A pair of bright lights appeared at the top of the hill. High beams, or high-intensity driving lamps. The inside of the Honda was as bright as a carnival midway. The white sedan was making a U-turn behind him. Merrill heard an engine roar. The lights at the top of the hill reared up and settled back again quickly as the vehicle charged down the hill. The white sedan rushed up from below.

Merrill stepped on the gas and turned on the headlight, but the light pouring down from above had him blinded. A burst of automatic gunfire flattened his rear tires. Merrill pushed the transmission selector into reverse, grinding the gears and stalling the engine. The white sedan braked behind him. The vehicle in front skidded to a stop twenty feet away. The Mercedes. Merrill put his hands on the top of the steering wheel as men surrounded the car, their guns drawn. Out of the bunch stepped a man in a pale suit and low cut boots. He kicked out the remaining headlight.

“Out of the car, asshole,” he said in perfect American English, “and keep your hands where we can see them.”

Merrill got out. The man grabbed Merrill by his shirt and kneed him hard in the groin. The pain made the world disappear for a split-second and then Merrill’s face was on the pavement. He wondered how he had gotten there until the pain returned, with a sharp ache in the brow now, too, and he could not get his breath and all around him men were laughing. “Gotta take the fight out of you,” he said, and kicked Merrill in the stomach.

Merrill doubled up and tried to protect himself from more. The man in the boots seemed to back off. “These Coast guard pricks have cost me plenty over the years.” He had a New York accent. “Tell Chino I was glad to help you get this guy. Don’t crap around, put him in the trunk. I gotta go now if I wanna get fifty miles out to sea by sunrise. Thanks for everything, all you guys.”

He left, taking others with him. Merrill heard doors close and a car drive away. Somebody was going through the Honda. “Mira!” Merrill twisted himself up so he could see. A man with a moustache jangled the bag containing the laptop computer and the guns. Another man spoke to him in Spanish. Merrill looked around. There were only the two of them. He tried to move. Even if he could get to his feet, he wouldn’t be able to stand up straight any time soon. The man with the moustache put the bag on the floor behind the driver’s seat of the Mercedes. The second man spoke again. The first man covered the bag with a dark blanket, tucking the blanket under on all sides so the whole bundle looked neat. Then he released the trunk lid.