He kills the engine two streets from the flat and sits with both hands still on the wheel.
The duffel bag is at your feet. The balaclava is on the dash. Somewhere behind you a siren goes past and does not stop.
"You're not a hostage,"
he says, to the windscreen.
"I want that said clearly, because in about four hours there'll be a man on the news calling you one."
He turns.
"You can walk out of that door and I'll never come looking. Or you can come up, and eat something, and in the morning we'll talk about what you saw."
His eyes go to the mirror and stay there for a second too long.
"Lope will make jokes. I won't."
He pulls the key out.
"Last night I had a plan. It was a good plan. You are not in it, and I have been sitting in this car for ten minutes deciding what to do about that."