Inside the pen, the slaughterhouse workers had raced away, taking refuge from the gun battle behind the far walls. More than twenty huge hogs were trampling the flesh of hog-tied and already-killed animals, grouping in one corner until a few of them would suddenly bolt and squirm, causing them to again rush madly until they reached a new hiding place. Muir lay against one wall, holding his bleeding leg, seemingly more fearful of the hogs than of the battle on the road.

Condley still leaned against the front wall, his pistol at the ready, watching to see if the other five men would open fire. But these were the drivers, and they seemed bent on escape. Instead of shooting back at him, they had quickly moved into the trucks and were starting the engines. One of the Burmese drivers had picked up the package and thrown it into his cab. Condley did not care. He wanted them to go. What he had come for was lying dead on the dirt road before him. He had no quarrel with them, and he did not want to fight another war over the contents of their cargo.

Then the other Burmese driver ran to Deville’s body and started to drag it by the belt toward his truck. Condley fired a round through the driver’s windshield, warning him, and another at his feet. The driver dropped the body, then put both of his hands into the air and ran wildly to his truck. Within seconds, the five trucks churned out of line, running over the bodies they left behind as they quickly made their way out of Klong Toey.

He sagged against the wall. It was over. All of it. The danger and the evil both were gone, and with them the anger. He was bleeding, but it was good blood, spilled in a just cause. A sense of peace passed over him, like the stroking of a large and gentle hand. For the first time in his memory, Condley felt content with himself. It occurred to him at that moment that now would be a good time to go home. If he actually had a home.

The hogs grew quiet. There was a dreadful hush, and then the people of Klong Toey slowly started howling. Condley stared cautiously around him amid the whines of little children and old women that were emanating from the nearby houses, testing the certainty of his victory. Then he stood at the wall, remaining for several seconds, almost inviting someone to kill him. No gunfire. And finally he walked slowly toward a corner of the slaughter pen where several hogs were cowering, causing them to squeal anew.

“Brandon, what are you doing?” asked a wheezing Hanson Muir.