Page 127 of Backtrack

“I mean, yeah,” Leo said. “I’d rather you not kill her, but if you feel like you have to, I’m still on board.”

Shayna found it impossible to breath. “Leo!” she gasped.

“Sorry, Cuz,” he said. “We’re talking about a hell of a lot of money.”

Shayna began to cry uncontrollably. “Please don’t do this, Ricky!”

“Are you going to help me?”

She nodded, batting her eyes.

“Okay.” He let the Glock fall, still clutched in his fist.

Shayna rolled to the side and threw up in the gravel.

“You done?” he said.

She wiped her mouth and nodded.

“I’m glad,” Pink said almost tenderly.

Pink unloaded the Glocks, made sure the chambers were empty, and then kept the four loaded magazines in his pockets. He threw the few rounds that were left into the trees and then gave the empty guns to Shayna and Leo to carry. He grabbed the .45 Long Colt revolver and fired three rounds through it into the dead guy. They were loud, but he needed to know the gun worked. Besides, watching the old man’s body twitch with each shot scared the shit out of his co-conspirators.

“Where we going?” Shayna asked, slurred, hand to her bleeding nose.

“To get something to eat,” he said. “Then we’ll do your plan, grab the bitch when she goes to the cemetery.”

“My plan?” Shayna said. “You hit me in the face with a shovel and then tell me we’re going to do my plan anyway! What’s the matter with—”

He turned and glared at her, finger to his lips.

“Yeah … okay,” she said. “We’ll do my plan.”

“But first something to eat,” Ricky reminded her. Then, as if he hadn’t just hit her in the face with a shovel, he said, “What are you hungry for?”

They took their time walking, stopping at the river so Shayna had a chance to clean herself up. Leo scrolled through his phone, finally suggesting the Westmark on Third looked like it had a decent breakfast.

They sauntered past crowds looking at ubiquitous jewelry, T-shirt, and fudge shops. Skagway was different than Juneau—wilder, like a bear or a moose or a pack of wolves might run down Broadway at any moment. Pink liked wild. He thought he could have lived in a place like this, if things had been different. If he’d gotten his share of the diamonds. If Wayne Cutter hadn’t murdered his friend.

It was nearly ten by the time they’d made it down Broadway to Third.

Pink was just about to turn the corner when something up the street caught his eye. Four decades navigating the yard, where there always seemed to be someone who wanted to stab you—or someone you needed to stab—had taught Pink to look for things that were out of the ordinary.

He stopped in his tracks, squinting, wanting to be sure before he said anything.

“Cutter,” Leo said. He’d seen the marshal as well.

D Wayne Cutter’s grandson and his Polynesian partner were walking up Broadway with a uniformed Skagway cop. All three of them were scanning back and forth, clearly hunting.

“We need to get him alone,” Shayna said, slurping through broken teeth. “Ask him questions in a controlled environment.”

“You’re right,” Pink said.

“Really?” She took a step back, clearly surprised he’d agreed so quickly.

He had to do it this way, to keep her in line. Otherwise she never would have agreed—and he would have had to kill her on the spot.

Ahead, Cutter and his partner disappeared into the Red Onion Saloon.