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By S. J. Rozan

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Gravel scraped the side of my face as I twisted, digging with my right foot, trying to shake off the little guy as my lungs began to strain for air. I groped at his hands pressing into my windpipe. My heart pounded, raced; yellow and red explosions started behind my eyes. His breath rasped loudly in my ear. I had no breath at all. The world got smaller, darker. Closing on one finger of each choking hand I forced them back, my muscles only half obeying, beginning to tremble. I put everything into bending those two fingers; at the last minute the hands loosened and I clawed them away from my throat.

Pay the market price, if you have to. " She smiled a small, bitter smile; then it faded. " We rounded the house, stopped at the porch steps. I looked at her. Her boots were caked with mud. Her eyes were like crystal creatures caught in the net of lines around them. "The paintings" I said, watched her eyes. "Who would recognize them as yours? An expert? A layman? " "They're not signed. An expert would certainly know them. An educated layman, possibly. My work is distinctive, Mr. Smith. " I searched for the right way to put my next question.

I wasn't the only thing moving. Barely visible, a shadow darker than the others slid noiselessly behind a hill of boxes. Slowly, silently, I eased the gun from under my arm. I stared through the dimness; there was nothing. Everything was still, as though it always had been. But I'd seen it. I moved to my left, to where the shadow went. My steps were silent. Maybe whoever it was wouldn't hear my heart pounding, either. Suddenly a crash, something shattering on the concrete floor. Another flash of movement.

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