There was a heavy thud against the back door.

The wood groaned in its frame.

“I have to go, Adrian,” Leo said.

“The wind is picking up.”

The line clicked and went dead.

I set the phone down on the counter.

The glass pane of the back door rattled.

A silhouette appeared against the frosted glass, blocky and wide.

I reached into the kitchen drawer where I kept the utility knife.

My fingers closed around the cold plastic handle.

It was not a gun, but it was what I had.

The lock on the door gave way with a sharp, metallic pop.

The door swung open, throwing a gust of snow across the kitchen table.

A man stepped inside, his boots heavy on the floorboards.

He wore a dark wool coat with the collar turned up high.

He carried a heavy iron crowbar in his right hand.

It was Frank, one of Leo’s regular drivers.

He smelled of cheap tobacco and gasoline.

“Adrian?” Frank called out into the dark.

He did not see me in the pantry shadow.