The driver did as he was told.

“Now unlock the doors, all of them.”

“The ignition has to be on.” He was still staring stolidly ahead, his jaw muscles working. A tough guy.

“No, it doesn’t. Don’t mess with me!” He shoved the muzzle hard against the man’s jaw and clicked back the hammer with his thumb. “Hurry up!”

There was a soft tick as the locks unlatched. Ugo pulled open the front door. On the passenger side, Marcello did the same.

“Keys,” Ugo said.

The driver took them from the ignition and handed them to him. Ugo flung them over a stone garden wall beside the church.

“Now,” he said, “both hands on the wheel, up at the top. Okay, now use your left hand to get your gun out of the holster. Two fingers only.”

“I don’t carry a-”

“Don’t bullshit me! I told you once.” He dug the muzzle of the pistol with its jutting front sight into the tender place where neck and jaw intersected, and twisted. He could feel ligaments grind in there, and the driver grunted and tried to pull his head away. What do you know, not so tough after all.

The driver’s gun-one of those pretty little German 9mm semiautomatics-was withdrawn between thumb and forefinger. Ugo snatched it out of his hand, a welcome fringe benefit; the damn thing was worth three times as much as his.

He released the safety on the semiautomatic and focused both handguns on the driver. “All right, now raise your hands. Up high, push them against the roof. Marcello, if he moves, you kill him.” He pulled open the back door and leveled the two guns-he liked this two-gun stuff-to point down at the floor. “Okay, kid, come on out of there. Hurry up.”

Achille didn’t move. He was on his knees, scared to death, milk-faced and shivering. “Just tell me what you want, I know I can-”