“Joe. Hey, it’s me. Listen, we’ve got a problem. You’re not gonna like it, and I think you know what it’s about. But I want--Joe, for god’s sake, calm down. Joe, I want to help you out, but we don’t got a lot of time. Someone’s on the way to your house now. As soon as I hang up, get into your car and drive west out of town until you get to the gas station by that billboard with the hole in it. I’ll meet you there.”

Joe’s still stammering out a few panicked words when I end the call and look at myself in the bathroom mirror, seeing the dark rings under my eyes. I brush my hand through my messy, dark hair, then run cold water and splash some in my face and into my short, scruffy beard.

I give myself one more look in the mirror, wondering if the face about to drive into that Vegas desert is the same man that’ll be driving out.

A minute later, I get into my car, give my shitty duplex one last look, and pull out onto the road, the headlights of the convertible being the only light besides the thin sliver of the moon in the sky.

I won’t be coming back here.

My rough hand grips the steering wheel tightly as I roar down the desert road, nothing but endless sand and the occasional dried-out shrub on both sides of me. There’s no music playing from my radio. No piping-hot coffee in my hand.

Just me and the weight of what’s got to happen tonight.

Joe was scared shitless in that phone call. Part of me wonders if he’ll listen to me and actually meet me out here. Part of me hopes he doesn’t. Hell, maybe that’s why I was so curt on the phone, in my subconscious.

The mob wants Joe Mackey dead. He’s in deep, deep debt, and they’ve realized they’re never getting their money from him.

In the passenger’s seat of my car is a bag full of a week’s rations, a forged passport with a fake name and Joe’s picture in it, and enough cash to last anyone a nice, long time. It’s the perfect package to skip the border and settle down in Mexico in relative comfort. It’s the best chance for someone like Joe to give the mob the slip and start over as a new man.

And in my jacket is the gun I’m bringing to kill Joe Mackey.

The bag is just bait to get his guard down.

I’ve been an enforcer for the mafia in Las Vegas for a long time. Longer than I’d like to admit. The money and the power I could wield even as just hired muscle would be tempting to any young man growing up in Vegas, but if I could have seen myself now, I wonder whether I would have still started agreeing to security gigs, then debt collection, then extortion. Now murder.

I’m about to cross a line I can’t come back from.

I reach the gas station and find that I’m alone. Either Joe hasn’t gotten here yet, or he’s panicked and fled on his own. I almost wish he has, but that’s selfish. It would take his blood off my hands, but he’s not a smart enough man to outrun the mob. They’ll find him if he’s on his own.

I park my car in front of the billboard I told him to meet me at. It’s a weathered old thing that hasn’t been touched in longer than the abandoned gas station has. It’s mostly rust and rotting wood, but the last faded, peeling picture is still up there.

It’s a picture of a woman with long, brown hair in a one-piece swimsuit. She’s turned so that her ass is facing the viewer, looking over her shoulder with a bright smile that looks downright eerie with all the grime of the years on it. I think it used to advertise the swimsuit company, but there’s a huge hole in it toward the bottom where the logo used to be.

While I wait for Joe to show, I stare up at the thing for a few minutes. It always amazes me that some people like the model and the people who run her brand are so close yet so far from the morbid business I’m about to do here.

They just live in this perfect little bubble over everything, never worrying about money, never wondering where the next paycheck or meal will come from, never having to turn to something so dark to survive.

The shine of headlights behind me snaps me out of my thoughts. Damn him, he’s coming after all.

It makes it worse knowing that the only reason Joe decided to listen to my offer is that I’ve known him practically all my life. Mom is a blackjack dealer and dad walked out when I was a kid, so I grew up in and around casinos. And that meant I saw Joe a lot. I remember when he only had a few gray hairs, but the Joe I see looking feverish as he brings his car to a stop beside mine is almost bald and starting to go white.

He drank the last traces of his youth away. That’s what got him into this mess.

“Wes!” Joe nearly shouts my name as he clambers out of his car, running a hand over his face before running up to me and shaking my hand vigorously. “Oh my god, Wes, I-I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t mention it, Joe,” I say, keeping my tone even. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“Shit, I know,” he says, sighing deeply. “I just... I knew you had contacts with these thugs, but I didn’t know it would let you see all my dirty laundry like this. You’re a good kid, Wes, I hate that you even have an ear to this kind of situation. It was a damn hospital bill when I was young, it put me under so much strain I had to turn to the booze, and the bills just kept coming and I kept drinking and-and-”

“None of that matters anymore, Joe,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder and smiling while I hold back the sadness in my heart. He smiles back at me, and it wrenches a knife into my soul.

“Come on, I’ll show you what I’ve got.”

I move to the passenger’s seat and pull out the bag, setting it on the hood of the car. I look him in the eye.

“Food. Passport. Money. Your new name is Harold Smith. Skip Mexico City, there should be enough in here to get you all the way down to Merida. I hear it’s nice. The drive will be rough, but it’s not as rough as what the mob will do.”

“Wes…” Joe says, incredible relief on his face, “I...I don’t know what to say. Where did all this come from?”

“Don’t worry about it. Trade cars with me. This one’s clean.”

He takes a breath.

“Thank you, Wes. I...I’ll never be able to repay you for this.”

“I know,” I say. “We don’t have much time.”

“Right,” he says, and after a moment’s hesitation, he takes the bag, turns, and starts to walk back to the car.

It’s a perfect shot.

In a fluid motion, I reach into my jacket and draw my pistol.

He hears it cocking and freezes.

There’s a moment of silence between us.

Finally, I break it with a few calm words.

“Get on your knees, Joe.”

In disbelief, he obeys, slowly getting down and setting the bag aside before he puts his hands up.

“They...they told you to do it, didn’t they?”

“They did, Joe.”

I step toward him, gun trained on the back of his head. His hands are trembling. He turns his head ever so slightly, and I can see that his face is pale. “Wes, you don’t have to do this.”

“It’s better this way,” I say. “I’ll make it quick and clean.”

“You don’t want to do this, Wes,” he says, a tremble in his voice. “You’re a good guy, Wes.”

My jaw sets, and I take a breath, leveling the sights right where I know the shot will be painless.

My finger rests on the trigger, less than a second from that point of no return.

* * *

Hours later, dawn is just starting to break over the desert horizon, painting the sky beautiful shades of blue and pink mixed together.

I’m not driving back to Vegas. I never will again, and I’ll never look back to that life. I’m headed west, toward California.

I know how the mafia works. This job was supposed to be a test, and they expected me to come back with news of success, and they’d discuss a promotion for me--something more permanent.

But that’s not going to happen. This was the last errand I’d ever accept from the mafia.

By about 6:00 AM, I pull out my phone and call up the one and only contact I have out west.

After a long wait, he picks up the line, and a groggy voice answers.

“...Wes? What the fuck do you want calling at ass-crack o’clock?”

“Cody,” I say, my voice gruffer than usual. “I’ll buy you breakfast to make up for it. I’ll be in LA in about an hour.”

“The fuck? Shit, man, what are you coming all the way out here for?” There’s a pause. “You’re not dragging that shady shit my way, are you?”

“On the contrary,” I say, watching the skyline of the city start to come into view, “I’m doing exactly the opposite. I’m calling in that favor you owe me. I need a place to crash until I can get my own place.” I take a breath. “...And I’m going to have to find a new line of work.”