Before he could pull the trigger, he took three rapid-fire bullets, two to the body, one to the head.

“Not today,” DPD Detective Captain Leo Cowling said as he watched the man’s body roll away from us.

Leo pulled me to my feet.

“Nice of you to join the party,” I said. “How’d you find me?”

“The usual way,” Leo said. “Followed the trail of blood and the smell of bullshit. How’d you convince Brutus Jefferies to get mixed up in this shit?”

“Brutus is here?”

“Snapped a guy’s neck as I was making my way in,” Leo said. “Brotha’s like some kind of Incredible Shaka Zulu Hulk.”

Automatic rifle fire splattered through the line of ferns Cowling and I were huddled behind. We ducked low, listening to the cascade of bullets chop the greenery and thud into the soil.

“Ever see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?” I said.

“Yeah,” Cowling said. “On one of them classic-movie channels. Couple of blue-eyed white boys playin’ cowboys on a bicycle with some dumbass music about raindrops. Never seen it all the way through. It ain’t no Buck and the Preacher, that’s for damn sure. Why?”

“Never mind.”

We looked at each other; Cowling nodded to the countdown in his head.

On “three” we stood and began emptying our weapons in the direction of the automatic rifle fire.

One of Bojing’s men fell while another to his left sprayed automatic rifle fire in our direction. Cowling dived right, I dived left, both of us barely managing to keep our skin intact.

A volley of pistol fire.

Then laughing. A brief but intense argument:

“He’s mine!”

“No he’s not! I got him first!”

“Oh, you are such a fucking liar!”

Cowling and I peeked above the tropical ferns.

“Oh, you are just bullshitting me,” Cowling said. “The goddamn Compton twins?”

“Yeah,” I said. “About that—”

“Jesus, Lord in heaven,” Cowling said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Any more surprises I should know about, Snow?”

“I—am your father.”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

A rustling of foliage. We rolled and leveled off, ready to drop the intruder.

Tomás!

“You lovers sandbaggin’ while I do all the heavy lifting?” he said. He was dressed for war: green camo and desert khaki boots, two semi-auto pistols slung low on his hips and a quick-release shoulder rig holding a Smith & Wesson 686 .357 Magnum. Slung across his chest bandolero-style were three flash-bang grenades. In each hand he held a Ruger AR-556 MPR rifle.

“I’m sorry,” Cowling said to me. “Remind me again who the good guys are and who the bad guys are? ’Cause I be sho ’nuff confused right now, Massa Snow.”

“God, am I glad to see you,” I said to Tomás.

“They’re buggin’ out,” Tomás said. “Six of ’em.”

“How?” I asked.