“So you get David to lure kids here? And you siphon off their blood? But it’s not a perfect science, is it? Sometimes it goes bad.”

“Every advancement has its complications.”

“There’s a difference between stealing and killing.”

“Not really,” René said. “In one instance I steal blood. In the other I steal a different resource—the only resource not able to be replenished. Time. Killers are only thieves of a different stripe. They steal time—the time their victims would have had left to live. Ten years. Forty. They take it to enhance their own time. It’s a trade, and it favors the bold. Just like those who can afford better medications, safer cars, who had the birthright luck not to be born in a flea-bitten Third World shack. That the kids I”—here he searched for a word—“sip from generally emerge unharmed is a testament to my magnanimity. There’s nothing to stop me from taking everything every time.”

“Except your kind heart.”

“I don’t like to do harm, you see. I’m just willing to.” René set his hands on his knees and leaned over Evan, and for the first time Evan considered just what a large man he was. “However, given the mess you left in my basement? I’ll enjoy what I’m going to do to you.” He stood up, clasped his hands. “But we have so much to clean up first.”

Dex was suddenly behind Manny, relieving him of his Kalashnikov. There was a slight delay as Manny seemed to realize what had happened, and then his mouth stretched into a rictus of dread, a twitching oval lined with gold teeth. No words emerged.

“Xalbador, he speaks poor English, is that correct?” René asked, gesturing at one of the men who had dragged Evan through the snow.

Manny stared into the middle distance.

“Is that correct?” René repeated.

Manny managed a nod.

René flicked two fingers, and Xalbador stepped forward. A skinny kid in his early twenties, he hadn’t yet thickened into manhood. A wide belt cinched his jeans, holding them up. The Santa Muerte tattoo on his neck was inked but only half colored, a few scabs still showing from the needle. With his wispy mustache and lupine cheeks, he was young and mean and had a lot to prove.

Manny would not look at him.

René said to Manny, “Will you translate for me?”

Another tiny nod.

René cleared his throat. “Tell him that given your failure, he will be succeeding you in your position.”

Manny’s lips wobbled, his mustache bristling. He palmed his mouth, trying to still it.

“Tell him,” René said.

Dex sidled a step closer, set a hand on the ledge of Manny’s shoulder.

Manny said, “Dado mi fracaso, es posible que vas a tomar mi posición.”