Ezra blinked as the blindfold fell away and he could see. He shivered and looked up at his captor. “Prescott Royal,” he said, his voice faint. He shook his head in confusion. “What, in the name of all that is, could you possibly want with me?”

Royal smirked. “I’ve got a proposition for you, Master Pemberton,” he said. He chuckled and stepped away, moving over to a table covered with cloth. He yanked the cloth away. Ten pistols lay spread out on the smooth wooden surface.

“One,” he said, “and only one, of these pistols has bullets. The others are not loaded.”

Ezra’s brows furrowed. He could well imagine what Royal’s game was. “You want me to choose one,” he said.

“Choose one, point it at your forehead and pulled the trigger,” he said. “If you do this, you’ll walk away a wealthy man.”

“Or, I’ll be dead,” Ezra said. He sighed and shook his head. “This is – this is madness.” The money was a tempting lure, but he knew the odds were against him. Far to much so for him to take the risk. He shook his head vigorously. “No,” he said, his tone firm.


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