He went off ’Net again. Somehow, he hadn’t been figured on this possibility, much less figured it out. He didn’t want to go in on foot alone. The boys were still nervous, not quite sure what they had uncovered. Yet at the same time, Nick had said he’d send an all-clear and he hadn’t. He didn’t want to interrupt the radio transmissions with his own questions, because they had too much to do and didn’t need interruption. He could drive in, but some hotshot might empty a mag into a strange vehicle appearing from nowhere. His best bet, obviously, was to wait it out just a few more minutes. The secondary convoy, with forensics people and other crime scene processors, medical personnel and equipment for the anticipated casualties, as well as dogs to track escapees, was said to be on the way. He would latch onto that. It couldn’t be more than five minutes or so away.

And just to fuck things up even more, a cold rain began to fall. If the skies really opened up, the rain could turn things to mud and destroy any tracks or scents left behind, assuming that, as it now appeared, the sniper had in fact again evaded them. The guy had more lives than a cat.

These things filled his mind. That meant he’d totally given up on tactical awareness. That meant he’d made the old man’s most likely mistake: not paying attention. So his reflexes were shut down, and if there was a footstep, a snap of a twig, the brush of legs sprinting through bush—anything at all—he missed it, and the man hit him hard, filling his brain with chaotic flash and infinite regret, and he lost another second, wondering, Huh? What the fuck? and he was down and pinned.

•   •   •

It was too easy. The strike of the keen predator against the unaware prey. La Culebra drove his left forearm hard into the old man’s head, knocking his baseball cap awry, scrambling his mind, while his full body weight, propelled at near maximum burst speed, sent the old arms akimbo and broke him fast to the earth. La Culebra knew the tricks, and, with killing speed, he laced his left arm through the old man’s, pinned it, achieving maximum leverage, and put his full strength against the enemy. The old man flattened, gulping, perhaps grunting, even as he understood he hadn’t the strength of his own to defy the attacker. In another second, the old man was helpless.

“You should pay attention, old one,” La Culebra said in English, for he recognized him as a gringo, noting that he looked like an old-time cowboy, a marshal or town sheriff, all crags and wrinkles.

“Now it is time for you to go,” he said, rather enjoying the moment and the intimacy between killer and victim.