When the hand came out of the bag

Stopping beside the sofa, not six feet away, Reynerd said, “You work for the Face, don’t you?” At a disadvantage in the armchair, Ethan pretended confusion. “For who?” When the hand came out of the bag, it held a gun. A licensed private investigator and certified bodyguard, Ethan had a permit to carry a concealed weapon. Except in the company of Channing Manheim, when he armed himself as a matter of routine, he seldom bothered to strap on his piece. Reynerd’s weapon was a 9-mm pistol. This morning, disturbed by the eye in the apple and by the wolfish grin that this man had revealed on the security tape, Ethan had put on his shoulder holster. He hadn’t expected to need a gun, not really, and in fact he’d felt a little silly for packing it without greater provocation. Now he thanked God that he was armed. “I don’t understand,” he said, trying to look equally bewildered and afraid. “I’ve seen your picture,” Reynerd told him. Ethan glanced toward the open door, the hallway beyond. “I don’t care who sees or hears,” Reynerd told him. “It’s all over anyhow, isn’t it?” “Listen, if my brother George did something to piss you off,” Ethan said, trying to buy a little time. Reynerd wasn’t selling. Even as Ethan dropped the notepad and [30] reached for the 9-mm Glock under his jacket, the apple man shot him point-blank in the gut. For a moment, Ethan felt no pain, but only for a moment. He rocked back in the chair and gaped at the gush of blood. Then agony. He heard the first shot, but he didn’t hear the second. The slug hammered him dead-center in the chest. Everything in the black-and-white apartment went black.