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expression softening. He was interrupted by a muffled bang coming from the woods, and Greasy-jacket fell to the ground with a blood-chilling howl.
    It took me a couple of seconds to put the pieces together. There was blood everywhere on his right leg, and his friend had pulled out a gun that he was now frantically aiming at nothing in particular. Someone was shooting at us. For real.
    I freaked out at the realization that I wouldn’t be able to go far with the handcuffs and hopped behind the driver to use him as a shield. It was useless. A second detonation resounded, and the guy fell in turn, kneecapped in the same fashion his friend had been. I stood frozen, fighting the urge to wet myself and unable to decide whether to run or lie on the ground. More experienced than I was with these sort of things—or perhaps less indecisive—Greasy-jacket struggled with what must have been a considerable amount of pain and took out his gun to point it at me. Albeit no expert at criminal protocols, I believe the message he was trying to convey was “keep shooting and no one gets her.”
    In retrospect, I now understand that this strategy was completely stupid. The sniper shot him again, except this time it was his wrist that got ruined, and his long black gun landed at my feet. My legs were shaking, my eyes were wide with terror, but my bladder was still holding on, so things were good, I guess. Or not, since Creepy-hat finally decided to come out of the barn, strolling toward me with one hand tucked in his coat pocket.
    Barely glancing at the two men panting in agony at our feet, he looked in the direction the gunshots had come from and yelled cheerfully, “You make a compelling point, partner! Why don’t we try to discuss this change in our arrangement?”
    His invitation was met by a deep silence in the surrounding woods, occasionally troubled by shrill bird calls, until faint steps echoed in the distance, crushing twigs and dry leaves. A tall silhouette appeared between two trees—broad shoulders, long gray coat, a scary sniper rifle, nothing like the old Remington my grandpa hunted squirrels with . . .
    I didn’t want to look at his face. I already knew.
    March covered the distance between us with a tranquil stride, his gentle smile belying the way his gloved index finger still rested on the weapon’s trigger. Creepy-hat seemed to be about to greet him, but before he could open his mouth, March glanced at the two men curled on the ground behind us and spoke in a cold voice. “Leave your weapons and drag yourselves to the car.”
    I think the driver and Greasy-jacket wanted to comply, but there are things you can’t do so well with a bullet in your leg, or in your wrist for that matter. Each movement tore groans of pain from them, and I couldn’t see this working. How would they get up to climb inside the SUV? Call me selfish: I chose to ignore such practicalities and scurried away from Creepy-hat to hide behind March, the handcuffs that locked my arms threatening my balance with every step.
    Creepy-hat caressed his scar absently, his right hand still inside his coat’s pocket. “March, what sort of game are you playing? Since when do you take investigative jobs?”
    “I’m taking care of the client myself. I don’t think your services will be needed any longer,” came his “partner’s” curt reply.
    Creepy-hat’s grin turned almost maniacal. “Says who? The Queen? Somehow, I doubt that!”
    “I’m merely seeing to my employer’s best interest. Don’t test me. You know better,” March retorted flatly.
    “You’re seeing to your own grave, my friend.”
    This particular remark made me wonder what sort of history these two had, because there was no trace of concern in Creepy-hat’s voice, but rather a barely contained joy. Glancing at his men resting near the SUV, neither of them able to get up due to the extent of their injuries, he let out an exasperated sigh. “Very well . . . have it your way. This