“I swear to God, Moretti, I will do it.”

Vincent stopped.

He looked at the gun under my jaw.

He looked at my face, at the blood on my lip.

A tiny muscle in his jaw twitched.

“I have two weapons on me,” Vincent said quietly.

“One in my shoulder holster.”

“One in my waistband.”

“Drop them,” Derek ordered.

“Kick them over here.”

“Slowly.”

Vincent nodded once.

He reached with his right hand toward his left lapel.

“Use two fingers,” Derek warned.

“No sudden movements.”

Vincent used his thumb and forefinger to reach inside his coat.

He pulled out a sleek, black automatic pistol.

He let it drop to the concrete floor.

It made a dull thud.

“Now the other one,” Derek said.

His voice was high-pitched, triumphant.

“The one in the back.”

Vincent reached behind his back.

He pulled out a smaller, silver revolver.

He dropped it beside the first gun.

“Kick them,” Derek said.

Vincent used the toe of his leather shoe to slide the weapons across the floor.

They slid through the dust, stopping ten feet away from us.