Chapters (110)
- Cover
- ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- I
- II
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- PART FOUR
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Excerpt from LOST RIVER
- LITTLE PARIS
- DILLON
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
He was in strange, dark clothes that reminded Neva of the men who had attacked the buses in Ojinaga, and she thought at first—with the fear rising in her, threatening to wash over her completely—that he had followed them all the way to this place from that night.
He was leaning against a fancy coche americano, as dark as the night in front of them. The ground and bushes all around it were torn up, and she could just make out more tire marks in the dust. There had been another coche here, but that one was gone. When she and Chayo had walked up, the hombre had been trying to get his keys into the lock, but now that they were there, he smiled and slapped a bloody hand against the door he’d been trying to open.
“Well, goddamn, you two scared the ever-livin’ shit out of me. You kids look about the way I feel.” He shifted against the coche, which was holding him up about as much as he was leaning against it, so Neva could see the pistola at his waist. He took it out and held it up higher, to make sure she understood.
There was always another pistola.
The hombre switched to Spanish and his Spanish was good. “I’m going to need you and your boyfriend there to drive me the hell out of here. I don’t care what you’re doing here, or where you’re going, and I’ve got plenty of money. You can even have the damn car when we’re done. I just don’t think I can drive. I’m bleeding pretty goddamn good.” He shook both the keys and the pistola at her, reminding her of that old saying she’d learned growing up—that common refrain in the narcocorridos and the telenovelas she loved: Plata o plomo.
Silver or lead.
That was the offer every narco made.
The hombre shook the keys again to keep her attention. “Like I said, I got money and I’ll pay, but I’m not fucking asking.” He raised the pistola in his other hand, and something else, a piece of metal on a chain around his neck. It was a medalla. “I am a police officer, get it? One of the good guys. Now get your asses over here, now. That’s an order, or I’ll arrest both of you. I have to catch that fucker Roman . . .”
Neva did not know who the hombre was talking about, and most of what he was saying meant nothing to her. He was policía, and he was hurt and desperate.
But so was she.
She started to cry, not because she was afraid anymore, but because she was angry.
Angry at the hombre, at the noche. At the mundo that would not leave them alone, or let them go.
He was a policía like those who had hurt her, who’d killed Batista.