“Third time’s the charm,” he whispered.
He picked up the shotgun. He didn’t put it to his head. He stood up, took two steps around the table, and pressed the barrel against the Dealer’s forehead.
Leo, the youngest, had sweat blooming through his denim jacket. He owed thirty grand to the wrong people. The Dealer was those people’s collector. Win, and the debt was void. Lose, and the debt was paid by his beneficiary—his little sister’s tuition fund. He’d signed the waiver.
“Buckshot roulette,” he said, voice a gravel pit. “Not your pussy Russian game with one bullet. We got buckshot. One shell, it’s full of number-four buck. Nine pellets. The rest are blanks. You pull the trigger on the hot one, you don’t get a little .22 in the dome. You get your head turned into a canoe.” buckshot roulette
Leo sat alone. Across from the Dealer. Between two corpses.
Marta, mid-forties, ex-military. She sat with her hands flat on the table. She wasn’t here for money. She was here because her son had been taken. The Dealer’s employer had him. Win, she got a location. Lose… she tried not to think about lose.
Leo looked at the gun. Then at Darius’s body. Then at the Dealer. “Third time’s the charm,” he whispered
The Dealer’s grin returned. “Against the rules.”
The Dealer’s eyes went flat. “You signed. You pull the trigger or my associate pays your sister a visit. With a hammer.”
“Three of you. One trigger pull each. Pass the gun left. After each full round—if anyone’s still breathing—I reload. Add one more hot shell. Round one: one hot, eleven cold. Round two: two hot, ten cold. And so on.” He stood up, took two steps around the
He passed the gun. His hand was steady now. Funny what terror does.
The Dealer’s head vaporized. The mountain collapsed.
The Dealer pushed the shotgun to Leo. “Young blood first.”