WHAT I DIDN’T know was three hours later, I’d be standing in my motel room with a bag of food in hand and a gun aimed at me. It was a small, silver, stainless steel 9mm Ruger. I recognized the man holding the gun but hoped he didn’t recognize me. It was Kody Snyder.
“Shut the door,” he said.
“Who are you?” I said, pretending not to know him.
“Who I am doesn’t matter. Just know I know who you are.”
I took a step toward Snyder, and he stepped back.
“Well, if you knew who I was, you’d know I’m the last man you’d want to point a gun at unless you plan on using it.”
“What’d you say?”
“Enough, Mr. Snyder,” said a voice with a Hispanic accent coming from near my room’s desk.
I peeked around Snyder and saw the short man with the ponytail sitting in the chair at the desk.
“Lower your gun,”
