He blew a breath outside the door, paused to check the men behind him. They had already pulled on their masks, and in the dim light he could make out only the gleam of eyes and pistols. Bobby and Will seemed anxious, adrenaline jitters, but Marshall had that predatory slowness. Cobra cool, ready to strike.

Jack smiled. Shrugged his shoulders, slipped on his own mask, the fabric trapping breath hot against his lips. Let the rush run through him. Embraced it, that edge when everything was sharp and of consequence.

He put a hand on the knob and turned.

WHAT WAS he doing here?

Bobby felt like the veins in his forehead must be about to pop, his heart was banging so hard. He tried to swallow, his throat like sand. He wanted to rub his palms against his suit pants but didn’t want to take off the gloves.

This wasn’t his first job, nothing like. He’d helped Jack before: late-night warehouse load-outs where the night watchman turned the other way for a C-note. Or jumping the manager of a bar on his way to deposit the night’s take. Beating down those two Latinos who had tried to cheat his big brother. Not like he was squeamish. But this, to walk into a room with masks and guns?

It’ll be fun. Jack’s voice played in his head. The Brothers Witkowski, rolling hard. Just follow my lead, it’ll be over before you know it.

He took a deep breath.

You’re a bad man.

Jack threw the door open, and he and Marshall stormed in.

A group of pretty boys stared wide-eyed from a pile of pillows where two girls were getting it on. Will was right: Both of them were better looking than any naked girl he’d seen outside a magazine. The Star sat at a low table with a well-dressed black guy, a case open between them, the Star holding a playing card an inch from his nose, and his panic exhale sent white powder billowing out like a summer cloud rolling across the plains.

“Go!” Will said, behind him.

Go, Bobby said to himself. Move your feet. He felt a trickle roll down his side. His hands trembled.

“Goddamn amateur,” Will said, and pushed past, his gun out and up, yelling at the second black guy, a gangster-looking dude who froze with his hand almost to the butt of his pistol.

The scene was surreal, guns waving in this swank space, the beats turning everything into a music video. There were more people than Bobby had pictured, five or six friends of the Star, plus the girls, the bodyguard, and the drug dealers, a lot to manage. Jack was right, they needed four. Hot shame flushed through his bowels. Go in.

Then he saw one of the pretty boys starting forward, champagne bottle in hand. He was heading toward Jack, who had his back turned, his attention on the bodyguard. Bobby’s legs unlocked. He burst in the door and whipped his gun across the kid’s face, putting all his fear and rage into the move, the impact jarring and strangely intimate, something cracking beneath the metal, a sudden warmth against his glove as the boy went down, Bobby half wanting to follow him swinging, break every bone in his face for threatening his big brother.

Instead he stepped back and raised the Smith, swung it in an arc to cover the rest of the entourage. “Don’t you fucking move.” It felt good, the fear turning to power. I am a bad man.

Jack glanced over his shoulder, nodded. “All right.” He stepped forward, his gun raised. “All right. Hands on your heads. Do it now.”

For what seemed like a long moment, no one moved. Then the black drug dealer lifted his hands slow and laced them behind his head. The motion seemed to jar the rest of them, and they followed suit.

All except the Star.

“THIS IS A JOKE, right? I’m being Punk’d.” The little brat smirked, too rich and stupid for his own good.

The tightness in Jack’s chest cranked up a notch. Without moving the gun, he wound up and slapped the Star hard with his other hand. The kid staggered, came back up clutching his cheek, eyes wet, lips quivering like he’d never taken a hit in his life. Probably hadn’t. “Hands on your head.” When the boy did it, Jack said, “The rest of you. Against the wall. Move.”

The group shuffled over, fear-dumb. Jack gestured to Marshall and Will, who moved to cover them. Over his shoulder he said, “Get the bags.”

His brother kicked pillows aside, grabbed the open sack of cocaine and the playing card and dumped them in the case, then slammed the lid. Jack kept his eyes lasered on the Star. Not blinking. Watching this movie hero fall apart in front of him, turn from a powerful man into a whimpering child.

Bobby whistled. “Holy shit.”

Jack let his eyes dart sideways to where his brother knelt over the second case, the one the Star had brought. “What?”

“It’s more than we thought. Jesus.” Huffing a breath. “Jesus, it’s a lot.”

Jack raised the pistol to center on the Star’s face. “How much?”

“W-what?”

He rocked the hammer back. “How much. How much in the case?”

“F-f-four hundred.”

He fought to keep his jaw from dropping. They’d gone in expecting about fifty. Split four ways, that would have been a good take for the work. “Four hundred. Four hundred thousand dollars.” Jack shook his head. “What the fuck do you need with four hundred grand in cash?”

“It’s just, just” – the Star hesitated – “you know, walking-around money.”

Jack stared, one lip curling against the mask. “Walking-around money.”

The Star looked at him, looked down. “Take it. We won’t tell the cops anything, I swear-”

“Cops?” He snorted. “What would you say? That you got robbed buying blow?”

The Star opened his mouth, then shut it, staring down the barrel of the gun.

“Jesus.” Bobby whispered again.

“Close it up.” Jack kept his voice cool, but the rush pounded through him now, the job, the adrenaline, four hundred thousand dollars. He gestured the Star back to join the others. “All of you. Turn and face the wall.” He gave it half a beat, then shouted, “Now!”

The civilians went first. One of the boys started to cry softly, just whimpers, but he faced the wall. The drug dealers exchanged a look, then turned around also. Lastly the bodyguard spun.

“Tie them.”

Will took plastic zips from his pocket, and he and Marshall started working their way down the line. Jack kept his gun out and up. He looked over at Bobby kneeling on the floor, fiddling with the latches of the case. Their eyes met, and he smiled at his brother, something filling his chest, joy, and he could see it mirrored in Bobby, an unspoken whoop that stretched between them.

MARSHALL STEPPED BEHIND MALACHI, put the.22 to the back of the man’s head. “I set the trigger pull on this to nothing,” he said. “Tiniest twitch, it’s all over.”

“I hear you.” The man calm.

“All we’re doing is tying you.”

“Go ahead.”

Marshall nodded to Will, who took the man’s hands from his head, guided them behind his back, and zip-tied them. Then he knelt to do the same to the man’s ankles.

“I can tell y’all are pros.” Malachi spoke with his face to the wall. “So am I. Just so you know.”

“And?”

“Things will go easier all around if you leave my merchandise.”

Marshall leaned a little, let him taste the.22. “Why would we do that?”

The drug dealer didn’t flinch. “Call it professional courtesy.”

“I’ll think about it.” Marshall gestured to Will. They moved down the line to the bodyguard.

As he worked, Marshall saw double. One part saw backs of heads, knots in muscles, beads of sticky sweat on necks. The other saw the pool at Caesars, a pretty waitress in Roman garb running him whiskey, the sun on his chest and his eyes on the sports boards.

When it happened, it was faster than he’d expected. The bodyguard let Will take one of his hands, started to go along, but then ducked and twisted back, Will yelping as the guard reversed the hold, forcing the smaller man to his knees.