Ashley screamed as the battering ram slammed into the cabin’s front door, crunching the wood as they knocked open the door that hadn’t already been kicked in.

How many times did I have to run this week?

We’d almost made it out the back when Ashley’s father, his eyes wide and terrified, came running through the living room. Behind him the front door was forced open by the battering ram, the wood crunching under the heavy, unnecessary blows like a bull going through a lumber yard.

“Maxwell?” shouted a voice I recognized. Simon Falkowski. They were already inside. “Martin Maxwell, you can make this easy, or you can make this real hard. We don’t give a shit one way or another.”

Martin came running as boots trampled in through the front. The overwhelming smell of gun oil hit the air, along with the plastic scent of Kevlar. These guys were serious.

I threw open the back door and ran out onto the porch as a strong wind blew down from the mountain. Cumin and mescal again. “Shit!”

“What?” Ashley screamed as I shoved her back inside, knocking her father into a sprawl on the living room floor.

“The cartel!” I yelled as I guided her into the kitchen, my body between her and any likely bullets, and forced her down behind the cabinets.

None of this was good. None of this was going according to plan. If we moved from the kitchen, Simon and his men could easily cut us off. If we tried for the back, to use it as our egress, we had an unknown number of assailants with unknown armaments. And my pack was still en route.

Not good. Not good at all.

“Frank! That you in here?” Simon asked from the other side of the living room, even as Maxwell left a trail of blood through the broken glass still littering the floor. He crawled towards us, his face desperate. “We don’t wanna just start shooting all willy-nilly in here, Frank. Wouldn’t be good for business if we pumped you all full of holes.”

“Please don’t give me to them!” Maxwell whispered hysterically from beside me. “Please!”

Damn, he was pathetic. I grabbed hold of his jacket collar and yanked him back behind cover. I got up from my squat and poked my head far enough above the cabinets so I could see Simon standing there. “What do you want, Simon?”

He was at the head of a group of four men, all wearing matching black tactical gear, all armed with heavy duty weaponry: automatics and submachine guns. I even saw an automatic shotgun. One blast from that bad boy, and we’d all be sprayed across the kitchen backsplash. It looked like a fucking SWAT convention in Ashley’s living room.

I slumped back down behind the cabinets. The idea that they’d do anything against this kind of payload was all Hollywood bullshit. Maybe I’d have a chance if I could rip the granite countertop off and put it between me and them, but if they opened fire we were all fucked. We’d all have more holes in our bodies than a golf course.

“What the fuck do you think we want? We came for the old man, buddy. He’s got certain account numbers that my client needs. Access numbers, Frank, money he embezzled from his company. Money he was laundering for those motherfuckers coming after you. You’re protecting a real piece of shit, you know that?”

“I’ll never tell you anything!” Maxwell shouted.

“You have the account numbers?” Ashley hissed. “I thought you said they set you up!”

“Frank,” Simon growled. “Frank, this is gonna get real messy, real fast. You know that, right? No way you’re walking away from this if things goes south. No way.”

“Dear, I was just getting them before they got me! I swear!”

“Dammit, Father!”

“Don’t wanna do this, Frank,” Simon said, glass crunching beneath his combat boots, “but I will if I gotta. You know that.”

He was right. There was no way out of this. No way. “Yeah,” I called back. “I know. What about Elizabeth and Barbara Hacks? You just gonna hand the old man over to them?”

One of the guys laughed. “No one to hand him over to.”

“Can it, Parsons,” Simon swore.

“What does he mean?” Ashley whispered in disbelief.

“They’re dead,” I said loudly. “They’re both dead. Ain’t that right, Simon? When’d you do it? After their little meeting today? Or on the way here?”

“Wasn’t like that, Frank. They promised me a cut, only way they could get me to take the deal off the books like I did. Then they started getting wishy-washy.”

I sighed and shook my head. “So you decided to just take the whole pie, didn’t you?” Simon had always seemed pretty dodgy, but to turn on a client like that? To break a deal? I glanced up at the clock on the microwave. Just a few minutes more and my pack would be here. Or the cartel would open fire on us all.

He sighed. “You got to the count of five, Frank. Told you back in Durango that you’d have to make a choice, that none of these rich bitches cared about you. You give us what we want, you’ll get a cut. Thirty-five mill’s a pretty good payday, even split six ways.”

“Anytime now, guys,” I mumbled as I looked over Ashley and her father. Both were wide-eyed as they looked back at me, cold sweat dripping down their faces as their fear rolled off them. I didn’t see any other way of doing this. I had to buy myself some more time.

Maybe, just maybe, I could get them to leave Ashley here, safe with me. If I gave them just her father. Yeah. That might work. I looked at Ashley, my jaw working hard. God, she was beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. If it came down to her or her father, it was her, hands down. No real choice between the two.

Maxwell chose that moment to speak up. “I don’t care what you do to me, you cretins! I’ll never tell you anything!”

Great.

“Change of plans, Frank. Looks like we’re gonna need them both. Five.”

She looked back at me and shook her head. Tears began to form in her eyes as she thought she realized what I had to do.

“Don’t worry, Ashley,” I said quietly. “I promise they won’t hurt you.”

“Four.”