Runner-up 1

“Not bad, Tony,” Bonner said to Falco after snatching the phone from the congressman’s hand. “Not bad at all. Hell, I even believed that stuff you told Carmen, and I’m the one who made you say it. With that kind of talent, you should go into politics.”

Falco didn’t respond.

Bonner stood behind him, thinking fast, the barrel of the gun menacingly close to the congressman’s temple. “You better hope your girlfriend sells it to Palmieri. Those two goons at the gate aren’t here for cocktails.”

Falco shrugged. “Your wife’s on her way up. Why don’t you just calm down and see what she’s got to say.”

“Got to say?” Bonner bristled with an uncomfortable laugh. “She’s got a gun pointed at her, and the guy doing the pointing is on my payroll. Only I wasn’t in on this little twist, Tony.” He jammed the gun against Falco’s skin. “You know why?”

Falco began to shake.

“I’ll tell you why, congressman. It’s because you orchestrated this whole rotten show. You knew I wasn’t getting on that plane, because you paid Genie to steal the flash drive from me. And Ernesto? He must have been waiting for her outside the terminal.”

Bonner ground the barrel deeper into Falco’s temple. “Because you told him to. And for all I know, you’ve scripted their arrival to make it look like Genie’s in trouble. Hell, you probably paid those two meatheads outside to show up as well. To make me think Palmieri sent them.”

“Chuck,” Falco said, breathing deeply to try and calm his nerves. “You’ve been in Hollywood too long. I couldn’t possibly . . .”

Bonner jacked the butt of the pistol into the soft spot just above the congressman’s ear. Just like he’d seen in the movies. And just like the movies, Falco crumpled to the floor unconscious. Nobody called him Chuck, not even his mother.

Adrenalin moved Bonner across the dining room to the obscenely large china hutch in the corner, next to a towering ficus. He squeezed himself between the hutch and the branches of the potted tree, and waited.

Seconds later, Genie walked through the door. He watched her hurry to Falco’s lifeless body, watched Ernesto glance furtively around the room. Bonner slowly raised the pistol. Ernesto’s eyes caught the movement, and the big man dropped into firing position.

“Too late,” Bonner heard himself whisper, and squeezed the trigger.

Two-time winner Shaun Morey, who surfs to escape writer’s block, says: “The only thing better than an uncrowded wave is a perfectly written sentence. I find both to be elusive.”