is bloodless. Yeah,” he says, “this rope is a good backup.”

“So—if I can’t shoot straight with the gun, I strangle her with a rope?”

“Well, yeah, if it comes to that.” He feels the rope, knotted every foot or so, hanging about eight, ten feet down from a thick tree branch. “Yeah, I like this rope. Good traction on it with the knots. And it already has a noose.”

“A noose? Jesus Christ, G, there’s no way I can do that.”

“Once you start, you have to finish, Nicky. If anything goes wrong—”

“What’s gonna go wrong?”

“Well, shit, I don’t know,” he says. “All I know is it makes sense to have a backup plan. Help me take that rope down.”

I can’t believe this. I can’t believe any of this. But there’s no turning back now.

Twenty-one million dollars. It’s Lauren or me.

67

Vicky

Sunday morning. October 30. The day before Halloween.

Just another day, another workout, as I power walk in my workout gear, AirPods in my ears, and I just happen to stop to check my phone, to have a pretend phone conversation, outside the home of one Lauren Betancourt on Lathrow Avenue in Grace Village, Illinois.

I won’t spend long here. It’s way too close to D-Day. I walk in a small circle, saying, “I know, right?” and “You think you were surprised. You should have seen my face!” I’m animated, even laughing a little.

But all I need is a quick glance on the south side of Lauren’s house, by the gangway and the large privacy fence.

It’s still open. The window, presumably to the kitchen. It’s been open, by my count, for more than eight consecutive days. Which means she just keeps it open all the time. Doesn’t even think about it.

It’s not at eye level. Looks like a stepladder or some lawn chair or bench or something will be necessary to reach it. That’s more difficult. That’s risky.

But it is, without a doubt, a way into her house.

68

Simon

I lace up my running shoes at 7:30 p.m. My longer run for the weekend, saving it for tonight, Sunday night, a fourteen-miler.

Much as I love running through the west side of Chicago, I can’t deny the violence that plagues these neighborhoods, that it’s not the safest idea to be jogging along the street in the dark on a weekend night. The Halloween decorations don’t help my nerves, the ghouls and witches and scream faces.