part0012

Bump was sleeping when Emmelia called the next morning. He answered with a sea lion croak of “What?” and rubbed the scar across his neck, forever thankful the knife hadn’t gotten his face.

“God. I’d forgotten how bad you sound in the morning.”

Bump coughed loudly, waking up Tiff beside him. “What’s up?” he asked.

“He’s here,” Emmelia said. “Just got his coffee.”

Tiff groaned and rolled away, pulling the covers over her head.

“He’s always alone,” Emmelia answered.

“And he walked over?”

“He walked over.”

Bump gave a grunt and climbed out of bed.

Emmelia asked, “You still sleep in your clothes?”

He did. He was fully clothed right then, a subconscious habit born of a single visceral moment in time.

Emmelia said, “I just can’t even imagine what must’ve happened to you.”

He’d never talk about it, but the bloodletting had been a real eye-opener. One day he’d been a normal, deep-sleeping ten-year-old, the next he’d been a bona fide insomniac.

“How can you even get comfortable like that?” she asked.

Because it was so much worse otherwise.

Years ago, his brother (trying to get into the AVL) did a drive-by on the Black Disciples, and the very next night, while Bump was sleeping as he always had, in nothing but his underwear, a Black Disciple broke into their house looking for revenge. The intruder mistook Bump for his brother, tore the covers off, held his head down with one meaty hand, and slit his throat with the other.

Coincidentally, as the knife was slipping across his chicken neck, Devon was sneaking into the house, trying to avoid waking their mother after another night of ignoring curfew. When Devon crept up on the scene, Pop! Pop!, he shot the Black Disciple dead.

Between Bump’s own leaking neck and the gaping holes in the Black Disciple who’d fallen over him, young Bump was covered as red as the cherry-dipped DQ cones he gobbled up in those days.

It wasn’t the blood or the flap in his neck that concerned young Bump the most, though. It was his nakedness and the vulnerability of it. After that, the only way he could ever manage to fall asleep was by being fully clothed.

So now, standing over the hotel bed, he gave the crotch of his pants a routine tug and twist and adjusted his sleeves out from his armpits. He had slept just fine.

“I talked to him some more,” Emmelia said.

“Yeah?” Bump slipped on his sneakers, then went to the bathroom to relieve himself. “He edgy?”

“He looks pretty comfortable.”

Bump laughed. “Moron.” He flushed the toilet. “Be right over.”

He grabbed the 1911A1 pistol, clip full of the .38 Special that Martin, the Sureño, had told him to use, and left.

Downtown Duluth was mostly quiet, just some suits heading into law offices and a jogger making his way to the lake. Bump parked kitty-corner from the café. While he waited for Emmelia’s next text, he imagined the stack of cash about to come his way. His mother could have her surgery without having to wait for the insurance company; his brother could get a decent lawyer for his next shot at parole; and he could have whatever the hell he wanted. Maybe a new girlfriend who doesn’t threaten to shoot my balls.

But not so fast, he reminded himself, because even after he killed White, he still had to find the asshole who’d made him look like a fool. Once that was done, though, he could get the hell out of Minnesota and start spending his money.

Emmelia texted him: “Jacob’s packing up.”

The man emerged, looking smaller in person than any of the photos Bump had gotten from Avispón or Emmelia. White wasn’t short, maybe a six footer, but he was thin, at least a quarter the width of that bouncer who’d held Bump’s largest-kill spot. Even with the weight of the leather book bag White was holding, he’d probably easily place as the smallest kill when all was said and done.

Bump let the beanpole walk half a block before he got out of his car. Because the street ran parallel to the lake, the route was flat and straight, and other than a few potted plants hanging from the streetlamps, nothing obstructed Bump’s view. He slowed his pace, letting Jacob get another block ahead.

On the other side of the street, halfway between him and Jacob, a petite woman was walking her pug, keeping perfect pace with Jacob. Every time her dog tried to stop and pee, she pulled it along. Keeping pace.

Bump dropped back a touch more.

The woman kept looking around, scanning the neighborhood, then eyeballing Jacob.

This wasn’t good. Who is that? What’s she doing? Bump ducked behind a parked SUV and peeked through its windows. He then realized who the woman was. Avispón had lied. The cartel boss had sent ROD and that Triad assassin.

Bump scanned the street, looking for the ROD men, but he only saw a couple of pale Minnesotans. Are they already at the hotel?

Avispón had flown them in while he’d been crossing Wisconsin. That son of a bitch.

Bump fought the urge to sprint from the SUV, come up behind the woman, and shoot her in the back of the head. Fuck Avispón. But she was being so careful, studying her surroundings, that she’d see him coming.

Then the woman stopped dead and yanked the pug’s leash.

Bump scuttled ahead and threw himself against a pickup truck, peering over the cab.

The woman’s attention was no longer on Jacob or the neighborhood. She stared at something up ahead, frozen like a rabbit that’d stumbled upon a den of wolves.

Bump then saw it too. A purple rat, sitting in the middle of the sidewalk twenty-some feet ahead of the woman, cleaning itself. The animal seemed oblivious to her presence.

The woman bent over, carefully picked up the pug, and stepped back, little by little, not taking her eyes off the rat. Finally, she reached a side street and fled down it.

Bump looked back at the rat, then at Jacob continuing on his merry way, then at the rat. He’d never seen such a thing. Does China have those? Was that why the Triad woman had retreated? She knows better than to mess with the Szechuan Rats. The thing looked pretty occupied with cleaning its junk, though.

Whatever the case, now that Avispón’s team was in Duluth, Bump couldn’t let White get away. No way in hell would he let ROD get the credit or the money. He had to venture on. Bump broke from cover and hurried up the street.

His hand drew close to his pistol as he paralleled the rat. It was such a hideous thing, all purple and wrinkly, with thick stringy hairs bursting from its ears.

Perhaps the foreign thing was actually from Mexico. One of Avispón’s men had brought along some deeply inbred chinchilla. The cartel had all sorts of weird animals as pets. El Mencho, CJNG’s top boss, had a snow leopard. Avispón had a stable of opulent fighting roosters. Why couldn’t others lower in the organization, like ROD, have something too?

Bump was fully prepared to shoot the monstrous chinchilla if it moved, if it even looked in his direction, but to his relief, the rodent remained on its side of the street, lick-lick-licking.

A block ahead, Jacob crossed over toward the inn.

Emmelia wasn’t in the café that day. She was down at the Sheraton, hanging out in the lobby, monitoring the shop through her Nest app. When Jacob strolled by, then Bump, she pulled on her baseball cap and joined the procession, pleased to see that Bump had taken her warnings to heart and wasn’t simply gunning Jacob down in the street.

If this had been Chicago, she would’ve let happen what was going to happen, but in Duluth, in her quiet city that sometimes didn’t even have a single homicide for an entire year, she couldn’t allow anyone to be murdered, least of all someone with such a profile as Jacob White. The police, the media, and the mayor would be all over her and her group.

As she followed in Bump’s footsteps down Superior Street, things were progressing nicely. Then the Windy City’s pretty boy took refuge behind some parked cars and leered at something across the street. Only when Missy began backtracking did Emmelia put it together. She was surprised Bump even recognized Missy. He usually wasn’t that thorough. But then again, this wasn’t his typical killing.

It didn’t appear as though Missy had seen Bump. She held her pug in her arms and quickstepped down the block, occasionally looking over her shoulder but never across the street to where Bump was hiding. Missy turned down Third Avenue and was gone.

Missy’s appearance was an unwelcome surprise, but Emmelia supposed it was better she was out with Quincy than at the inn, getting caught up in the mess about to occur. Not that Emmelia really cared. Missy was an idiot and an ingrate. Who leaves a burning candle out like that? Emmelia touched her wrist where the burn was still healing. It didn’t hurt anymore, though. The aloe she’d put on it after Jacob’s recommendation had worked pretty well.

Bump continued on, some trepidation in his pace, but never stopping again.

Emmelia shoved her hands into her pockets, lowered her head, and continued on as well.

The wind driving in from the lake whipped the American flag atop the inn as Bump crossed the street and peered into the lobby through the front windows. White was heading up the grand staircase. Probably one of those step counters, he thought, imagining he’d find a FitBit strapped to his wrist later.

Nevertheless, Bump was just fine with White taking the long way to his room. He still had to circle around to the back anyway. If timed right, White would just be settling in when he made his entrance. Maybe he’d even catch White taking a piss. That’d be easy. In and out of room 403 in no time. Back to the basics. Back to simplicity.

The plan had just gotten too complicated for his taste. Because of Emmelia’s warnings about the small city (which were admittedly valid), he’d abandoned his shoot-him-on-the-street style and started thinking and plotting, eventually deciding his best bet was to get White in his hotel room.

It complicated things, but it seemed most appropriate given the situation. And it wasn’t like he was waiting six months to act. It was quite the scheme, but it’d be done in a day. And the hardest part was already behind him.

Everyone was just so damn hush-hush about their hotel guests. While almost anything and everything could be found on the Internet—home addresses, property taxes, traffic tickets, places of work, relatives—hotel room numbers were a state secret. And because Emmelia knew nothing herself, he’d had to complicate matters by approaching the inn’s saddest-looking cleaning lady, a short, round woman with the face of a softening jack-o’-lantern, and offering her fifty dollars for White’s room number.

“Why do you need that?” she’d asked. They were standing in the parking lot beside the inn after the sun had set and the light was fading. The woman had a hand in her purse, a telltale sign from his experience that she was gripping a can of mace.

Keeping his distance, he said, “A hundred dollars.”

He handed her the twenties. “Jacob White.”

“Jacob White,” she repeated. “Okay. Wait here.”

She didn’t use a key to get in through the service door, and a minute later, she returned.

“You use cards for the rooms?” Bump was looking at the keycard dangling from her hip.

She didn’t answer.

In Chicago, he may have just killed her, but he asked instead, “Can you get me one of those for another hundred bucks?”

She gave him a dubious stare. “What’re you doing, mister?”

Another complication. “Two hundred.”

The woman drew the can of mace from her purse so he could see it. “Not getting you a keycard.” She sidestepped to her car, watching Bump like he’d watch the purple chinchilla the next day.

He shrugged, said, “Whatever,” and walked away.

Thinking that was that, the woman got in her car.

But Bump’s Chrysler was only eight spaces away, and as the pumpkin-faced housekeeper turned out of the lot, he wasn’t far behind. He followed her to a low-slung quadplex behind a strip mall. While she collected her things and stepped from her car, he came over.

“Give me the card,” he demanded.

Her hand dropped into her purse, and Bump grabbed her wrist.

“You want it?” she said. “It’s right there.” Her eyes shifted to her hip, then back to him.

Bump wasn’t falling for it. With his free hand, he reached into the purse and pulled the mace from her fingers. He tossed it over her car and into the grass. “You work tomorrow?”

“Call in sick. And your next shift too.” He snapped the keycard from the clip. “I’ll bring this back and put it in your box there.” He gestured toward a row of mailboxes at the curb. “Which one is you?”

Bump yanked her purse close, dug around inside, and took out her driver’s license. “1452. Thanks, Mary. And if you don’t call in sick, Mary, or if you tell anyone about this, I won’t put it in the box. But I will come back.” The woman’s eyes flickered with a deep-seated fear, and Bump knew he didn’t need to show her the pistol tucked in his waist. He left her standing in the dark.

As he now circled the inn and approached the service entrance, Mary’s keycard was waiting in his back pocket. Although there didn’t appear to be any security cameras, he kept his head down until he was inside.

The inn had a dress code for the doormen and desk clerk, but the rest of the employees, like the cleaning lady, were only asked to wear black. Other than how terribly wrinkled his clothes were, Bump fit in fine and proceeded down a hall that smelled of grease and dry wood and linen and Lysol, looking for a staircase or a service elevator.

In a kitchen, two cooks were prepping items, their backs turned. Bump went by without a sound, and they went on chirping at each other about a fishing trip.

Ahead Bump could either follow the hallway to what likely led to the lobby or turn right down a narrower hall that might’ve been a dead end. He went right, and although it wasn’t the service elevator he’d been hoping for, there was a set of pinched, steep stairs.

An unattended cleaning cart stood at the base, probably left there by Mary’s last-minute replacement. He grabbed a do not disturb sign off the cart and tucked it into the back pocket with the keycard. He’d hang it on the door after killing White. That’d keep anyone from finding the body for a day or two. Long enough to get back to Chicago. Unless that Triad woman or ROD came through sooner. Still, it’d be too late for them. They should’ve done something when they had the chance.

He started up the stairs.

Emmelia walked through the front door of the inn and took a seat on one of the lobby sofas near the grand fireplace. In contrast to its dark stone exterior, the interior was soft and inviting with ornate rugs laid atop wall-to-wall carpeting. Rich wainscoting circled the room, and a large stained-glass skylight glowed a deep yellow in the sunlight. A wooden staircase Emmelia suspected would quaintly creak when traversed rose up in the back corner by the elevator. The front desk sat unattended below the stairs.

She took a moment to collect her thoughts. Only a couple more things needed to go her way, and Bump would be fucked. Having already screwed up twice, at least as far as the cartel was concerned, he was on thin ice. Bump surely thought himself beyond reproach, but she knew better. She knew Avispón’s tendencies; she’d done her research. The only people safe from Avispón were those above him in the pecking order, and Bump definitely wasn’t above Avispón.

If he didn’t handle things this time around, Avispón wouldn’t give him another chance. If Bump was lucky, Avispón would just kill him. If she was lucky, he’d torture him.

Her bloodlust was a bit surprising. She wanted revenge, but she hadn’t realized how badly she wanted it. After five long years, Bump would finally pay for what he’d put her through, and it felt amazing.

She supposed the old saying “all good things come to those who wait” was true.

She took out her phone as she considered its source and sent a text.

Ah! She remembered. It was from a movie: The Silence of the Lambs. But the saying had to be older than that. Maybe it was from the Bible.

In any case, it was a good one, and it was about time she got moving. The rest of the plan required some tricky timing.

Unlike Bump, she knew someone at the inn who’d given her Jacob’s room number willingly. She counted to ten, took a breath, and went to the elevator.

Room 403 was empty. No Missy, no Quincy. Jacob set his sunglasses on the dresser amid the empty beer bottles and put the leather book bag on the floor. The bed had been made—the cleaning lady already had come through—and he sat down. Outside, the lake glistened with a warm invitation Missy surely had seen and accepted.

And as if on cue, his phone vibrated. But it wasn’t Missy. It was a text from an unknown number. The sender knew him, though: “Jacob. Hit man coming. Hide.”

Who the hell had sent that? Tina joking around? That’s mean.

The elevator outside the door groaned as it passed by on its way to the lobby.

“Shit,” Jacob hooted. Someone was coming. He grabbed his bag, searching for the pepper spray. It wasn’t there. Why wasn’t it there? Had Missy taken it? Moved it? Maybe. He didn’t know. He scanned the room but couldn’t see it.

He grabbed one of the thin metal clothes hangers and straightened it. The looped metal wasn’t even a sharp point, but he could whip somebody across the face, stinging his attacker. Better than nothing.

Clutching the deformed hanger, he pressed his ear against the door; the hallway was quiet.

He opened the door a crack and poked his head out. At the end of the hall, the service door slowly opened. A set of extremely large shoes appeared, and Jacob snapped back into the room and pulled out his phone.

Duluth wasn’t a large city. The police would respond fast. But fast enough? The hallway was only thirty or forty feet long. It wouldn’t take long to traverse it. He had to buy some time, put some distance between himself and the door.

As the phone connected his 911 call, he hurried to the balcony and leaned over the railing, spotting a row of arborvitaes lining the base of the inn. Jumping was an option. Except the plants were terribly wispy and thin. He’d sail right through and smack the earth hard enough to do the cartel’s job for them. A birch tree off to the side provided another route down, but it didn’t reach much higher than the second floor.

Looking right then left, he considered the possibility of leaping to a neighbor’s balcony, except the gap between them was a good six feet.

The roof of the inn wasn’t too far off. And just over the door to his balcony was a decorative ledge of stone sticking out several inches. He could climb atop the railing, step up to the ledge, then pull himself to the roof. Jason Bourne it.

The 911 operator picked up the call.

“I need the police. Fitger’s Inn,” he said, taking a final glance into the room.

The door was closed, the chain guard dangling. Why didn’t I latch it? No time for that now.

He gave the operator the room number, then tucked the phone into his back pocket, jammed the hanger into his waistband, and clambered onto the railing. The ornate iron wobbled and swayed, nearly flipping him over the side, but then it steadied, and he stood, flattening himself against the dark stone, arms splayed. Breathe.

The warmth of the morning sun caught in the limestone greeted him on the cheek. From behind, the lake cheered him on with sparkling flashbulb-like waves.

The ledge over the door was now at thigh height, and in one awkward but quick motion, he stepped up onto it and hugged the warm stone once again.

He lifted himself up on tiptoes and surveyed the rooftop, a tar-and-gravel expanse. An access hatch was on the north side. Hopefully, he thought, it’s not locked.

He raised his arms up and over the roof’s edge and pulled, giving a lengthy grunt. For a moment, he thought he could do it—his feet drew off the ledge and his chin inched above the roofline—but then his right shoulder, the shoulder due for surgery in December, popped like a boot from a pile of mud.

He cried out and fell back to the ledge, his momentum carrying him away from the wall. His good arm, still clinging to the roof, tugged him back.

He lifted his right elbow a little, then some more, testing to see if the shoulder had dislocated. The sinuous pain emanating from his shoulder wasn’t as bad as it’d been in Tijuana when he’d deliberately pulled the joint from its socket to squeeze out of the handcuffs, but it was no gentle embrace either. The shoulder seemed to be in place.

Inside the hotel room, the door’s lock disengaged. The hinges squeaked. The door opened. The cartel was here.

The ledge he stood on ran the length of the exterior wall. If he was careful, he could shimmy to a neighboring balcony, then drop down and escape. Maybe he’d have to break the glass door and cut himself to pieces, but so be it. This was life or death.

From the room, there was a shuffling and rustling of clothes, then boots on bathroom tile.

This was his chance. He started to inch sideways, the tip of his nose poking the weathered stone, his toes desperately clinging for leverage. He’d moved no more than half a step, not even getting clear of his own balcony, when his foot slipped. Not much—he managed to hang on—but enough to convince him that he couldn’t cross the gap facing the wall. He needed his heels—not his toes—on the ledge, so he pirouetted with a grace he’d never possessed before and pressed his back to the stone.

There was a flash of something black underneath him. Between his feet, the barrel of a pistol waved left then right from out of the doorway. The man holding it emerged.

Jacob pressed against the stone, hoping beyond reason he could disappear within it.

The man, a beastly man who little resembled the cartel Jacob had encountered, lowered his gun and leaned over the railing, scanning the ground. Seeing nothing, he stood straight and glanced out at the lake.

The hallway door opened, the hinges squeaking again. Missy, Jacob realized. She and Quincy are back from their walk. Fuck!

The killer below him turned and raised his gun, and Jacob jumped from the ledge onto him.

Emmelia stood in the hallway outside room 403, her ear to the door. She couldn’t tell if Bump was inside. It seemed unlikely she’d beaten him there—and there was no chance Bump already had come and gone—but the room was very quiet.

The show just hasn’t started yet, she assured herself. Jacob was hiding. Bump was seeking. When the two inevitably came together and the scuffle began, she’d burst through the door and “save” Bump’s ass. Jacob would escape, but whose fault was that? Bump would try to blame her when Avispón called, but it’d ultimately fall on his shoulders. After all, what was wrong with him that he couldn’t keep little ol’ Emmelia out of his business?

Still, hearing nothing at all was nerve-racking. She’d hoped to hear something to gauge what was going on in there. Was it possible the door was one of those old-world antiques so thick that noise couldn’t travel through it?

The elevator groaned behind her, moving to another floor.

She pressed her ear a bit harder but only heard the sound of her heartbeat. Had she mistimed it? Had she given Jacob too much of a head start? Had he simply run away? The door’s too thick. She had to get in there.

A black bandana hung around her neck, and she pulled it up across the bridge of her nose, the design turning the lower half of her face into a grinning skull. She added a pair of sunglasses, and combined with her baseball cap and hoodie, she was unrecognizable. No way Jacob would know it was her as he fled.

Grabbing one of the inn’s master keycards from her pocket—obtained from the same friend who’d given her the room number—she unlocked the door and pushed it open.

He was standing on the balcony facing the lake. Emmelia opened the door some more, scanning the room for Jacob’s hiding spot. The hinges squeaked, and Bump turned around, pointing his gun at her. She was about to give him the AVL’s three-fingered salute when a man fell from the sky, dropping on Bump like an angry squirrel.

Emmelia’s eyes widened; she’d hoped her warning would allow Jacob to get some type of a drop on Bump, but she hadn’t expected it to be so literal. Still, it was pretty close to perfect.

Bump was on one knee with Jacob hanging off his back, arms wrapped tightly around Bump’s neck.

Now it was her turn. Emmelia raced across the room to separate the two.

But then Bump raised his hand and shot at her, the bullets sailing just over her head into the popcorn ceiling. She frantically flashed the AVL’s hand sign as white dust sprinkled down.

Bump didn’t lower his gun, but he didn’t fire again either. He kept it pointed at her as Jacob continued to choke him with one arm and, with the other, smack him on the ear with a bent hanger. Wincing, Bump stood, and with a lurch of his hips, tried to throw Jacob over his shoulder, but Jacob held on like a stubborn cocklebur. Bump gave a great howl and backed up hard into the balcony’s sliding glass door.

Jacob screamed as shards showered them both. The bent hanger dropped to the floor, and Jacob tightened his grip on Bump’s neck whose cheeks and forehead were now burning red. Bump went into a wild spin.

Emmelia moved toward them, hoping to pull Jacob loose, but Jacob kicked her in the chest, and she stumbled backward, falling on her ass.

Perhaps seeing an opportunity to flee, Jacob planted his feet on Bump’s lower back and sprang away, sending Bump crashing over Emmelia and into the dresser. The TV tipped over the side, and empty beer bottles went scattering.

Emmelia moved out of his way, but Bump latched on to Jacob’s ankle and jerked him back as though he weighed nothing.

“Shit,” Emmelia muttered. Jacob was a dead man. Bump was going to kill him, and the police would be all over everything.

Jacob grabbed a bottle and thumped Bump over the head with it. The man bellowed but refused to let go, so Jacob hit him again, harder.

Bump reached for his gun laying on the carpet near his hip, and Jacob brought the bottle down on his wrist with such force that Emmelia was certain she heard bones crack. Bump retaliated by punching Jacob in the jaw.

Jacob’s eyes went wild; he cried out like a lunatic, then went mad, hitting Bump over the head until the bottle shattered. Bump was left bloody and dazed.

Jacob didn’t stop, though. He grabbed another bottle, and wielding it like a plunger, smashed the butt end of it into Bump’s face again and again. Bump’s nose broke; his cheek split; his brow burst. When his eye popped with a white gush, Emmelia realized how crazy Jacob was. No wonder he’d been able to fuck over the cartel in Tijuana like he had.

Blood squirted from the meaty mess that’d been Bump’s face, and Jacob, wacky eyed and gasping for breath, stood up. He turned to her, the bottle gripped tightly in his dripping red hand.

Jacob wasn’t crazy. He was a protector. He thought it’d been Missy walking through the door, and by the time he realized it wasn’t, he was already atop the man, so what was he supposed to do? One thing had just led to another.

The room now smelled of ancient carpet and fresh blood (and craft beer). A pistol lay near the dead man’s body, a puddle of blood making its way toward the weapon. The much smaller hit man—The cartel calls them sicarios, Jacob remembered—had drawn back, pushing against the nightstand, and stared at him. Or so he assumed—the sunglasses made it hard to know for sure. Jacob picked up the gun.

A moment of silence passed between them before a pounding at the door made them both jump.

“In here,” Jacob yelled. He pointed the gun at the sicario. “Don’t move.”

His directive didn’t work, though. In fact, it had the opposite effect and sent the sicario scrambling up and over the bed toward the balcony.

“Don’t move!” Jacob fired a warning shot out at the lake.

The sicario hopped through the broken glass and peered over the railing as the police burst through the door.

“Drop your weapon! Drop it!” the police ordered.

The sicario grasped the railing and leapt over, vanishing with a soft ripple of clothing.

“Drop your weapon!”

“He jumped!” Jacob cried.

With two bulky officers pointing their guns at him, clearly reading the situation differently given Bump’s lifeless body at his feet, Jacob did as they said and carefully set the gun on the bed.

“Hands behind your head. On the ground. Facedown.”

Jacob found a dry spot of carpet away from Bump. As he was being handcuffed, he said, “They attacked me. The other guy jumped off the balcony.”

Neither officer answered him, but once he was no longer deemed a threat, one of the men went to the balcony, his boots crackling on top of the mess of glass, and looked around. After a moment, he radioed dispatch that an individual might have jumped, but there was no sign of the suspect.

“He’s gone?” Jacob groaned.

The officer joined his partner, who was confirming Bump’s terminated life status.

Jacob didn’t pay attention to their conversation from there on. He’s gone? The sicario had survived the jump.