He is gasping for air, blood bubbling in his mouth.

After all the excitement we’ll both need another minute. He returns my gaze and, observing the gun, backs away crabwise, trying to make it to the shore. Painful to watch: hands resisting the desiccated ice, heels dragging.

Squeak, squeak, squeak. Clouds. Snowflakes. Squeak, squeak, squeak.

I walk to him.

“No,” he says.

His ass sticks to the ice. He rips it free and the crab walk recommences. It’s so pathetic I’m starting to feel bad. I point the gun at his stomach.

“No,” he repeats in a whisper.

Nooo. His breath a ghost that vanishes like all ghosts. Desperation in those red, coke crash eyes. I go behind him and lug him to his feet. Ice-burned skin. Human skin.

Sickening, but not much farther now.

“Listen to me, buddy, I can make you rich. I can get you money. A lot of money. Millions. Do you understand? Millions of dollars. Goddammit! Why don’t you understand, what’s the matter with you? Millions of dollars? Do you speak English? Do you understand the goddamn English language?”

I do. It was my major.

“I hope you understand me, because you’re making a mistake. A life-altering-I have men, they’ll find me, and when they do I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.”

Better my shoes than no shoes.

“You just don’t know who you’re dealing with. You have no idea.”

What next? You’re connected? You’re high up in the mob? Your movements are tracked by drones piloted by the CIA?

Just a few more steps: one, two, three, four.

There, we’re about thirty meters out now, which is far enough.

I give him the universal “stop” sign and signal him to lie down.

He shakes his head. I place the barrel of the gun against his heart.

Still he doesn’t obey.

I walk behind him and kick him in the left calf. His knees buckle and I push his head down, shoving his face against the ice. His body goes limp. Bracing himself.