His hands are empty, and they are quivering.

I say, “Come on, let’s go, let’s move it.”

He doesn’t move.

I step forward, roughly grab his wrist. “Amigo, buddy, whoever the hell you are, let’s get going!”

With some difficulty, he clambers out of the tub, and I shove him forward, and we go through the bloody kitchen—now smelly as the dead skinny guy becomes even more dead—and I get the sliding door open, and we’re off on a rear patio. I grab his wrist again, and start running.

We run for a few minutes until I get to the grove of trees and scrub brush where I parked my Jeep. I open the passenger door, shove him in, and as I do that, I drop the two pistols I had gotten from the house after wiping them down.

To hell with the extra firepower. Too much to carry around.

I go around and start up the Wrangler; my hands, neck, and lower back are soaked with sweat that is quickly turning cold. A few minutes ago I just killed two men. Two men and their dreams and their lives and their hopes and their history, I’ve just snuffed out.

I guess I should feel guilty, but the first guy I shot, he shot first, and the second guy I shot, well, based on his tatts and his attitude, he was no Boy Scout, either.

No guilt, then. At least not now.

I pull out and get on a side road that runs parallel to Linden, then drive up to North School Road, and make a left. I see flashing blue lights in my rearview mirror.

That was quick.

Must be some very attentive neighbors back there.

I keep my speed low, keep on driving, and look up in the mirror again.

I see one cruiser, and it looks like another is coming down North School Road, and I think, All right, one cruiser will probably go down Linden.

And what will the second cruiser do?

Join the first one?

Or come after the only other moving vehicle on North School Road?

Me.

One more glance. A couple of curious folks emerge from their small houses, putting their hands up to their foreheads, blocking the sun, looking at the action.

The first cruiser turns, and then the second.

The road behind me is empty.

So is the one in front of me.

I take a deep breath, let it out, glance at my passenger. He is gently rearranging his coat and his shirt, and then he looks around and grabs the seat belt, pulls it over, and clicks it shut.

“Hey,” I say. “You okay? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

He gives me a look, almost…

Sad?

Tired?

A look of pity?

Then he turns and looks out the windshield.

I make a right, take out my iPhone, check my cell phone signal.

Pretty weak.

I need to make the most important phone call of my life to that man out there who has my family, and I’m not going to take a chance on losing the call over a bad signal.