Luke exerted his weight between Ramón’s shoulder blades, but Ramón squirmed, gave himself some room, and drove his elbow backward. It was a blind shot, and frustratingly lucky. It caught Luke clean on the jaw and he flopped to one side. He was too amped to feel any pain, but his equilibrium was momentarily displaced by a sprinkling of tiny white stars.

Ramón swore again and wriggled free. He got to his feet with Luke right behind him. They wrestled—their bodies pressed together, their shoulders tucked, each man trying to upend the other. Luke was taller and broader, but Ramón was younger and wiry with muscle. They canceled one another out, until Luke worked his fist into Ramón’s stomach, not once but three times. Ramón spluttered and backed away. Luke followed with a stinging jab that snapped Ramón’s head backward. He teetered sideways, then overbalanced and went to one knee.

“Where’s my fucking wife?” Luke stormed. He hobbled forward, meaning to grab Ramón by the throat and choke out the truth, but Ramón rose quickly, drawing power from the ground and channeling it into his attack. He thrust one shoulder into Luke’s middle, knocking the wind from his lungs and driving him backward, slamming him into the side of a junked-out minivan. Still no pain—only one-hundred-proof adrenaline—but Luke’s upper body tingled with a loss of feeling and his breaths came in tight rasps.

Ramón threw two quick punches. The first gashed Luke’s lower lip. The second bounced off his forehead and sent him sprawling. He hit the ground, pushed himself up quickly, but his legs weren’t there and he went down again. Ramón loped forward, his fists raised, his angular face bright with exertion.

“I fucked your wife and killed her,” he said, perfect English, “and my dogs drank her blood.”

Luke scrambled backward, pushing at the ground with his feet while trying to work the .38 Special from the waistband of his jeans. He had stowed it in the Caliber’s glove compartment only as a precaution, and every round he’d loaded was a round he’d hoped not to have to fire. Now, though . . . now he wanted to empty the cylinder, bang five circles through this dirty bat-faced bastard.

He tucked his fingers beneath the pistol’s grip, and was about to hook the gun free when his right shoulder bumped against the German shepherd’s cage. The dog seized its opportunity. It threw itself at the steel mesh, biting through it, grabbing the sleeve of Luke’s T-shirt and yanking vigorously. His hand was snatched from the pistol’s grip. He tried to pull away but the shepherd held fast, shaking its head, rumbling with bloodlust. Next door, the rottweiler howled and clawed at the ground, wanting in on the action.