“I’d ask what you’re doing,” Glover said, “but the fact that I’ve found you here says it all.”

Locke held the gun steady. “The fact that you have all this money when you’re under investigation for embezzlement says a lot more.”

Glover leaned against the staircase, raised his eyebrows like he was only mildly surprised Locke knew about the FBI investigation.

“It is my money,” Glover said.

“You sure about that?” Locke asked. “Because I think that remains to be seen.”

“How so?”

“Sounds like the Feds think you stole it.” Locke was buying time as he contemplated a way out of the cellar. Glover didn’t have a gun and didn’t look remotely concerned about the fact that Locke did. That meant the arrival of his security team was imminent, and while Locke was still confident in his ability to get out, he liked his chances better with Glover alone. “That would make it someone else’s money.”

“It’s not what they think; it’s what they can prove,” Glover said.

“I’m betting a bunch of cash stashed in Mexico wouldn’t help your case,” Locke said. “With the Feds or your wife.”

Glover narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

“Me?” Locke said. “I’m nobody but the guy who’s going to have to shoot you if you don’t move away from those stairs.”

Glover raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and moved away from the stairs. “Of course. No need for violence.”

His easy surrender only made Locke more nervous about what awaited him above ground. He kept the gun pointed at Glover as he moved toward him.

“Spread your legs,” Locke ordered. “Arms out.”

Glover complied. “I must admit to being curious,” he said as Locke patted him down.

“I’m not interested in your curiosity.”

“Nevertheless, I do wonder why you bothered coming. The property has been searched. There’s no truck, no other method for removing the cash in this room. You obviously didn’t come to steal it.”

Locke thought about the glider on the roof, wondered if Glover’s men had gotten that far in their search. He wasn’t as concerned about not having it — he could find another way out if necessary — as he was about wasting time getting to the roof only to have to backtrack.

He stepped away from Glover, not at all surprised he was unarmed. When push came to shove, he was a coward who hid behind money.

“I can only assume you mean to report your findings to the authorities,” Glover continued. “And while you’re correct in your assumption that it will add another layer of suspicion to the investigation, there’s really nothing they can do, particularly here in Mexico.”

“Reporting you would be a waste of time,” Locke said, backing up to the staircase. “The Feds are buried in bureaucracy. I’m guessing you’ll be long gone by the time they get everything they need to search this place, if ever. Your wife however…”

Glover’s eyes grew cold. “That’s a tactic I don’t recommend.”

“Lucky for me, I’m not looking for your recommendation,” Locke said. “Now lock your hands behind your head and face the wall.”

Glover lifted his arms and put them behind his head, turning to face the old stone wall. Locke started sideways up the stairs, his eyes skipping from Glover’s position against the wall to the top of the staircase.

He waited until he was almost to the top to turn the gun on the landing, half-expecting one of the guards to appear. No one did, and he stepped into the tile hall and hurried toward the staircase he’d descended to get to the ground floor. He’d just spilled into the open-air hall when he heard the dogs.

He picked up his pace, sprinting toward the end of the hall. He was almost there when two Dobermans slid around the corner, flanks slick with sweat. The two guards appeared behind them, slowing when they spotted Locke.

The dogs had no such compunction, and they sped toward Locke, drool leaking from their jowls as they barked.

There was no way to get around them to reach the staircase leading to the second floor, so he turned for the grassy area between the outdoor hall and a casita in the distance and raced along the side of the building, looking for another route to the roof.

He was at the back of the house when he realized he wasn’t going to find one.

He could hear the dogs barking behind him; it was either try to get to the roof from here or run for the woods, and he didn’t like his chances against the dogs in the woods.

He reached into his backpack and pulled out the repelling line and hook, took aim at the lip of the roof, and watched the line unfurl as it arced upward. He held his breath as it sped upward into the darkness. The dogs were rounding the corner of the house. There would be no second chance to tie onto the roof.

The line didn’t fall back to the grass and he gave it tug, wanting to make sure it was secure before he put his weight on it. It seemed solid, and he grabbed hold and started climbing. The dogs were barking directly below him, waiting for the guards to catch up. He was two feet from the edge of the roof when the first gunshot whizzed past his shoulder, embedding itself in the house’s stucco facade.

There was no time to look back. He was wearing black and would have to place his faith in the difficulty of aiming at him from the ground when he was in motion. He climbed faster, reaching for the edge of the roof as a bullet bit into his bicep. There was a brief stinging sensation before it went numb, and he heaved himself onto the roof and ran past the pool to the stairs that led to the top of the house.

The dogs had grown silent, and he assumed they were making their way through the house at the behest of the guards. Fucking Glover was probably pouring himself a drink.

He clattered onto the iron stairs and raced for the top, euphoria rushing through his veins as the glider came into sight where he’d left it. He was dimly aware that it was insane. He should be afraid. At the very least he should be concerned. Instead he felt alive.

He lived for this shit.

He stepped into the glider’s wire frame and buckled the harness, forced himself to take the measure of the wind before he aimed the glider even as he heard the dogs hit the pool deck on the roof below him.

The upper roof wasn’t ideal. It was still too low to the ground. There was no guarantee he would be able to get enough lift to carry him over the trees surrounding the Glover estate. But it’s not like he had a choice.

Fuck it.

He ran for the edge, stepping off as the dogs bounded up the stairs, another bullet pinging off the glider’s frame as he dropped toward the ground. There was a split second when he was sinking, the ground rising up to meet him.

Then he felt the wind’s current, not unlike the water when he caught the edge of a wave. He shifted in the glider, leaning into the updraft. It snagged the glider’s wings, lifting him into the air, propelling him over the property and toward the canopy of trees.