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They park the Volkswagen in a lot about a block from the bank on the D922. Michael insisted they take his car because the bank manager knows him. It’s a small town. If he arrives with a strange man in an unfamiliar vehicle to transfer millions, well… The lot is empty and has a line of sight to the entrance.

“Okay, Michael, let’s not play any games,” Brian O’Leary says. “By the way, why’d you keep your real first name for your alias? Not the smartest thing in the world.”

“My international banking contacts all know me by only my first name. It would be hard to move the money without the passwords and an identification that has my first name on it.”

Brian shrugs. He looks out at the front of the bank. It resembles most of the other buildings in the medieval town, except it has a protective concrete barrier lining the front of it. “The bank looks closed.”

Michael shakes his head, disagreeing. “I need to see my daughter before I transfer the money,” he says.

Brian shows him those dead eyes. “I understand, I do. I’m a parent. And my kid sure as hell ain’t running a gallery in the south of France. But I’ve been straight with you. I gave you my word.”

Michael has been playing different scenarios in his head since the man told him the grim realities of the situation. Brian might stay true to his word: deliver Michael to Shane O’Leary but release his daughter. Or Brian could get the money and let his partner take his time killing Michael and his daughter. Michael would gladly sacrifice himself if he could trust this man. But Brian O’Leary’s word means nothing.

“Contact your partner,” Michael says. “Tell him to let me talk to my daughter.”

Brian hesitates, looks at his watch again. He fishes out his phone.

He keeps his expression blank when no one answers. But Michael sees it. In the forced nonchalance. In the slight clench of the jaw.

“What’s wrong? Why isn’t he answering?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Brian’s face turns hard. “Now I’m gonna say this once: Get in there and transfer that money. If you don’t do it by the top of the hour, your daughter’s gonna be missing a finger for every minute it’s late.”

Terror rips through Michael again.

“Think I’m kidding? My partner, he’s an odd bird. He won’t do it because my brother ordered it, he’ll do it ’cause he likes it. I’d tell you to ask your friend, that small-town sheriff, if I’m exaggerating, but he’s no longer in a position to say.”

Michael’s heart is thumping. His core fills with dread, sadness, that they must’ve taken out Ken Walton. But he needs to push through. His daughter is alone with a sadistic killer. Why isn’t the partner answering his phone?

It’s then he decides. He has to execute the plan. He gets out of the car, heads toward the front of the bank.

Brian rolls down the passenger window. “Don’t fuck around. Get this done. The clock’s ticking.” He taps his watch with two fingers.

Michael holds up the sheet of paper with the new account numbers written on it, then looks around the street to confirm no pedestrians are nearby.

He’s on the sidewalk in front of the bank, past the concrete barriers lining the front. He turns around, surveys the area to confirm no one is in range. Then he makes eye contact with O’Leary, who doesn’t know that Cordes-sur-Ciel financial institutions don’t open until the afternoon.

O’Leary looks puzzled when Michael ducks low behind the barrier.

Protected, Michael pulls the remote detonator from his pocket, flips the protective cap, and presses the button.