Agent Nguyen was fuming. “You what?”

“Ayyy. It ain’t my fault I’m a lucky.”

Nguyen’s face reddened. “Yeah, dumbass, it is your fault.”

“Yo, careful now. There was a time when someone, Fed or not—“

“Save it, old man.”

Tony Mangenonzo—aka Tony the Shark aka Tony Three Toes—cocked his head and said sarcastically in his heavy New York accent, “You sure you ain’t just jealous, Dougy? I mean, that much money… What do you pull in a year? $55k? I used to spend that much on suits in a year.”

Nguyen didn’t take the bait. “Well, the only ‘suit’ you’re wearing now, ‘Norman Furtwangler,’ is that of an assistant manager at Petco.”

Tony smoothed down his velour tracksuit, gold chains out of place in the modest apartment. “Ah, you forget, agent Nguyen, that was yesterday. Today is different. Today, I am friggin’ rich! Again!” His laugh quickly turned smoker-cough.

When Nguyen looked at the old gangster he couldn’t help thinking of places to bury him. It wasn’t fair. What sense did the universe make if it was true, if this criminal piece of garbage could find himself a lottery winner while those who committed their lives to fighting crime had to worry if they’d ever have enough saved just to retire?

“Yeah, well, you might have the winning ticket—if it’s real—but whether or not you get to keep any of it will be up to a bunch of government lawyers. Don’t worry, though. I’m sure they won’t lobby that it should be used to reimburse the Marshal Service for all they’ve spent keeping you hidden in plain sight.”

Tony feigned a look of shock before realizing that he really didn’t know the answer. Could they keep the money?

“So, whaddayousayin? That the Government is going to steal my winnings? What are you gettin’ at here? From the sounds of it, seems to me that what the government lawyers are planning to do ain’t all that terribly different from what I used to do.”

Nguyen paused for a moment. “The government will follow the appropriate SOPS.”

Tony chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. This is uncharted territory, ain’t it?” He waited, but no reply. “Yeahhhh… That’s what I figured.” Well don’t worry, I’ll be sure to pay all the taxes. Wouldn’t want to give you any excuses.”

Nguyen looked at his mobile.

“What you lookin’ for, Agent?” Tony let the words slither out slowly, a circling snake of sarcasm he’d come to rely on to sublimate his habit of violence. “You waitin’ on the bosses to tell you what to do? See, we ain’t so different.”

“The only thing we have in common is that we both hate you.”

“Ohhhh, that’s a quality jab, G-Man! Listen, in all seriousness, I owe you for what you did in Detroit. So, when I collect my money, maybe I get you and me a pair of matching jet skis. We go have a little fun in the sun. Whaddayou think?”

Nguyen ignored him, looking back at his phone.

“Lemme guess, they’re not finding a legal means for you to take this money? This shit ain’t in the Ess-Ohh-Pee, is it?”

Nguyen checked his phone again, frowning at the message that finally popped up. “Nope. You are one hundred percent correct.”. It was a scoring update from his EPSN app, but Tony didn’t know that.

“Hah, I told you. Fuhget the SOP, I’m one wealthy SOB!”

“Yep. Get dressed and I’ll take you to collect your winnings.”

“Sounds good to me!”

“Be sure to dress for TV.”

Tony’s countenance changed. “Whaddayoumean ‘dress for TV?’”

“Exactly that. I mean, ‘elderly retail assistant manager wins millions,’ c’mon, man, that’s TV News catnip—no pun intended.”

“I can say ‘no’ to being on TV. I think they let you be, what’s it called, androgynous?”

“Anonymous?”

“Yeah. That.”

“‘Maybe that’s true... But, you know, you never know who might be there,” Nguyen held up his mobile, “what reporter might get a hot tip.”

“You sonofabitch! You tryin’ to get me killed? I can’t say shit about this. That’s why I called you instead of the Marshals. They’d bury my ass and split the winnings sure as I’m standing’ here.”

“Relax,” Nguyen smiled, “You’ll—“

He moved on instinct, pulling Tony to the floor, one hand keeping him down, the other sweeping his Glock across the horizon.

There.

He fired two rounds into the first threat, an armed, barrel-shaped male silhouetted across the curtains.

The next two rounds found their target as well as a well-muscled 20-something burst through the door.

Two down. Out of…?

“Get off me, you gorilla!”

“Stay down.”

A mug shattered above them. More gunfire from outside.

Nguyen’s ears were ringing.

Tony’s everything was ringing.

Nguyen looked at the small table four feet away. His cell phone had fallen beneath it. The only way to call backup; Tony wasn’t allowed to have a phone.

Four feet.

A mile in a gunfight.

Nguyen looked around, desperate for some clue as to who was out there—half-tempted to let them have the snitch; He was useless anyway. Besides, he was supposed to be the Marshal’s problem, not his.

Can’t do it; He signed up for this crap.

Nguyen opted to ignore his phone for the moment and think. If they were many they’d have attacked in force. No, they were probably four strong, a hit team made up of whatever resources the Contangelo family had in Denver. That meant they weren’t a cohesive team, no tactics.

It also meant there was maybe one real killer in the group, and Nguyen hadn’t seen him yet.

“Come on, get off me.”

“Fine, sit up, but keep your back against the dishwasher and don’t move.” Pouting, Tony threw his head back, shutting the dishwasher door in the process.

Nguyen thought. Orient. Second floor, apartment complex. One small window in the bathroom, everything else faced the parking lot where the bad guys were. Bathroom escape was a non-starter. Two windows on either side of the doorway, both have closed curtains. His car was out front, but that put him in a killbox.

Something caught his eye. A glass vase on a concrete planter. A reflection.

Shooter three.

Nguyen put two rounds through the sheet rock near the door. The man slumped dead against the concealment he’d mistaken for cover.

One-on-one, now?

“What’s the plan, Dougy? We just gonna sit here?”

A hum. A rattle. It felt like the ground was moving. What were they doing? Digging through from the apartment below? Setting up a bomb? What was making that—

Nguyen reached up behind the old man’s head, and pressed ‘cancel’ on the dishwasher. Idiot, he chided himself.

The ringing in his ears subsided enough that he heard a man in the parking lot below.

“Hey Cop, listen, all I, all WE want is the old man. You walk out now, that’s it. You won’t see us again. We got no beef with you. You can say you got separated from him during the gunfire. Whatever. I don’t give a shit. Just walk out and we’ll take care of the rest. You hear me up there? I know you do, Cop. He ain’t worth it.”

“You gonna leave me here to die, Dougy?”

“Shut up.”

The old gangster, to his credit, was going to go out the same cocky bastard he’d always been.

Tony laughed. “I’m bustin’ yer balls. But listen, this is my mess, not yours. You gotta family. Just leave me your piece and I’ll give ‘em hell.”

“I’m not leaving you shit. And you’re not dying.”

What happened next happened quickly.

A big man moved quickly toward the doorway. Sunlight dimmed the doorway as gunshots shook the small apartment. A .45. A ‘man’s gun,’ but inaccurate.

Nguyen planted his feet against the Tony, pushing against him so he slid along the linoleum, slamming into a cupboard as Nguyen, with equal-and-opposite force, slid the other direction, raised his 9mm and fired everything he had left, forming a bloody trail from groin to heart.

The giant man just fell where he stood, crumbling onto himself. Nguyen knew he was dead before he hit the ground.

More ringing. Gunpowder. Sweat. Now urine, feces.

Nguyen’s muscle memory had him already reloading his service weapon before holstering it.

Tony grabbed a lamp and started bashing the dead gangster’s head with it.

“You think you can come into my home, you fat piece of shit? You think after what I did for you, how I vouched for you, you come in here…” Old muscles and older, tar-filled lungs gave up and Tony dropped the lamp.

Sirens were close enough to break through the ringing.

Nguyen took out his FBI ID out so it’d be ready.

“You done good, kid. You really saved my ass.”

“It’s my job.”

“Well, I never forget a thing like this. When I get my money—“

The bullet that tore the back out of Tony’s skull was either fired with a suppressor or came from so far away that Nguyen didn’t hear the report.

It was a top-tier shot either way.

The one real killer.

————

After a few weeks he barely thought of the old man, the gunfight. Nguyen waited three months before announcing he was leaving the Bureau. Three months to make sure that the case on Tony was officially closed.

The retirement was a surprise, but not uncommon in agents that had survived violence up close.

“Are you sure? With your military service you’re looking at a pretty excellent retirement in less than a decade, Doug,” his boss had protested. “What are you going to do?”

That was the million dollar question.

Well… the $138 million dollar question, to be exact.

A lot of money anywhere in the world.

Like Belize. Or Reykjavik. Or on a yacht, just off the coast of Marseille.

The kind of money that gives a family options.

Turns out you really can claim your winnings anonymously.