Pedro says, “I think the one in Puerto Vallarta. She’s the one that he likes seeing in those dental-floss bathing suits.”

Antonio swivels in his seat, to see if any police are in the area. No, just a McDonald’s worker, a woman in one of those brown shirts, walking from car to car, holding a brown paper bag.

Other than that, clear.

He says, “All right, do you have a number for him?”

“I do, but you’re not getting it unless you tell me why you need it.”

Antonio swears at Pedro and says, “Look, I’m not getting into some school dispute with you, amigo. It’ll be on you when the jefe finds out you’ve been dicking around.”

Pedro laughs. “We’ll see,” and his jefe’s man disconnects the call.

Okay, then.

Antonio feels much, much better. Any delay in telling his boss what happened here in this town will be on Pedro. And the delay now gives him time to get a story together.

What kind of story?

Any kind of story that will leave Antonio innocent of any foul-ups or wrongdoing.

A knock on his window makes him jump.

He turns, his heavy revolver in his right hand.

It’s the woman from McDonald’s, holding up the paper bag, a dumb grin on her face. “Sir, is this yours? Is this order yours?”

Antonio snaps, “Go away.”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “Sir, please, I’ve checked everyone in the parking lot. You’re the last one here. It must be yours.”

He swears and the woman taps her ear with a free hand. “Sorry, sir, I can’t hear that well. What did you say?”

Antonio wants to get rid of this bitch as soon as he can, so he lowers the window and starts to talk.

And he chokes, with a pistol barrel now crowding his mouth.

CHAPTER 63

AFTER SPENDING a few bucks for a Quarter Pounder meal and persuading the manager to lend her a worker’s shirt—by flashing her Army identification and spinning a tale of hunting an ISIS spy—Rosaria is now by the open driver’s-side window, her SIG Sauer in the man’s mouth.

He’s well-built, flashy-looking, and an empty leather shoulder holster is visible. No real evidence that he was the guy at the house back there, because there must be lots of pickup trucks like this roaming around this part of Texas, but Rosaria has a gut feeling it must be him.

He’s Hispanic, eyes wide but not afraid, like he’s used to having a gun drawn on him.

Rosaria feels like one of those zoo workers who has successfully grabbed a deadly and angry rattlesnake by the head, only a slip or two away from being poisoned.

She needs to be careful.

Rosaria drops the McDonald’s bag on the asphalt and says, “Both hands up, touching the roof. Now.”

The man slowly complies, both arms lifting up, shirt and jacket sleeves sliding off, to reveal the same type of prison tattoos as the dead guy on Linden Street, plus some gold jewelry and a heavy-looking watch.