"You fucking bastard," Rafe says. His back is rigid, his hands clenched. In the back waistband of his jeans I see the handle of a gun, and I'm both shocked and relieved to see that he has one, too. But it does him no good tucked away like that. If he moves a muscle, Matt might shoot him where he stands.

"I tried to do this the nice way," Matt says, "but you wouldn't listen to reason."

"What do you want?" Rafe asks. "More money?"

Matt shakes his head. ...