Dual Action

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“And if it was,” Krakower added, “what the hell? I figure, better safe than sorry.”

“Better safe than sorry,” his companion echoed.

“And then, who’s next?” Coyle asked, dragging his feet to slow them in the woods. “You piss somebody off, they finger you, and then you’re gone. Remember this, when you’re the one on the receiving end.”

“It’s never gonna happen, rat,” McCarthy said. “They wouldn’t find a fucking camera in my room.”

“It isn’t mine,” Coyle lied. The best that he could do, under the circumstances.

“Tell it to your maker, Jew Boy,” Krakower suggested. “On your way to hell.”

They reached a clearing in the woods, a shovel standing upright in the middle of it, as if planted in the soil. McCarthy shoved Coyle from behind, driving the captive to his knees, then placed a foot between his shoulder blades and pinned him facedown on the ground. A cold blade passed between Coyle’s wrists, parting the heavy tape that held them tight together.

“You know the Auschwitz motto, don’t you, rat?” McCarthy asked. “Arbeit macht frei.”

“That’s ‘work makes one free,’” Krakower reminded him. “And here’s your chance to work.”

“Start digging, rat,” McCarthy ordered.

Coyle rose to all fours, then lurched erect. He flexed his fingers, feeling the return of circulation to his hands. He staggered toward the shovel, thinking he could use it as a weapon, but McCarthy and Krakower had stepped back out of swinging range, both watching him with pistols in their hands.

“No funny business, rat,” Krakower said. “Just dig.”

“My own grave, right?”

“You’re catching on,” McCarthy said, beaming.

Coyle straightened, squared his shoulders, let the shovel drop. “Dig it yourselves, assholes.”

The skinheads blinked at each other, taken by surprise. “What did you say?” Krakower asked.

“You heard me, shithead. If you want the job done, do it yourselves.”

McCarthy cocked his pistol. “If I have to dig that hole,” he said, “you’ll go to hell without your kneecaps. Understand?”

Coyle was surprised by his own sudden, stubborn courage. “Dead’s dead,” he replied. “No way I’m helping you.”

“We’re wasting time,” Krakower growled. He raised his pistol, sighting down the barrel. “Say goodbye, rat.”

Coyle stood waiting for the shot, afraid to close his eyes, and so he witnessed an extraordinary thing. Krakower’s head seemed to explode, a crimson halo bursting from his skull as he pitched forward. Falling, he squeezed off a shot that whined past Coyle with room to spare and vanished whispering among the trees.