Runner-up 1

Bonner set down Falco’s cellphone and watched Genie walk into the dining room. Ernesto followed close behind, the gun clearly visible in his hand.

“The surprises just keep coming,” Bonner said offhandedly. “Don’t you think, Tony?”

“Tony?” Genie spat as if the name was stuck to her tongue. “Since when did you start calling him Tony?”

Bonner glanced at the congressman. “Since about three minutes ago.”

Genie shrugged. “How’s Palmieri?”

“You tell me. You’re the one with the Birds of Paradise.”

“Not anymore. Your pal Ernie . . .”

Ernesto waved the gun. “Shut up! No wonder I ain’t married.”

He motioned for Genie to sit at the table. “I’m gonna keep this real simple. My services are no longer available. You three can keep double-crossing each other ‘til the cows come home. Personally, I think it’s pathetic. But who am I to judge?”

He took a step back toward the door. “Mr. Falco -- Tony -- I’ll need you to escort me out to my car nice and slow. That’ll allow these two love birds to kiss and make up.”

Falco stood, his face ashen.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bonner said. He raised the gun from beneath the table and aimed it at Ernesto’s chest. “If the Beretta’s not on the floor in the next second, you’re dead.”

Ernesto dropped the gun. Falco dropped back to his seat.

“Now, place the flash drive next to the gun, and take a seat across from Genie.”

Bonner watched Ernesto place the Beretta on the floor. Then the flash drive. “Good,” he said, and stood. As Ernesto sat, Bonner walked to the spot where Ernesto had placed the items. He bent to retrieve them when a gunshot whizzed by his ear.

“The next one won’t miss,” came a voice at the dining room door. “Drop the gun beside the other one and take your seat at the table.”

Bonner dropped the gun, and stared. “Mrs. Falco?”

“Take a seat Chuck,” she said. “I really don’t want to shoot you.”

Bonner sat.

“Honey?” Falco said, standing again.

“You, on the other hand,” she said, aiming the gun at her husband.

Falco’s face turned a whiter shade of ashen, and he slumped to his chair.

“Marriages,” Ernesto commented.

Gretta Falco ignored him and strolled to the dropped guns and flash drive, and scooped them from the floor.

“Au revoir,” she said and backed from the dining room, the bolt echoing loudly as she locked the room’s only route of escape.

When two-time winner Shaun Morey is not writing or surfing, he says, “I’m worrying about how to make a living in the world of fiction. I can’t think of a better way to pay the rent.”