Amanda said, “Let me know about Arrendale. It really is a lovely place. The windows are four inches wider in the close-security wing. Lots of sunshine and fresh air. I think Roger will love it.”

“I’ll let you know his decision. I think we can all agree that uncertainty is bad for business.”

“Tell Roger I am at his beck and call.”

Will opened the door for Amanda. They walked back through the shop together. The crew had obviously taken a break. The machines were idle, the stations vacant. The radio had been turned down to a low hum. He mumbled to Amanda, “That was interesting.”

“We’ll see if she does her part.” He could tell she was hopeful. The bounce was back in her walk. “I’d bet my left one Roger knows exactly what happened at Ev’s house yesterday. Julia probably told him herself. She would’ve never let us step foot in here if she wasn’t willing to deal. We’ll know something within the hour. Mark my word.”

“Ms. Ling seems eager to please you.”

She stopped and looked up at him. “Do you really think so? I can never tell if she’s just being affectionate or …” Amanda shrugged in lieu of finishing the sentence.

He thought she was joking, then realized she wasn’t. “I guess. I mean—” He felt himself start to sweat. “You’ve never—”

“Grow up, Will. I did go to college.”

He could still hear her chuckling as they walked toward the front office. Will guessed that he was doomed to have this woman play him like a banjo for the rest of his life. She was almost as bad as Angie.

He was reaching for the doorknob when he heard the first pop, almost like a champagne bottle being uncorked. Then he felt his ear sting, saw the door splinter in front of him, and knew that it was a bullet. And another. And another.

Amanda was faster than Will. She had pulled the gun from the back of his pants, swung around, and fired off two shots, before he hit the floor.

The sound of a machine gun ripped the air. Bullets sprayed inches from his head. There was no telling where the threat was coming from. The back of the warehouse was dark. It could be Ling-Ling, the men who had been working on the cabinets, or both.

“Go!” Amanda yelled. Will shouldered open the door to the front office. Of course their guns were gone from the counter. The disapproving Asian who’d let them in was dead on the floor. Will felt something hard hit him in the back of the head. He was stunned for a few seconds before he realized that Amanda had thrown her purse at him.

Will tucked the bag under his arm and slammed open the front door. The sudden, sharp sunlight blinded him so badly that he tripped down the concrete stairs. The old railing bent under his weight, softening what could’ve been a catastrophic fall. Quickly, he righted himself and headed straight across the parking lot toward the parked SUV. The contents of Amanda’s purse scattered behind him as he searched for the key fob. He thumbed the button and the trunk was open by the time he got to the back of the vehicle. Will pressed the numbers on the combination lock. The drawer rolled open.

In Will’s experience, you were either a shotgun person or a rifle person. Faith preferred the shotgun, which was counterintuitive considering her diminutive stature and the fact that the kick from a shogun could tear your rotator cuff. Will liked the rifle. It was clean, precise, and extremely accurate, even at a hundred fifty feet—a good thing, considering this was the approximate distance between the SUV and the entrance to the building. The GBI provided agents with the Colt AR-15A2, which Will rolled up to his shoulder as the front door shattered open.

Will put his eye to the scope. Amanda handled the sunlight better than he had. Without missing a beat, she bolted down the concrete stairs, firing backward, her shots missing the stocky-looking man who was chasing her. He had on dark sunglasses. A machine gun was in his hands. Instead of taking the easy shot at Amanda’s retreating back, he held up the gun in the air as he jumped down the flight of stairs. It was a cowboy move, which gave Will equal opportunity to pull one of his own. He pressed back on the trigger. The man jerked midair and dropped to the ground.

Will lowered the rifle. He looked for Amanda. She was walking back toward the man on the ground. She held her gun down at her side. She must’ve been out of ammunition. Will pressed his eye to the scope again to give Amanda cover in case anyone else came out of the building. She kicked away the machine gun. He could see her mouth moving.

Without warning, Amanda dove behind the concrete steps. Will took his eye away from the scope so he could locate the new threat. It was the man on the ground. Impossibly, he was still alive. He had Will’s Glock in his hand. It was pointed toward the SUV. He fired off three shots in rapid succession. Will knew the heavy-gauge steel cabinet would shield him, but he still ducked as metal pinged against metal.

The shooting stopped. Will’s heart was pumping so hard that he could feel his pulse throbbing in his stomach. He chanced a look back at the building. The shooter must’ve been hiding behind the Mercedes, probably on the other side of the gas tank. Will lined up the rifle, hoping the guy would do something stupid like poke up his head. The Glock came up instead. Will shot, and the gun quickly receded.

“Police!” Will yelled, because it had to be done. “Show me your hands!”

The guy shot blindly toward the SUV, missing by several yards.

Will mumbled some choice words. He looked at Amanda as if to ask what the plan was. She shook her head, not to tell him no, but in exasperation. If Will had made the first shot, they wouldn’t be having this conversation.

He couldn’t think of a way to gesture to her that he had made the shot—not without getting fired—so he pointed to the magazine jutting out from his rifle to pose the question. Was she out of bullets? Her revolver held five rounds. Unless she’d gotten her speed loader out of her purse, there was not much she could do.

Even from this distance, he saw her annoyed expression. Of course she had gotten her speed loader out of her purse. She had probably stopped to put on some lipstick and make some phone calls, too. He checked the Mercedes again, scanning the sights along the contour of the big sedan. When he looked back at Amanda, she had already spun open the S&W, dropped the empty shells on the ground, and reloaded. She waved her hand at him to get on with it.

“Sir!” Will yelled. “I am giving you one more warning to surrender.”

“Fuck you!” The man shot at Will again, hitting the side door panel of the SUV.

Amanda did a crouched walk to the edge of the concrete stairs, then bent her head to the ground to try to see where the man was hiding. She sat back up. She didn’t look at Will. She didn’t pause to line up the shot. She simply rested her hand on the third step from the bottom and squeezed the trigger.

Television had done a great disservice to bad guys. They didn’t show that bullets could go through Sheetrock walls and metal car doors. They also didn’t explain that a ricochet was nothing like a rubber ball. Bullets came out at a very high velocity, and they wanted to go forward. Shooting a bullet into the ground does not mean it will pop back up in the air. Shooting one into the ground underneath a car means it skips across the pavement, pierces the tire, and, if you are sitting the right way, lodges into your groin.

Which is exactly what happened.