Anna stood a few feet away, one hand still holding her keys, the other at her side and behind, as if preparing to catch herself. “What money?”

“You know what money, Anna.”

She hesitated, then said, “It’s not here.”

“Where is it?”

“Somewhere safe.”

No, Tom thought, no, don’t get cute with him, he’ll –

Jack’s left hand lashed out in a wicked slap. From his chair, Tom saw her head jerk sideways, saw the force ripple through her body, and he leapt to his feet without thinking, instinct mingling with pure hate. But Jack was a move ahead of him, the gun swinging over to point at his chest. Tom thought about going for it. Wanted to. But there was no way he could cover the distance.

Icy. He had to be icy. Cold and hard and able to bear what Jack dealt, so that when the moment came, he could act. He lowered his arms.

Jack nodded, kept the gun where it was, but looked at Anna. “Let’s try this again, honey. This time, if I don’t like your answer, I’m going to shoot your husband. Now, where-”

“Upstairs. It’s upstairs.” The words tumbled from Anna’s lips.

“Show me.” He gestured with the pistol. “You too.”

Tom’s mind was racing. Once they gave him the money, there was no reason Jack wouldn’t kill them. They’d seen his face, heard him talk. And for a man who was used to pulling the trigger, what were two more bodies? He would have to move first. Soon. The weight of the knife in his pocket was a comfort. His fingers screamed to reach for it, but he made himself stand still.

“Let’s go.” Jack gestured. Tom moved to the entryway of their building. Through the glass doors of the vestibule he could see their porch, and beyond it, the street. A woman walked by with a dog, a blue plastic bag dangling heavy from one hand. Normal life, ten feet away. It made him want to scream.

“Move.”

Anna opened the door and started up, Tom following, and behind them Jack. Like they were landlords again, just showing the place to a prospective tenant. Two baths, plenty of street parking, a washer and dryer in the basement. Want to see the back porch, or would you rather just shoot us? Panic thoughts he didn’t have time for. The steps fell away one at a time. His legs tingled, and his palms itched. Soon. He’d never used a knife in anger before, wondered how best to hold it.

But when Anna opened the door, hope quickened in Tom’s chest. Besides the usual squeak of the hinges, there came a series of three quick beeps. The alarm system.

Jack heard it too. He hustled them inside, closed the door behind, his mouth set hard. “Turn it off.”

Beep.

Anna started for it. Tom said, “Don’t.” She hesitated. Jack whirled on him, stepped forward, raising the gun.

Beep.

Tom said, “He’s going to kill us. After we give him the money, he’s going to kill us.”

Jack said, “Turn off the alarm, Anna. Do it now.”

Beep.

The three of them stood frozen. Tom had his hand against the hem of his pocket, but couldn’t move, didn’t dare, not while Jack stared at him.

Beep.

“Goddamnit,” Jack said, his voice irritated more than angry. He stepped forward and put the barrel of the gun under Tom’s chin, then turned to Anna. “Turn it off.”

It was the best chance he was likely to get. Tom dug into his pocket, fingers grazing the ridged plastic of the handle, twisting his body at the same time, his first thought to get out of the line of fire, his second to bring the knife up. Time went liquid, and he could see everything at once without any of it really registering, a twitch around Jack’s eyes as he sensed Tom’s motion, the counter-slosh throbbing of his head as he jerked back fast, another beep from the alarm panel, Anna’s mouth opening to scream, the faint hitch as the knife snagged the edge of his pocket, slowing him down. His chin passed over the gun even as Jack pulled the trigger, a roar like the world breaking, but no pain.

Then he had the knife clear of his pocket, and lunged forward, not planning anything fancy, just stabbing underhanded as hard as he could. He saw Jack twisting too, left arm coming down, and Tom tried to adjust, to make it to the stomach, but Jack was too quick, his forearm slammed into Tom’s hand, weird with resistance and suddenly wet as the blade cut flesh. Jack roared and spun, bringing his gun hand up in a gut punch. The breath blew from Tom’s lungs, and he struggled to swing the knife again, but Jack stepped into him, a hard shoulder-check that knocked him back. His feet caught, and then he was down, the knife bouncing away. Jack dropped to crouch on his chest, the gun unwavering on Tom’s forehead. He was panting, and his eyes blazed, and something wet dripped onto Tom’s face.

Everything was still, just the three of them locked in the ear-ringing aftermath of violence.

Beep.

Jack said, “Turn off the goddamn alarm.”

“Okay,” she said, stepping to the panel. “I’m doing it. Don’t hurt him.” Her fingers danced quickly over the keys, and the beeping died.

MARSHALL JERKED UPRIGHT IN HIS SEAT, one hand on the shotgun, one on the door handle, lips open, leaning forward, poised, waiting. To a civilian, that might have sounded like anything, a firecracker, a truck backfiring, but he knew it for what it was. He waited to hear the second shot.

Nothing. He sucked air through his teeth and stared down the block. One shot. That was strange. The plan had been that after Jack got the money, he’d tell Tom and Anna to lie down, then put a bullet in each of their brains. Nothing personal, just business.

Maybe Jack had needed to kill one of them to coerce the other. Marshall leaned back in the seat. One shot wouldn’t bring the cops. Neither would a second or a third, most likely. It was the kind of neighborhood where people never assumed the worst.

Still. If he was wrong. If one of them had managed to get the gun away from Jack or get to a phone. Sitting on Will Tuttle’s block with an illegal shotgun and half the police looking for him? Bad place to be. The smart thing would be to take off. But the money was inside that house. He knew it, knew it in his gut. If he left now, he cut himself out of the take.

Marshall took out a cigarette, spun it between his fingers. “Come on, Jack,” he said. “Come on.”

JACK’S LEFT ARM THROBBED, a heat timed to his heartbeat. Without taking the gun off Tom, he twisted his arm to get a look. Shit. It was a pretty good slash, five diagonal inches across the top of his forearm, the skin puckered and pulled away to reveal pink tissue. Blood came free, and wiggling his fingers sent shocks down his spine.

Where had the fucker gotten a knife? If it hadn’t snagged as he was pulling it out… Jesus. Something nagged at him, but he couldn’t place it. No time. Things were getting out of hand. “Now.”

Anna said, “It’s in the heating vent.”

“Which one?”

“The kitchen.”

He nodded, stood slowly, his eyes on Tom. “Let’s go.” Forcing the pain away. Let them think he couldn’t be wounded, that he was stronger than they could imagine. Fear was good. He tried to think things through, see every angle. The gunshot would have been heard for a block. Marshall would have heard it. Would he split?

If he did, he did. One thing at a time. The vent was high on the wall, just shy of the ten-foot ceiling. “You have a screwdriver?”

Tom said nothing, but his wife was smarter, said, “There’s a cordless in the toolkit.”

The toolkit. He’d noticed it downstairs, in the hallway. Of course. That was where the knife came from. Tom had seemed so cowed, Jack had figured him for a wimp. Turned out the guy had a backbone after all.

Focus. “Do you have one up here?”

She hesitated, then said, “There’s a regular one in the kitchen drawer.”