Runner-up 4

Hans jumped at the vibration in his pocket. He fished out his cellphone. With his voice still ragged from the impromptu tracheotomy Carmen had given him, he croaked out, “Yeah, boss.”

From the first-class section of Mexicana Airlines flight 938 high above the Baja coast, Palmieri growled, “You there yet? I got nothing from my guys at Falco’s in the last hour.”

Hans’ leg was throbbing with such pain that he could barely drive his commandeered Camry. He wheezed, “It’s only been 15 minutes since you called. I’m doin’ the best I can.”

“Well, move it. I need you in control of things by the time I get there.” Palmieri slammed the in-flight phone into the seat back in front of him with frustration and held up his empty glass of Chivas Regal to the flight attendant.

Evelyn rushed to Hermann’s side. He pointed to the thug in the rosebushes, “I’m OK. Check on that one.” Evelyn moved cautiously toward the sprawled out gunman with her sawed-off shotgun like a big-game hunter facing down a wounded tiger. She poked at him with the barrel of the gun. As his body shifted in the bushes, Evelyn jumped back and accidentally discharged a thunderous blast of pellets.

Hermann moaned in pain, partly because of the hole in his shoulder, but mostly knowing that Evelyn’s use of his illegal shotgun was going to cost him big time.

FBI Agents Ramsey and Barnes sat in their teal Taurus at the end of the block, straining to see what was happening at Falco’s as they listened through their headphones. The digital recorder rested between them. Barnes raised his binoculars and focused in on the insanity unfolding in front of him. “Everybody’s shooting everybody. Should we go in there and get our guy?”

“He doesn’t have the flash drive yet, and we still don’t know where Palmieri is,” explained Ramsey. “And it seems like it’s safer inside than it is outside. Let’s wait and see what happens. But we need to call for backup.”

“Right,” Barnes agreed. “That guy who ran out of the house next door looked kinda familiar.”

“I can’t tell now that he’s down. I may have seen him once over at Jumbo’s.”

Back inside, Ernesto instinctively looked toward the direction of the shots. Genie, seizing the moment, lunged for the Beretta. It was a stupid move. Ernesto deftly swung the pistol away and threw Genie to the floor. Ernesto smirked as he pointed the gun at her.

Something protective stirred inside of Bonner, causing him to shift his attention from Falco to Ernesto. But Ernesto did this for a living. He put two rounds into Bonner before Bonner even realized he was in a gunfight. Genie leaped at Ernesto, latching onto his wrist. Startled but unfazed, he slung her around like a rag doll in a pit bull’s mouth.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Falco dashed into a hallway bathroom. He ripped open his shirt and tore loose the mike taped to his chest. He held the mike up to his mouth and shouted directly into it, “Bonsai! Bonsai! . . .Where are you guys!?”

Barnes and Ramsey looked at each other, pulled off their headsets and bolted from the car. Fifty yards from the house they stopped short at the sight of a bloody, limping Hans dragging himself toward Falcoland.

Nick Boone and Jim Botting are former FBI agents.