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“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. But if I tell you to hit the gas or bail out or get on the floor, don’t ask questions.”

Now his heart is racing. Even though it’s Ice Station Zebra in here I can smell him start to sweat.

“Are we in danger?” he says.

“It depends on what you mean by ‘we.’”

“Am I in danger?”

“That’s the first smart thing anyone’s said to me today. And, yes, you really are. So do what I tell you.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you for the warning.”

“Just remember to duck if I say so.”

“Yes, sir.”

He’s quiet after that.

WE’RE ON THE part of Sunset Boulevard that winds like a drunk anaconda through Beverly Hills and Bel-Air. Most of the drive is a dull blur of walled compounds where good, upstanding American families debate whether their artisanally raised mutts deserve domestic or imported champagne with their prime rib kibble. But it’s the side streets that are where the action is. These Sunset flatlanders are mere paupers with millions of dollars, while the side streets lead to gated Xanadus where the toilets are gold and the trash doesn’t end up in landfills but gets a gentle yacht journey out to the open sea, where it receives a Viking funeral, complete with human sacrifice. I can’t help but wonder how many associates of Wormwood and the breakaway faction we’re passing on our way west. Odds are that some of them live right next door to each other, filling Easter eggs with thermite and hiding razor blades in apples as Halloween surprises for the unenlightened in the neighborhood. I’m trying to work up some sympathy for the big-money families that have no Wormwood connections, but it’s hard to do. Whether it’s Beverly Hills, Bel-Air, or Pandemonium—Hell’s capital city—odds are anyone living in this kind of luxury has a body or two buried in the greenhouse. No, this patch of land is a No Sympathy Zone. They don’t give it, so they shouldn’t expect it. Whether it’s death by Wormwood, a bad stock market, or Daddy’s drinking, they’re on their own. Islands of privilege in a sea of shit and bad karma. When the tide rises, they better know how to swim, because no one is tossing these gold-plated Capones a life preserver.

Which makes me wonder what kind of deal Sandoval and Sinclair will offer me to not murder them after I’m completely back in my body. Whatever it is, it won’t be enough and they probably know it, which means they’re going to fuck me over at their first opportunity. I need to focus and be ready for when it happens. I let an idiot send me to Hell once. It will be embarrassing if I do it again.

It’s about halfway between the Playboy Mansion and the Bel-Air Country Club

that I spot the van behind us. Black with dark, tinted windows, no plates or brand insignia on the front. I tell the driver to turn left on Hilgard Avenue, then swing onto a side street.

“Oh god,” he says. “Is it happening?”

“What did I say about questions?”

“Not to ask them.”

“Right. Now, do you have a cigarette lighter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How about a handkerchief?”

“Yes.”

“Give them to me.”

As he hands them back, I take one last slug of bourbon and stuff the handkerchief into the neck of the bottle.

The moment we turn off Sunset, the van speeds up. With luck, being on a side street will get us away from traffic and minimize collateral damage, but I’m not counting on that last part.

The van floors it and slams us from behind. The limo starts to spin out, but Philip gets control and stops us before the car flips. We’ve done a one-eighty, though, which gives us a perfect view of the van as five men in sharp suits and balaclavas pile out, shouting and waving shiny new SIG 552 rifles—very serious weaponry that makes me wonder if taking prisoners is a priority.

“What do I do?” shouts Philip.

I roll down a side window.

“Get on the fucking floor.”

I light the handkerchief in the bottle and throw it at the welcome committee. A small but satisfying fireball explodes in the street, scattering the gunmen and sending a couple of them into frantic pirouettes, beating out the flames on their suits. I don’t want to see Philip get shot over my fun, so I step outside and take a couple of badly aimed swings at the closest shooters. All of my instincts make me want to crack their skulls, but I let my punches miss by a mile. I keep reminding myself that I want to get taken hostage, so when the five of them swarm me, I go down without a fight. Two of them haul me up while another grabs my briefcase. I can’t see what the others are doing, but when I hear a single gunshot I know exactly what it means: Philip didn’t make it.