Not yet, Shane thinks, taking it all in, but when the time comes, this will do. There’s still the small matter of having to win a multistate lottery, but what the heck, a man can dream.

He tries a French door that exits onto the patio and is not entirely surprised to find it unlocked. No screaming siren, no flashing lights, so he assumes the security system is not armed. As his eyes adjust to the dim light he finds himself in what must be the master bedroom. The oversize bed designed to look like it’s floating over marble floor. Sleek matching furniture, beautifully lacquered and illuminated by discrete cove lighting. Louvered door to what he assumes is a walk-in closet, and the typical master bath that’s big enough to park an extra SUV if the garage ever gets filled up.

He checks out the walk-in. One side jammed with a young woman’s clothing, size six and under. The other side more sparsely populated with white guayaberras, khaki cargo pants, a few muscle shirts, and a neat selection of Tommy Bahama silk tropicals that have either never been worn or are fresh from the dry cleaners. Gives him a picture of Mr. Ricky Lang and his wife or girlfriend, but the real purpose of searching a closet is to locate hidden assets like safes, file boxes or firearms. Especially firearms. Ninety percent of gun owners stash their weapons in a closet.

He checks all the likely spots. Then all the unlikely spots. The place is clean. Either the suspect is not in fact a bad boy, or he keeps his toys and weapons elsewhere.

It’s while he’s in the closet that Shane feels a faint thump resonate through the cedar-lined wall. Like someone tossed a tennis ball in an adjacent room. Or dropped a shoe.

Silence follows, but Shane instantly understands that he has miscalculated. Despite his initial assessment, he is not alone in the house. That’s when he decides to call Mrs. Garner, give her the name and address, ask her to share it with Special Agent Healy, a precaution he should have taken before venturing up the driveway.

Serious about wanting a lawyer on standby, he has no intention of letting himself be arrested, not inside the house. Helps that he didn’t damage a lock or slice a screen, because if need be he can argue that he was invited into the residence, plead a misunderstanding.

The old vampire defense—your honor, he asked me in.

When the call to Jane is completed, Shane slips the cell phone into his pocket. He’s bending down, preparing to recon through the slats of the louvered door, when a sizable fist comes crashing through the louvers and into his nose.

Knocking him down but not quite out.

The pink fog means the nose has been broken—not for the first time—but what really concerns him are two indisputable facts: the man wielding the fist is immensely strong and knows how to punch, and has in his possession a Glock G37, which typically holds ten.45 caliber rounds in the magazine.

Shane knows this because the short barrel of the gun is about eighteen inches away, aiming at his broken nose.

“So which is it?” asks the man with the gun. “You sniffing panties or jock straps? Or maybe both?”

The thing about a broken nose is that the pain is beyond belief for a couple of minutes before it subsides to bearable. Making it hard to think clearly, or formulate replies to leading questions. So rather than make any rash decisions—like, say, attempting to disarm his assailant—Shane prudently decides to rest on his haunches and bleed for a while.

The light is behind his assailant, rendering him into a bulky silhouette that fills the closet doorway. Even at that, the description more or less matches the one given by Tony Carlos, the casino security chief: What is it you Anglos say? Built like a brick shithouse? That’s Ricky Lang. Some people think he looks like one of the Three Stooges. Others call him The Hulk. Personally I find him just plain scary.

“You’re a big mother,” the hulking figure observes, emphasizing with the Glock. “Nothing in there is your size. Doubtful you could even fit one of Myla’s little thongs on that big fat head of yours.”

Shane gets the impression that, despite the taunting, his assailant knows full well he’s dealing with more than a common intruder. Having a little fun with him while he decides what to do next. Call the cops? Report a break-in? Shoot?

Florida’s Stand Your Ground law is pretty clear. A home owner can shoot and kill an intruder if he believes the intruder represents a danger to his person. No obligation to retreat. No actual weapon or threat required, simply the impression of danger. And what person would not assume danger, having come upon an intruder?

Fire away, the law implies. Shoot ‘em if you got ‘em.

As the throbbing in his head subsides to no more than a common jackhammer, Shane decides he has nothing to gain by silence or denial. “You Ricky Lang?” he asks, his tongue so thick in his mouth he sounds drunk.

His assailant laughs. “What, you got my name off the mailbox?”

“It’s not on the mailbox,” Shane points out. “Can I get up? Maybe get a cold washcloth?”

“Nah,” says Lang. “You messed up enough of my stuff already. Can’t have you spoiling the washcloths.”

“Fine,” says Shane, wadding his shirttail and using it to stanch the blood.

“Come on out, but crawl. If you stand up or move quick, I’ll shoot,” Lang warns, backing up.

Shane works his way through the door. Calculations for escape or counterattack running through his mind. Maybe try a feint, get the gun hand moving, leap the other way. But moves like that work in the movies, not in real life. In real life Lang, who clearly knows how to handle a gun, will put a bullet in his spine.

One of the disadvantages of being large, he makes a bigger target.

Having crawled out of the closet as instructed, Shane remains on his haunches. That will give him an opportunity to launch himself at Lang if he gets the chance. Also he can bleed on the marble floor, leaving his DNA marker in the cracks between the close-fitting tiles. Little gift for the crime-scene technicians, if it comes to that.

“Stop right there,” Lang orders. “Stay on your knees.”

Shane stops, letting his nose drip. His eyes are swollen from the blow but his vision has cleared and the light is such that he can finally focus on his assailant, who has perched on the edge of the oversize bed, the Glock never wavering.

Strong arms, to hold a weapon so steadily with one rocksolid hand. The average civilian has no idea of the difficulty, holding and aiming a large-bore handgun. Thirty-five ounces may not sound like much—a little more than two pounds fully loaded—but the compact weight, held in an outstretched hand, soon becomes massive. Gravity is unrelenting. The hand tends to drop, the forearm muscles compensate by raising, tightening. Muscles start twitching and the hand wavers or trembles. Officers are trained to brace the wrist with the other hand, but even with two hands, wavering or trembling can’t be avoided for long.

Ricky Lang does not waver or tremble.

Perched on the edge of the bed, grinning as if he’s just heard the best joke in the world, Lang does indeed resemble a Native American version of Moe Howard. Mostly because of the thick black hair, the crude bowl-cut that leaves glossy bangs covering his forehead. The Hulk description works, too. Something about his broad sloping shoulders, the over-amped lats and biceps, the narrow waist and powerful legs. Bare feet adding to the effect, as if the man was continually bursting out of his shoes.

Shane figures that in a fair fight—if such a thing ever exists—he might well prevail, using his own considerable strength and relying on his added leverage. But in close combat, an eye-gouging, throat crushing fight to the death, Ricky Lang would be exceedingly dangerous. Might come down to who lands the first damaging blow.