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thick on the sidewalk. Michael slipped one pistol into the glove compartment and tucked the other under his jacket. He figured two minutes to get Elena someplace quiet, another three to get her away from the restaurant. Michael had money. They would fade into the city, and then he would get her out. Someplace with mountains, he thought. Someplace green. He felt the future like it was already there, but the future could be a tricky bitch. His cell phone rang as he killed the engine. He looked at the screen, and it rang four more times before he answered.
    He knew the number.
    Stevan’s number.
    He opened it feeling unease and regret and pity. For all his faults, Stevan had loved his father. “Hello, brother.”
    For long seconds, Michael heard only breath, and he could picture Stevan on the other end of the line, his manicured nails and lean face, dark eyes that were prideful and hurt. Stevan played strong, but deep down, he needed to see himself reflected in the faces of other men; he drew strength from their fear and envy, defined himself by their perception rather than his own. But his father knew better, and preferred Michael’s company for that reason. They were stripped down, the both of them, free of illusion and false want. Power, for them, was a tool to secure food, shelter, safety. That’s what childhood taught them.
    Appearance means nothing.
    Stevan never grasped the difference, never understood why Michael shined so brightly in his father’s eyes; and when his voice came over the phone, Michael knew that years of jealousy and distrust had finally darkened to something more.
    “He made you family, Michael. You had nothing. You were nobody.”
    “Your father was in pain.”
    “The choice was not yours to make.”
    “I loved him. He begged me.”
    “You think you’re the only one he begged? Where do you get the arrogance? He’d have asked the cleaning lady, a stranger, anybody.”
    “I only did what you should have done a month ago.”
    “He’s burning in hell because of you.”
    “He died as he wished to die.”
    “You took him from me.”
    “It’s not like that…”
    “You’re dead, Michael. So is your girlfriend.”
    “Don’t make me your enemy, brother. We can still walk away from this.”
    “Dead bitch. Dead, motherfucker.”
    There was no going back, Michael saw. No peace to be made. “Good-bye, Stevan.”
    “Do you see the restaurant?”
    The question was so pointed that Michael felt a blade of fear slip into his heart. He scanned the street again. “Where are you, Stevan?”
    “Did you think we wouldn’t plan for this? Did you think you could just walk away? Honestly, brother.”
    He stressed the last word, mocking.
    “Stevan…”
    “This was supposed to be for both of you, but I want you to see it happen.”
    “Don’t—”
    “I hear that she’s pregnant.”
    Michael flung down the phone, and wrenched open the door. His feet touched city pavement and he managed seven steps in a dead run before the restaurant exploded. Flame blew through windows and the force lifted him from his feet, flung him against the Navigator. Black smoke roiled in the aftershock, and for a moment there was no sound. The roof flew apart as a secondary explosion slammed outward, then Michael’s ears opened, and he heard screaming. Flames poured out in towers of heat and smoke. Cars collided on the street, while, on the sidewalk, people were dead or dying. A man ran blindly, clothing aflame, then collapsed as Michael watched. And the flames roared higher. They licked at neighboring buildings, and Michael found himself on his feet.
    Elena ...
    He walked closer, eyes blurred and one hand out to test the heat. It scorched his palm from fifty feet out, and a corner of his mind shut down. He could not bear to see her face, to picture it blistered and burnt and ruined. He let the heat roll over him, sensed the crush of movement on the street, the frenzied motion and the quiet, still dead. Glass shattered