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extending his body and legs as far as he could. Sherman’s body started to flip and he pressed himself up, a gymnast on a pommel horse, almost managing to break the momentum, until one arm slipped forward and he toppled over the edge.
    Hatcher heard a thump a second later, the sharp crack of bone hitting pavement mixed in.
    Massaging his throat, Hatcher lay there for a count of twenty, waiting for his airways to loosen, allowing his lungs to fill with air and his heart rate to settle. When he was certain the stars he was seeing were all in the sky, he pulled himself up and leaned over the parapet.
    Sherman’s body was laid out like a crime scene reenactment. The side of his head was red and pulpy. One arm was resting on its elbow, hand in the air, sort of floating in a seesaw movement back and forth. His head lolled vaguely to one side.
    Crouched next to him was the guy from the bar. The look on his face struck Hatcher as one of professional intrigue, a biggame hunter examining a felled beast not his own, his eyes fixed in detached interest as he took in the size and majesty of the exotic creature stretched out before him. He gave a slight shake to his head, and what looked like a bemused chuckle, before looking up at Hatcher and pulling his cheeks into a smile.
    â€œNice work,” he said. He jutted his chin, gesturing with it. “Check your six. Third of a click.”
    Hatcher twisted to peer over his shoulder. Beyond the roof of the building to his rear, across Pacific Street, two people stood on a motel balcony, a man and a woman, watching from a third-floor railing that overlooked the street. The man was wearing a suit, tan, expensive-looking. He was trim, with short, silvery hair. The woman was younger, blonde, wearing a gray skirt and dark blouse. They were too far away for Hatcher to make out any other details about them, except that they had clearly been there for a while.
    But he was pretty sure he recognized the woman.
    The man in the suit seemed to nod in his direction, then turned to walk away. The woman lingered a moment before following. They disappeared into a nearby room.
    Hatcher looked back down to the walkway. Sherman was still there. So was the other guy.
    â€œYou’re wondering who I am,” the guy said. “Friend or foe.”
    Hatcher coughed, his throat still sore. He didn’t think he had another fight in him, and certainly not if it was against someone skilled. Or armed. Or both. “Now that you mention it.”
    â€œYou can just call me Mr. E.”
    Hearing it aloud gave the moniker new meaning. Hatcher’s gaze drifted over to the Harley. He could see the license plate. MRE HD.
    â€œCute.”
    â€œI thought so. So, do you want me to finish him off for you?”
    Before Hatcher had a chance to process the question, Mr. E snapped his arm straight, pointing it out and down at an angle. The move triggered a mechanism up his sleeve that released a large dual-bladed knife into his hand, a smooth handle in the middle. The man twirled the blade baton-style, weaving it through his fingers back and forth. Then he spun it in the air like a pinwheel, loosely centered against his palm, and dropped suddenly to a knee, catching the blade so that the tip of one end was poised directly over Sherman’s chest, maybe a centimeter above it. Maybe less. It didn’t look to Hatcher like the guy he knew as Mr. E had even broken eye contact during the move.
    â€œWell?”
    Not on the same team as Sherman after all, Hatcher realized. Unless this Mr. E switched sides easily and often. He had to admit the proposition was an attractive one. Sherman was a homicidal psycho freak, a threat to pretty much everyone and anyone. There was no reason to think he wouldn’t keep gunning to settle things with Hatcher until one of them was dead anyway. Knife boy was offering him a gift. Killing a murderous sociopath like that was a no-brainer.
    Too much of one.
    â€œNo,”