Three cars short of the delivery truck, a man leaned out from behind the big SUV and slammed his fist into Jason's stomach.

Breath exploded from his lungs. He doubled over, hands flying out for something solid, coming to rest on the SUV. Pain blossomed in his gut, a warm and living thing. As his body fought for air, his mind raged, telling him to take the pain. He struggled to straighten, one hand against the rear door, the other up in a clumsy defense.

The man who'd hit him stood five and a half. Elaborately muscled shoulders tapered directly into his shaven head. He wore a spotless white T-shirt that hung almost to his knees and ornate gold rings on every finger of his punching hand. Soul Patch stood beside him, chuckling, the gun steady on Jason's heart.

Every breath was razors in his belly. Slowly, he forced his shoulders back, took the hand off the SUV. He glanced at it as he turned away, did a double-take, then looked at Soul Patch.

"I thought," Jason said, "you didn't like the Escalade."

The man smiled, his tooth gleaming. "I was just playing."

"No DVD?" He struggled to stay cool, to show that he wasn't panicking, that they didn't need to jump him.

"Oh, I got the DVD. You can watch it in back."

A shiver ran through Jason's belly. This couldn't be happening, not really. "Listen man, you've got the wrong guy."

"I feel you. Hop in, we'll discuss." He gestured, and the wrestler stepped forward to open the back, standing like a limo driver on the other side of the car door.

Jason could feel the blood vibrate through his palms, pound in his neck. In the truck he'd be trapped. That action-movie stuff about people rolling out of moving cars and walking it off, that was crap. Bail out of a car going faster than twenty miles per, you weren't walking anything off. Plus, here, in a public parking lot, he had some hope. A single bullet might be dismissed, but a firefight would attract attention. He hesitated.