No one knew who they were, where they were. If there were any witnesses to the killings, cops would be looking for a duo. Soon, he’d be just an uno. No problem.

Still, he wanted to stay close to the airport just in case he felt like splitting. There was no real hurry to do Nick-O quick. And it would be more exciting to wait a little bit. After all, he’d just finished up with the faggot dude.

So let the kid have his phone call. He’d do him right before dawn, while it was still dark enough to get away with it, but there was enough light for him to see what he was doing.

Yeah, he had it all figured out. The kid couldn’t keep awake too much longer. Hank would have fallen asleep much sooner if the faggot last night hadn’t given him that magical cellophane envelope.

It had been up to Hank. Did he want coke or money for his services? Knowing he was going to get money anyway, Hank figured, why not take the coke? He had snorted the last of it around an hour ago.

Blastoff. Instant energy for the brain.

When the kid dropped off, he’d get the gun.

One quick blast.

If he had time and if he felt like it, he’d finish the kid off like he did the faggot. Like he should have done the dickhead.

If only he’d known better.

He looked over at Nick-O. Kid still wasn’t asleep, he was praying again. Let’s face it, the kid had to know his time was up. He didn’t even seem to care.

It was almost like he was putting the kid out of his misery.

That was a good way to think about it, putting the kid out of his misery. A quick blast to the head and it would be over. Then he’d do the kid if he wanted to. Yeah, he’d probably do the kid, ’cause hell, the kid would be dead anyway. Thinking about it, he began to get excited.

But the kid would definitely be dead first. Hank was no monster, he’d never do the kid while he was alive. It was like Nick-O wasn’t a bad sort.

Just too young.

Just too green.

Just not tough enough.

The next kid would have to do better.

One quick blast.

Why make him suffer?

Sitting like a postmodern Stonehenge, the unfinished Century Freeway coursed along a stretch of dirt that hugged Imperial Highway. Four-story concrete pillars supported disjointed slabs of to-be highway that abruptly ended in exposed grids of rusted-metal spikes, the gray mist softening sharp edges like hairspray on a camera lens.