I waited a moment and then sat up. My hands uncovered my belly and I examined myself. The bullet had made a considerable dent into the slide of Michaels P226 in my waistband. Splatter from the bullet’s fragmentation had cut my skin in a radial pattern, but none had penetrated deeply. I retrieved my pistol from the table where Rashida had laid it.

The pool of blood from Michaels head spread slowly across the floor. His unseeing eyes stared upward. His face looked oddly flattened, until I realized that the bones of his skull that once held it in place had been shattered by the bullet. Searching Michael’s pockets yielded little but a bottle of water and a set of car keys. I put both in my pocket. I looked for his briefcase, but it wasn’t on the table. Rashida must have taken it with her.

I pulled the cell phone from my pocket. A dozen apps filled the screen when I started it. I saw one labeled “Rodgers” and pressed it. Seconds later I heard his familiar voice on the other end of the line.