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Two-Hawks nodded at Blackie, who drifted backward through the door to handle business. Then he said to Shep, ‘Want a job?’

Shep looked away from the monitors for the first time, that crooked tooth slightly visible. ‘You wouldn’t be able to trust
me.’

Two-Hawks swallowed, flustered and amused. ‘Talk to you boys in private?’

They headed back down the hall and sat, Mike and Shep on
the leather couch, Two-Hawks in his chair, which he pulled around the desk to face them.

Mike said, ‘Two-Hawks here has dirt on our boy McAvoy. But he won’t turn it over unless we acquire the dirt McAvoy’s holding
on
him
.’

‘How good is the dirt you’re holding?’ Shep asked.

‘A no-shit smoking gun,’ Two-Hawks said. ‘Recently I had a man inside Deer Creek’s operation. Someone with access.’

‘How’d you flip him?’ Shep sounded skeptical. ‘Deer Creek’s got more money than you. And more muscle.’

‘Our guy was hired to do some freelance consulting for Deer Creek. He’s a gambler, as the case often is. But you don’t shit
where you eat. So he came here, to us, to play cards. And he overdrew his credit line. Significantly. Unlike McAvoy, we don’t
maim people for that.’

‘You just extort them,’ Shep said.

‘It was a beneficial arrangement, agreed to by adults.’ Regret moved behind Two-Hawks’s
eyes, only for an instant, and then the game face snapped back on. ‘He smuggled me documents. That’s how we caught wind of
you.’ A nod to Mike. ‘He told us about your name on the genealogy report.’

‘But you weren’t after that to start with,’ Shep said. ‘So what else did he get you?’

‘Good hard evidence.’

‘Of what?’

‘No problems hearing now, huh?’ Two-Hawks asked.

‘Evidence of what?’ Shep repeated.

‘I promise, you won’t be disappointed.’

‘No,’ Mike said. ‘I need to know what exactly we’d
be turning over to you.’

‘That’s not your concern.’

‘If we’re getting it, it is. I won’t bring you something that’ll wreck someone else’s life.’

‘It’s nothing like that. That’s all you need to know right now.’

Mike thought back to sitting in that armchair facing Bill Garner, the governor’s chief of staff. The last time Mike’s judgment
was on the line, he’d folded, because what the hell, it was just an award and a couple of photos.

He stood.

Two-Hawks said, ‘Think about your daughter.’

Mike was at the door now, Shep beside him.

‘Okay,
wait
.’ Two-Hawks was on his feet. ‘They’re just photograph negatives. But they’re essential for us to keep our status – and our
casino. I didn’t want to explain them, because . . . in my business we see up close how greed affects people.’ He scratched
the back of his neck, hedging. ‘Sometimes there’s what’s right, and then there’s what’s
smart
.’

‘I’m a slow learner,’ Mike said, ‘but even I figured out there’s really no difference.’

‘Turning over those negatives – if you get them – to a competing casino is against your future financial interests as the
heir to Deer Creek.’

‘Do you have kids, Mr Two-Hawks?’ Mike said.

‘Five.’ Two-Hawks drew a deep breath, chastened. ‘Okay. Maybe I’ve been swimming in the shark tank too long.’ He gestured
back to the couch. ‘Please stay, and I’ll explain.’

Mike and Shep returned to the couch and sat, Shep plunking his boots on the glass coffee table.

‘Unless I can pull off a miracle in the next few months before that formal review, we are going to lose our federal recognition,’
Two-Hawks said. ‘There’s a higher bar for tribal acknowledgment these days, more stringent requirements. So far we’ve failed
to produce additional physical proof tying our ancestors to this land. We’ve always had an oral tradition, so there’s a paucity
of evidence, especially from the first half of this century. Very little survives of our tribe.’

Mike found himself looking at those few humble relics adorning the office walls.

‘Some months ago it came to my attention that there are antique photo negatives taken by members of a botany expedition or
some nonsense out of Stanford during the 1930s. Those pictures show our people living on this very plot of land. I was told
that the peak of Lassen in the background as well as a distinctive river fork just beyond the settlements made the precise
location clear.’ He crossed and threw the window curtains apart. There past the parking lot but still glittering under the
outer lights was a narrow river, split into two streams around a massive, cracked boulder.

Gone was the down-home oilman. Indignation had heightened not just his language but his affect. Drawn erect, eyes ablaze,
he seemed every bit the chief he was in title. He let the curtains flutter back into place. ‘Of course, I arranged immediately
to buy the negatives from the dealer. But somewhere between my hanging up the phone and arriving to pick up the film, McAvoy
had stepped in and tripled my offer. He has the negatives. I need them. If we produce them as evidence –
irrefutable
evidence – of our tie to this land, the Bureau of Acknowledgment and Research will be forced to uphold our tribal status.’

‘And you keep your casino,’ Shep added.

‘Hard as it may be for you to recognize, Mr White, this isn’t only about money. McAvoy’s aim is to dissolve our tribe and
steal our land. And we’ve had enough of that in our time, thank you.’

Shep stared at the far wall. He seemed unimpressed.

Two-Hawks turned to Mike, a better audience.

Mike asked, ‘So when McAvoy bought those photo negatives out from under you, you decided to go after dirt on Deer Creek and
look for me?’

‘I needed something to protect my tribe. McAvoy found out what I took from him, so he and I are at a standoff. For
now
. Next year’s tribal-acknowledgment review puts a deadline on our little stare-down, one way or another. But given what I
have
on him, I’m not dumb enough to think he’ll wait this out much longer.’ Two-Hawks kicked the trash can, rattling the pieces
of his smashed cell phone. ‘They’re intensifying their efforts to get back what I’ve taken. I relocated my family out of state.’
His eyes found Mike. ‘My five kids.’

‘So why not make a move first?’ Mike asked.

‘McAvoy has made clear that he’ll burn the negatives if any of the evidence I’ve collected against him sees the light of day.
That would destroy our tribe as we know it. Plus, the thought of those pictures burning . . .’ In the golden light of the
office, his face took on shadow, and in his wrinkles Mike could see the faint etchings of his heritage. ‘All we are is what
we came from—’

At this, Shep snorted.

Two-Hawks continued, undeterred. ‘Those are the
only
images of my early ancestors. I put this tribe back together one member at a time, driving around the state in a beat-to-shit
Pontiac. Many were homeless. Most were destitute. But we built something for ourselves with our own hands. All of us living
today, we’ve never seen the faces of our forebears. For us to be able to see where we came from, to validate our place on
this earth . . .’ He shook his head. ‘You can’t put a price on that.’

Mike studied his hands.

Shep merely looked annoyed. ‘So what’s the play?’

Two-Hawks went on. ‘If McAvoy’s faced with losing his entire corporation to your . . . bloodline, maybe you and he could strike
a deal. You get him to turn over those negatives in exchange for some financial arrangement. You give me the pictures. I give
you what I have on him. And then you sink him with criminal charges.’

‘If he turns over the photos to me, he leaves himself unprotected against whatever you have,’ Mike said. ‘He won’t do that.’

A silent sigh lowered Two-Hawks’s shoulders. ‘So what do
you
propose?’

Mike and Shep were both leaning forward, elbows on knees.
Their heads tilted slightly, their eyes meeting. Shep gave a little nod.

Mike said, ‘I think I know where your photo negatives are hidden. McAvoy has a safe where he keeps all his valuable dirt.’

‘A safe. So you’re planning on . . . what?’

Shep flared his hands. Ta-
da
.

Two-Hawks let out a guffaw. ‘Come on. A
casino
safe?’

Mike said, ‘It’s hidden in his office.’

‘In his
office
?’ Two-Hawks exclaimed. ‘Why not the vault?’

Mike said, ‘Think about it.’

Two-Hawks chuckled into a fist. ‘Of
course
. The vault is filthy with cameras. Not exactly a choice place to hide dubious materials.’ He stood, walked a tight circle,
and leaned on the back of his chair. ‘It’s ballsy of McAvoy, I gotta say. But it makes sense, too. Keeping valuables in a
secret safe in a locked room in a twenty-four-hour-surveilled casino on sovereign land – I suppose that’d make me arrogant,
too.’

‘Arrogant’s good,’ Shep said.

‘But even then, you’ve got all the cameras on the casino floor.’ Two-Hawks was still winding up. ‘Plus, you can’t possibly
crack that safe there. The time, the noise.’

‘No,’ Shep said. ‘I can’t. How’s your pull with the cops?’

‘In the event that you get caught?’ Two-Hawks asked. ‘Good. But relative to Deer Creek’s?’ He blew out a dismissive breath.
‘McAvoy has something we don’t.’ He jabbed a finger at his computer monitor, a reference to the footage Mike had shown him
earlier. ‘Rick Graham.’

Mike moistened his lips. ‘Graham is no longer a consideration,’ he said.

Two-Hawks sank thoughtfully into his chair, tilted back, studied the ceiling. Then he glanced at the disc lying on his desktop.
He cleared his throat, then cleared it again. ‘I don’t want to know anything more about that.’

‘Good,’ Mike said.

‘We have a police captain nearby who we’re quite close with,’ Two-Hawks said. ‘Coupla DAs, too. There’s no way I can get you
off if you’re caught red-handed, of course. But if Graham is no longer a factor, I can ensure that if you’re taken into custody
in the area, you won’t be handed over to McAvoy’s goons. There’s one big problem, though: If you get hung up
at
Deer Creek, on sovereign tribal land, the authorities’ll have trouble crossing territorial boundaries to make sure matters
are handled aboveboard. Which leaves you at the mercy of McAvoy. And his attack dogs. In that event you’d better hope the
cops arrive before the mallet falls.’

Shep said, ‘Ball-peen hammer.’

Mike squeezed his eyes closed, remembering Graham’s words:
Hell, short of the right to pursue felons, the U.S. has shaky
criminal
jurisdiction on tribal lands
.

Mike said, ‘The cops can come in after Shep.’

A moment’s delay, and then wrinkles fanned from the corners of Two-Hawks’s eyes. ‘You’re a felon?’

Shep scowled, insulted. ‘Course.’

Mike nodded at Two-Hawks. ‘We’ll be in touch with the plan.’

He and Shep rose to leave.

‘And I’ll need a lawyer,’ Shep said.

Two-Hawks asked, ‘Why?’

Shep paused on his way out the door. ‘Because I’m planning on getting arrested.’

You will come back for me.

I will come back for you.

You swore it, now. You
swore
it.

Mike woke up with his head pulsing and the sheets twisted through his legs. His chest felt clammy beneath the motel vent,
and sweat had pooled in the hollow of his throat. He shoved aside the sheets, ran a hand across the bristles of his cropped
hair, and did his best to shake off the dream. Snowball II was wedged under the pillow next to him, glass eyes bulging as
if from strangulation. Shep sat with his shoulder blades against the headboard of the other bed, spooning cold SpaghettiOs
from the can, as calmly vigilant as ever. On the desk across the room, the police scanner gave off a steady stream of cop
talk.

They’d returned to the motel at first light, it was 3:27
P.M.
now, and the heist was set to go live at sunset, a little more than three hours from now. By then the darkness would offer
some cover outside and the Deer Creek Casino offices, including McAvoy’s, should be empty, at least according to the schedules
Two-Hawks’s surveillance men had pieced together over the past several weeks. But between now and then, Mike and Shep still
had plenty to arrange.

‘You believe in God?’ Shep asked from around the spoon.

Mike realized that Shep thought he’d been praying. ‘When it’s convenient,’ Mike said.

‘Is it convenient right now?’

Mike pictured that cigar hole in Annabel’s side, the black trickle leaking from the wound. Dodge’s massive hand palming Kat’s
head through the baby blue sleeping bag, the ball-peen hammer drawn back for the kill blow. The bay window where Mike had
waited as a kid, the one Kat might be sitting at this very moment.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It is.’

Motoring along on a medical mobility scooter, Mike wore a battered mesh 101ST AIRBORNE hat, oversize mirror sunglasses, and
a fleece lap robe featuring a bald eagle glaring over a craggy mountainside. Shep strode beside him through the outer reaches
of the Deer Creek parking lot, undisguised.

At 6:40 on the dot, a minivan turned off the main road and slotted into a space in the row farthest from the casino. A wholesome,
all-American couple emerged. The man, a robust fellow in a Hawaiian shirt, offered a big grin. His wife fussed with the collar
of her shirtwaist dress, her layered curls and teased bangs like something out of a Nagel print.

At the sight of them, Mike let off the throttle and hit the hand brake, the little scooter chirping to a halt. ‘
Them
?’ he said. ‘Those two are your big tough accomplices?’

‘Yup,’ Shep said. ‘Bob and Molly.’

Mike’s mouth was sour with fear and second thoughts. He was glad he’d delivered Hank’s cash earlier in the day – one less
thing to ride his conscience into the not-so-sweet hereafter if he got killed tonight. Hank had squeezed his hand an extra
beat at the door and promised he’d be waiting by the phone. If Mike made it out to call him.

Mike readjusted his leather gloves nervously. The couple waved and started over. Bob’s face was shiny and sunburned. Molly
toyed with the strand of Mardi Gras beads around her neck.

As the couple neared, Shep asked, ‘You got my gear to the warehouse?’

Molly’s smile was improbably wide. ‘That we did.’

Bob flipped Mike the keys to the van, then made cartoon running arms toward the casino doors. ‘Shall we?’

Molly said, ‘Okeydokey.’

Mike swallowed dryly and nodded. Splitting off toward different entrances, they headed for the building. At the south door,
Mike got jammed up with a few other mobility scooters. There was a lot of angry huffing, either because the others were old
and cranky or because Mike was lacking in scooter etiquette, but he managed his way through. Once inside, he puttered over
past the cage, making sure that the empty metal drop carts were parked behind the low counter where he’d seen them on his
last visit. There were three carts awaiting the next shift end, when they would be squired from slot machine to slot machine
to collect the full coin buckets.

Steering across the vast casino floor, he did his best not to think of all the cameras angled down from the ceiling. He was
the weakest link, the only nonprofessional. If someone spotted him, he was dead. And Kat was lost.

He buzzed into the bathroom, an elderly man holding the door for him, and steered into the wide handicap stall. He closed
and bolted the door behind him, the lap robe slipping to the tile, revealing the Nike gym bag he’d hidden on the wide footrest
platform beneath his legs. He ripped off his hat and glasses and dumped them, with the lap robe, into the scooter’s front
basket. In his innocuous black slacks and white gift-shop polo sporting the casino decal, he looked like your average Deer
Creek worker.

As Two-Hawks had pointed out, a bathroom was the only place in a casino without surveillance cameras.

Except, Mike hoped, the CEO’s office.

His watch read 6:53. Seven minutes to liftoff.

He shoved four squares of Bubblicious into his mouth, chewed rigorously, and worked the gum into his cheeks and lips. All
the better to defy the facial-recognition software now that he no longer had a hat brim to hide beneath.

6:54.

Leaving the dead bolt locked, he shoved the heavy Nike bag under the wall into the neighboring stall, then followed it. Someone
flushed a toilet, and then he heard running water. Bag in hand, he stood in the relative quiet and tried to remember how to
breathe normally.

6:56.

Time to move.

He exited the bathroom, nodding at a few guys stumbling in, their free drinks slopping onto their wrists. Navigating through
the clusters of slots and green-felt tables, he did his best to walk casually. Going on tiptoe, he stared nervously across
the vast room at that door leading back to the offices. Two-Hawks’s intel had predicted the rooms beyond to be empty by now.
Predictions were helpful, sure. Not perfect.

Mike paused near the cage and put his back to the wall, his breaths coming harder now, puffing his cheeks. The heft of the
equipment in the gym bag was reassuring, but still, there were more variables than could be accounted for with all the gear
in the world. The drop carts remained behind the counter, so close he could reach across and tap one of them. His jitters
sharpened until he was perched on a knife edge of panic.

Not a husband
, he told himself.
Not a father.

Just a man with a task.

6:59.

He closed his eyes.

That’s when he heard the scream.

Bob gasped breathlessly, a giant plastic bucket of quarters slipping from his hand and exploding onto the carpet, sending
out a jangly spout of coins. His face taut and red, he grabbed his left arm and pinwheeled off a Hold ’Em table, staggering
forward, dragging the red velvet rope and the shocked dealer with him. A creak issuing from his mouth, he collapsed onto the
pit
table, which toppled, spilling tray after tray loaded with casino chips.

Molly clutched at her yellow curls and let out another piercing scream. ‘
My husband! Oh, my God, his heart, his heart! Someone help!
’

Everyone in the vicinity had frozen at once, as if by design. The only movement was that of the coins and chips rolling past
ankles and chairs and beneath slot machines, forty thousand and change expanding like a swarm of rats across a hypnotically
busy carpet pattern. An elderly man in a battered snap-brim hat crouched to pluck up a black-and-green hundred-dollar chip,
and his creaky movement broke the spell, the statue garden springing to life, jostling, shoving, grabbing. Filled fists jammed
into pockets. Coin buckets bounced cheerily on crooked arms like Easter baskets. Loafers and high heels trampled hands and
kicked coins. The dealer was trying to untangle himself from Bob, who flopped and screeched, clutching his left arm as though
it were going to fall off. Security swarmed the area, chasing down chips, manhandling patrons, shouting into radios. Molly’s
shrieks grew so strident that a few people, jostled along by the undercurrent, covered their ears.

Standing hip-deep in the chaos, the pit boss touched a finger to his earpiece and spoke into his sleeve. ‘Surveillance, you
better be getting this.’

The surveillance suite was pure mayhem, monitors flashing, hands toggling joysticks, frenzied pacing. Half the screens were
focused on the commotion below, recording it from every slant.

The director was shouting, his voice high and thin, ‘Could be a diversion! Get the software up and start grabbing faces!’

‘Already running!’ one of the supervisors shouted across.

‘What do you got?’

‘Nothing so f—’ An alert chimed from the speakers of the supervisor’s computer. He stood abruptly, one nervous hand
mussing his spiky black hair, a deodorant ring staining his shirt beneath the arm. ‘The guy having the heart attack is a
twice-convicted con artist.’

The director stormed over. ‘And the woman?’

There she was, listed under the con man’s associates.

‘Who else?’ the director yelled. ‘I want a sweep of the whole goddamned floor –
now
!’

Another alert sounded. ‘Okay,’ the supervisor said, ‘we hit on another known associate.’ The facial-recognition software pulled
a third face from the muddle. Shepherd White, lurking by the bank, eyeing the vault through the crossed bars of the cage.
‘This one’s a safecracker.’

‘Shift cameras ten through sixty to the vault,’ the director said. ‘I want every angle covered. Have security move now and
roll up the crew. And get Boss Man on the phone. He’s gonna want to hear this.’

Mike shoved the drop cart hurriedly across the floor, keeping to the perimeter as commotion reigned by the tables. The weighty
gym bag resting inside the cart clanked as the wheels bounced from walkway to carpet. To his left, a bartender was standing
on a stool for a better vantage, the FIREWATER sign blinking down on his crooked headdress.

Mike reached the door leading back to the offices and unzipped the top of his gym bag. First up, a spray lubricant, the thin
red straw already inserted into the nozzle. He blasted the keyhole, then dropped the can into the cart and tugged from the
bag a pull-handle pick gun. Slipping the thin tip into the lubed lock, he clicked the device on. The tip whirred, twisting
in the metal channel like a snake in a fist, the internal pins clattering as they jumped above the shear line. With a click,
the lock yielded and he was in.

He shoved the cart through and closed the door behind him.

Down the hall one door was ajar, a fall of light lying across the carpet.

Mike lost a heartbeat. He breathed in once, deep, then pushed the drop cart down the hall. As he passed the open door, a woman
with wire spectacles glanced up from her desk.

Barely slowing, Mike said, ‘We got a security mess on the floor. McAvoy called – he wants all nonessential workers to clear
out before it escalates.’ His voice was slightly distorted from the chewing gum, but she didn’t seem to notice.

‘Everyone all right?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I heard that a few guys flashed guns.’

She grabbed her purse and bolted. He kept on down the hall. The end office had McAvoy’s name etched across a brass placard.
The lock was a fat Medeco – way too complex for the pick gun. But fortunately Shep had planned for this contingency as well.
Mike reached into the gym bag and came up with an electric hand drill, already fitted with a hard carbide bit. He jammed the
point into the cylinder core right above the keyway, tightened his finger, and shoved. The drill chuck screeched and sparks
showered his forearms, but he made steady progress, decimating the lock pins, the tumblers and springs falling down out of
place. The cored lock yielded, the door rotating inward before he even had to shove.

Wheeling the cart before him, he crossed the corner office. The furnishings were top-notch – walnut desk, Baccarat horse sculpture,
gold-framed portrait of McAvoy with a fetching younger wife and twin boys.

And there was the painting, just as Graham had described. An Indian healer, rendered in oil, staring Mike down from across
the room. The man’s gaze was timeless and his hands raised to show his palms, a gesture that seemed at once passive and empowered.
Mike grabbed the wooden frame, said a silent prayer, and ripped it from the wall.

An exhale hissed through his gritted teeth. Graham hadn’t lied. Mike flattened a palm against the wall safe, feeling the cool
of the impenetrable blue-steel facade.

Withdrawing a hammer from the gym bag, he punched holes in the drywall around the safe, then he tore it away, the leather
gloves protecting his hands. The last item in the gym bag was a cordless reciprocating saw, the straight blade about six inches
long. He clipped in the battery pack and revved it up. Rather than attacking the safe, he dug into the two-by-fours that the
safe was mounted to, avoiding the thick bolts. The wood gave readily under the jagged teeth. Sweat ran into his eyes. At any
moment Dodge could stroll through the office door with its destroyed lock. Mike forced himself to stop checking his watch.
It would take however long it took.

He left the bottom two-by-four for last. Positioning the cart flat against the wall beneath the safe, he flicked the saw blade
at the supporting beam until it splintered under the weight of the safe. The metal unit tumbled from the wall into the drop
cart with a crash, denting the bed.

Too much of the last two-by-four had torn free with the safe, so he severed the protruding end, trimming it as close to the
blue steel as he could. Opening the empty gym bag, he laid it over the safe, hiding it. Leaving the tools scattered on McAvoy’s
fine Persian rug, he shouldered into the drop cart. With a faint complaint from the wheels, it started moving for the door.

Everyone’s attention, it seemed, was directed at the aftermath by the poker tables. A fresh outburst of excitement rippled
across the casino floor, and Mike glanced up in time to see Shep on the run, sprinting between the craps tables, four or five
security guards on his heels. He slid beneath a Wheel of Fortune table, popped up, knocking over a cocktail waitress in an
Indian-print shift, and bolted into the keno lounge. Reinforcements followed. He didn’t have long.