Roulette — Buckshot

Leo sat alone. Across from the Dealer. Between two corpses.

“Any questions?”

Click.

“Third time’s the charm,” he whispered.

Marta, mid-forties, ex-military. She sat with her hands flat on the table. She wasn’t here for money. She was here because her son had been taken. The Dealer’s employer had him. Win, she got a location. Lose… she tried not to think about lose. buckshot roulette

The Dealer himself was a mountain in a stained wifebeater, forearms like hams, knuckles a roadmap of old breaks. He didn’t smile. He just slid the shotgun into the center of the table. A short, brutal pump-action. Then, a box of 12-gauge shells. Twelve of them.

Leo, the youngest, had sweat blooming through his denim jacket. He owed thirty grand to the wrong people. The Dealer was those people’s collector. Win, and the debt was void. Lose, and the debt was paid by his beneficiary—his little sister’s tuition fund. He’d signed the waiver. Leo sat alone

The table was a scarred crescent of oak, stained with coffee rings and something darker. Three men sat around it. Across from them, one empty chair.