The one facing away from Merrill barked a response. Merrill kept quiet. The second elbowed the first and muttered something. He elbowed again, and the man facing away rose slowly, looking around warily. Merrill was killing people right and left? He shot at the man still hunkered down six times, as quickly as he could. With a grunt, the man sprawled out on the pavement, and winced. Merrill recoiled over what the dead man told him about his marksmanship. The dead man had a hole in his hand and another in the back of his thigh. But it had gotten the job done; what more could Merrill ask for? He stepped over the body and pushed the man against the side of the Mercedes. Merrill patted the man down, pulling a Swiss Army knife out of his jacket pocket. He threw the Swiss Army knife into the weeds.

“Rosario?”

“Si.”

“Do you speak English?”

“No. No English?”

Merrill stepped back. “Turn around.” He gestured with the gun. “Pull this guy back into the ditch.” Frightened, Rosario began to comply.

Across the street, in the trees, a light came on. A window. A fat woman in a robe was staring at them from a distance of no more than fifty feet. She started screaming. Merrill cursed. He grabbed Rosario by the shoulder and pushed him back toward the driver’s door. “Get in. You drive.”

Rosario understood well enough to move carefully as Merrill kept the gun on him while getting into the car behind the driver’s seat. The woman was shouting now. “Muerte!” Merrill was ready to believe that he was learning the Spanish word for murder. What else could it be? He poked Rosario in the back of the neck with the barrel of the gun. “Drive, or you’ll get muerte up the ass!”

Rosario put the car in gear.

“Go! Go, go, go, go, go!”

Rosario turned on the lights and stepped on the gas. The car bounced over the dead man and the woman screamed louder. Merrill thought he could hear her still yelling when they reached a T intersection and turned right, and he could see the city’s lights down the hill miles away.

Seven

SEVEN