Stovorsky’s face seemed to distort into a grotesque monster. Jimmy clutched at his temples. What was happening to him? He nodded towards Stovorsky’s gun. “Are you just playing with that?” he asked under his breath, his French coming to him as naturally as his anger. “Or are you going to shoot me?” “Do I have reason to shoot you?” replied Stovorsky, also in French. “You seemed to think you did in the desert.” “I only shot at your bike, Jimmy. Never at you. I’m not a killer and I know you’re not either.” How could Stovorsky so casually announce what Jimmy was or wasn’t? You don’t know what I might do, Jimmy wanted to scream. That urge came with a flood of terror. He realised that he himself didn’t know what he might do either. The horrors of being led into this trap now felt like nothing compared to the torture in his mind. “I’m here to make a deal with you,”
