And then—was this evidence that God had not forsaken His most wayward of children?—he saw it. A sedan, on the entry road, in the midst of the blackness. Its headlights were on. In the next second, he made out the languid shape of a man lounging against the bumper. Now, what was this strange hombre doing here? He didn’t appear to be a sentry and was on no kind of guard duty, not from the position he had assumed. He wasn’t dressed like a raider, instead basically wearing the clothes of an American at the mall, jeans and a light jacket. And he had no machine gun or helmet. He wasn’t smoking, he wasn’t on the radio, he just seemed sort of disgruntled, according to his posture, a bad boy exiled from the main action by a stern authority.

The Mexican reached under his shirt, selected his seven-inch, and withdrew it. Bone grip, tight, thin, and checkered by the bladesmith, a dagger meant to kill by thrusting deep into the organs, but sharpened on both edges so that a quick, strong slash would open the body, perhaps fatally, certainly enough to paralyze by shock so that he could get the point into the chest and puncture the heart. It was a good blade. He loved it. The Toledo steel whispered as it came from the leather. He began his slow approach, though he could see that the man was old, perhaps some kind of cranky derelict or local law enforcement senior citizen moved out of the action for everybody’s safety and disarmed. In any event, he would die quickly under the blade, and killing him would be, as it always was, a supreme pleasure. Another one! The two women, targets of opportunity, and now this lanky, stupid gringo. God was bountiful tonight.

He drew close and closer, amazed at how uninterested the man was in everything around him.

•   •   •

It was not Swagger’s best moment. He stood there, fulminating in the dark, occasionally going on the ’Net to learn that there had been no gunfight, and they were trying to get things sorted out.

What am I supposed to do? he wondered.