Excerpt

...I’d given my Glock to Crisco, showed him how to point it with conviction. I’d handle a Smith & Wesson .12-gauge pump with noise suppressor and the Ruger peashooter. A deputy at the beach, three or four miles away through trees, wouldn’t hear the shotgun go off.

Slats called at one thirty to report the pickup westbound from the casino, giving us thirty minutes or so if the driver stopped at the mine to load. Crisco duct-taped the license plates, and we waited behind the Chevy. I felt clammy with sweat despite the damp and chill, back muscles tensing, heart rate spiking. I flexed my fingers and wondered what could be going through Crisco’s mind. 

“Remember, keep the gun on them all the time. They’ll think you know what you’re doing.”

We heard the diesel engine and pulled down ski masks. Seconds later the pickup slowed and stopped twenty feet away. I ran up to the hood, fired a high-brass shell into the windshield, above center. Two guys in the cab flung themselves toward the doors, unhurt because the gun’s full-choke barrel kept scatter softball-tight from close range.

“Hands on the dash. Now.” I was yelling. “On the dash or you’re dead.”

Hands went to the dash, and with that Crisco and I dodged our own bullet: they hadn’t forced me to shoot them. They’d be brickin’ it bigtime, guessing what I’d do, desperate. I kept the shotgun aimed, hollered at Crisco to stand next to me.

To the men in the truck, “If I can’t see your hands, I shoot. Understand?” They looked at each other, nodded. With the headlights on, I couldn’t make out expressions.

I told Crisco to open the driver’s door, move away, keep his gun on them. “Now slide out. One behind the other. If your hands go down, I shoot. Do it now.”

They got out and stood with hands high. I kicked the door shut, told them to spread their feet and lean on their hands against the fender. They assumed the position. Crisco got in from the passenger side and killed the headlights, came around and frisked both men. He pulled a hunting knife from a sheath in the driver’s boot and sidearmed it into the woods.

I checked the time and asked the driver, “How long before the deputy at the beach expects you?” The driver just looked at me. I aimed the gun at his chest, repeated the question. 

“Soon.”

Crisco banged his head opening the compartment doors, teetered when one of them swung out. He shined a flashlight inside, gave a thumbs-up. Mr. Cool Bouncer was panting a breath cloud, movements rushed and jerky. He kept tugging at the mask around his eyes. The men traded looks, something passing between them. They could’ve been twins, medium height and lean, shoulder-length hair. The driver shuffled his feet together and checked my reaction. I wiggled the shotgun at him.

“You guys walk, hands in the air, to the back of the truck.” They obeyed. “Now unload the drugs, walk them over to the Chevy. Do it quick, and if I see any weird moves, I shoot.”

“You’ll never get away with this.” 

“Original. Bet you aced bad guys school. Move.”

They straightened up and went inside the compartment. Crisco gripped the Glock with both hands like he had a cobra by the neck. The men picked up bundles and started for the Chevy.

“Stop. Pile them there, behind the truck instead.” They dropped them on the gravel, went in for more. Neither said a word.

“Hold up again.” I didn’t like both Indians inside together. “One of you go in, hand bundles to your buddy outside.”

My face and neck boiled under the mask, cardiac oompah infusing every muscle. “Guys, pick it up. Somebody rides out here to the rescue, all it means is you die first.” Arms aching from hoisting the shotgun, I backed off three paces and held it at my waist.

Soon a couple million bucks worth of drugs lay at our feet. Crisco closed the compartment doors, got in the cab, fumbled for the ignition. The men had edged away from each other. Could they be fool enough to try to jump me? 

I waved the gun barrel, and they closed the gap. “Down on your knees. Hands behind your head.” They complied.

Crisco started the pickup, revved the engine for some reason, and eased it into the ditch. He got out flinging the door shut, bounded out of the ditch and fell face first, the Glock tumbling into the road. One of the Pomos snickered. Sheer lunacy to even consider giving him bullets. He got to his feet, picked up the gun, took the wheel of the Chevy, hurry-up mode now, a man who wanted this to be over. He backed next to the drugs, got out and opened the rear hatch. 

I raised the shotgun, “Off your knees but real slow. Load the drugs in back.” Crisco brought rope and tape from the Chevy and, drugs loaded, I told the Pomos to bury their hands in their jean pockets.

Crisco stuck the Glock in his belt and walked behind the driver. The Indian whirled, slugged him in the head, wrestled for the gun. The other Pomo sprang toward me. I fired over his head and yelled, “Get the fuck back! On the ground!”

His partner aimed the Glock at me and squeezed the trigger...