“Sir, I’m Tom Cornwall,” he gasps out. “I’m…damn, I’m so sorry this happened. I swear to God.”

Tom leans over as the man softly speaks. “I’m sorry, too, that I can’t answer your questions, Mister Cornwall…but…I think you might have enough for a book, eh?”

The man closes his eyes.

A man of his named Georges is driving the second Yukon, and the screaming little girl is in Pelayo’s lap, and he turns to the rear and says, “My father, did you see my father?”

Casper is there, pistol in his right hand. “Jefe, I saw him fall. I saw blood on his chest.”

The girl is still screaming, and Pelayo slaps his hand over the brat’s mouth.

“Good,” he says, as the girl squirms and struggles on his lap.

Casper sharply says, “Good? For real, jefe?”

Pelayo yells to Georges, “Drive faster, fool!”

The young man swerves the Yukon around a group of children, standing in the middle of the parking lot, and speeds to the gate.

I’ve dumped the silly flip-flops and I’m racing across the hot asphalt of the parking lot, then the grass, then the parking lot again, my SIG Sauer in my right hand, running, running, running, not letting the Yukon get out of my sight.

The black vehicle suddenly stops in front of a group of laughing children, swerves, and then picks up speed.

Running.

Running.

People are watching and pointing at the chunky woman spilling out of her teeny-tiny bikini, running, holding a pistol in her hands, and I ignore them all.

The Yukon is heading right toward the gate.

Running.

Should I stop, aim for the tires?

Can I do that?

But this is no thriller novel, no blow-’em-up movie, no cop show on TV, where the hero can be a hundred yards away and carefully shoot out the rear tires of a racing vehicle. I’m scared, I’m angry, and if I stand and try to shoot, shit, I might take out a tire, a taillight, or—

A high-speed round from my hand, my weapon, could break through the rear window of the Yukon and kill my little girl.

I don’t stop.

I keep on running.

Will somebody call the police after seeing this shootout? Will the cavalry ride to the rescue?

Of course not.

This artificial community created by drug money has no police.

Running.

The Yukon makes a turn to the right and I break right as well, and I screech as my right foot is sliced opened by something but I don’t care.

Now.

The Yukon has stopped.

Finally!

A hand emerges from the left side, works a keypad.

Running.

A stitch starts stabbing hard at my left side.

The pistol feels like it weighs a ton.

My breathing is harsh and ragged.

“Denise!” I scream.

The gate ahead starts rattling to the right.

The taillights of the Yukon blink as the driver takes his foot off the brakes.

In a few seconds the SUV with my kidnapped daughter aboard will quietly go out into traffic and then disappear.