Facing Justice by Nick Oldham

He rifled through them, found nothing but papers and a money tin with a piece of paper taped to it that said ‘Petty Cash’.
    He took it out and showed Diller.
    â€˜What did you expect, a shooter?’ Vincent asked.
    Diller removed the muzzle from Vincent’s neck, but couldn’t resist dragging the barrel up to his temple and pressing it hard against his skull, before withdrawing.
    â€˜How much in tin?’ Diller asked.
    â€˜Twelve hundred, give, take,’ Vincent shrugged, his face taut with tension.
    â€˜Unlock it.’
    Vincent edged out of Diller’s proximity and sat down on the office chair. Diller and Haltenorth stood back to watch him. He fished a key out of his jeans pocket and inserted it into the lock of the box, which measured about six inches by nine, maybe four inches deep. As he did this, his knee touched the shotgun strapped underneath the desk. His mind whirled as he worked out his moves. The flaw in it all was the time it would take him to free it from the Velcro straps, turn, rise, aim it – the weapon was ready to fire, loaded with two twelve-bore cartridges – and take out two very streetwise individuals, one of whom already had a gun in his hand. No doubt the other was also armed but hadn’t yet shown his firepower. But they had expected to find a gun in the desk drawer, and hadn’t. Vincent could tell they’d dropped their guard. They’d relaxed. And that was all to his advantage. Plus they hadn’t killed him yet.
    â€˜Why don’t you two guys sit back down?’
    â€˜Nah, we’ll stand, because it won’t be enough. We had specific instructions, Jack. Oh yeah, don’t get me wrong, we’ll take the money – but you’re still gonna die. You had your chances, y’see. That was the last one and you didn’t come good.’
    Vincent slowly unlocked the money box, opened the hinged lid. It was stuffed with cash, many notes, all tightly rolled up. He removed the money from the tin, a bitter expression on his face, and bounced it on the palm of his hand. ‘How much to pay you guys off?’ he asked, playing the game.
    â€˜What you mean?’ Diller demanded.
    â€˜How much for you to go back to Cain and tell him I wasn’t here, you couldn’t find me? Eh?’ His eyebrows arched.
    Haltenorth checked out Diller, but the latter kept his eyes on Vincent, who continued with his subterfuge, because there was no way he would think about paying these guys off. ‘Follow me back down to my house. I got a couple more grand stashed away. You guys take this’ – he held up the money roll in his fist – ‘as a show of my good will, and I’ll give you the cash down at my house. Three grand, plus, in total. Not bad for a ride out to the back of beyond. It’ll give me more time to get stuff together. Do me now and Cain won’t be getting anything. How about it? Take the cash,’ he pleaded. ‘No one will be any the wiser.’
    His eyes darted between the two men. He could sense Haltenorth was up for it, but Diller wasn’t even wavering.
    â€˜Mr Cain will still get his dues, man,’ Diller said, ‘even with you dead. We’ll just move on to your partner in crime. I’m given a job to do, I do it.’
    Haltenorth’s bottom lip dropped with disappointment. Clearly he wasn’t being paid anything like the money Vincent was offering now. Haltenorth had no loyalty in his bones. Vincent had placed doubt in his mind.
    â€˜What about it, man?’ Haltenorth hissed to Diller.
    Diller turned slowly to him, unable to believe his ears. His gun drooped to one side and his face showed complete surprise.
    â€˜I’ll tell you why, dumb-ass. You do not double cross Mr Cain. He don’t do double crossing. That’s why!’
    â€˜But man, all that cali.’
    â€˜I thought you were cool, man.’ Diller crashed his gun across the side of