“You have twelve million dollars in cash sitting in the vault under the dry cleaners on Fourth Street.”

“My boys are on their way there now.”

“By tomorrow morning, the Maroni family will own the shipping lanes.”

“And you will be sitting in a holding cell in lower Manhattan.”

Arthur screamed in frustration.

He swung the gun away from my head, pointing it directly at Julian.

“I’ll kill you first!” he yelled.

I didn’t wait for him to pull the trigger.

I threw my weight backward, driving my heel down onto Arthur’s foot.

My elbow slammed into his ribs.

The wet wool of his coat cushioned the blow, but it was enough to throw him off balance.

He stumbled on the slick wooden floor.

The gun went off.

The sound was deafening inside the small cabin.

The bullet shattered the glass window behind the sink, showering the room with sharp, glittering shards.

The cold rain rushed through the broken pane, blowing the curtains inward.

Arthur fell against the counter, his hand clutching his ribs.

Julian had already dropped to the floor, his hand inside his coat again.