Johnnie’s boys were spread out in the scrub, all of them in their black ninja gear. They had their badges out on chains, swinging around their necks, easily tucked away at a moment’s notice, and Johnnie kept checking a red phone of his own, looking for messages. Eddy didn’t know if he was waiting for some signal, or some confirmation, or what. Johnnie was chewing on one of his damn matchsticks, eyeballing the house. To their left, Ringo was using a pair of tiny binoculars to give the place a good once-over. When he was done, he whistled low to Johnnie and flashed a hand signal Eddy didn’t understand.

Johnnie nodded and went back to his phone.

Eddy did some math in his head.

He was maybe a hundred yards from the house itself, give or take, and maybe less than that to Danny Ford’s truck. At his prime, at his best, he’d been able to do the hundred meters—pretty much the same distance to the house—in about eleven and half seconds. But that was a damn long time ago, and he was far from his prime.

So call it twice that—say, twenty seconds. What were his chances with five pissed-off men trying to shoot him in the back? Next to impossible, and no better than what he’d had with Danny back at the trailer. No way he’d make it. He might get twenty steps before they put him down. His only chance was the Apache phone, which after their little hike felt like it was shoved almost halfway up his ass.

Eddy wasn’t proud of many of things he’d done in his life, and now was no time for pride.

“Fuck me, Johnnie, my nerves is all shot to hell. I gotta take a shit.”

Johnnie looked him up and down like Eddy was on fire, like he’d just burst into rosy flames in front of him. “What the fuck?”

“All this walking . . . those goddamn eggs. Hell, maybe they were bad or something. I think I’m going to shit myself right here.”

“The fuck you are,” Johnnie said through clenched teeth and his matchstick, as if that order was enough.

Eddy tried on a face that said otherwise.

Johnnie looked around, rolling his eyes, disbelieving. “Goddamn, you are a piece of work.”

“Look, you don’t need me no more. I did what you wanted. Lemme just move back out of the way.”

“I’m sorry to say, amigo, I’m not quite done with you yet. Not by a long shot. And I can’t have you stumbling around at our backs. But Jesus, crawl over there, cop a squat. Downwind.” Johnnie made a vague motion to some mesquite scrub, well within sight. Not too far away.

But far enough.