MICHAEL
"You can't walk away from a job like this, Mikey." The voice echoes toward me as if down a long tunnel. It's male, deep, has a French accent. No, that's not right, not French—Quebecois.
"I'm done, Bertrand. It's enough. I told the Boss no kids." I'm furious; offended. I also have a g*n pointed at me. I stare down the bore defiantly.
"If the Boss says you do kids, you do kids. His mommy ran out on us, she knew what the price would be. Now we've got to get rid of him. He's up at the ski lodge with his daddy, same one as Lucca." The man's face is a frustrating blur; he stinks of cigars and wine.
"And what are you going to do if I don't?" I demand, betrayal digging its nails into my heart. This man is a friend. He was my handler for the original. But he was damn quick to pull a g*n
