The word penetrated the haze of adrenaline, not even as a thought—rather, the essence of a thought—and the Yo-Yo adjusted his aim to the man’s shoulder before firing, twice. The gun fell from the dealer’s hand as invisible fingers of fire nailed him to his seat, robbing him of his power to think. Two more rounds slamming into the upholstery by his head gave him back some wits and he half fell, half threw himself down across the back seat. More rounds thudded into his dead friends.

The Yo-Yo watched for a moment to see if this last one had any fight left in him. He knew where the gun had fallen—out of reach of where the guy now lay, playing dead, hoping for a miracle. Well, he was about to get one.

The train passed, disappearing with a mournful blast on its horns. In the distance, a railroad crossing bell jangled before silence descended. Then the Yo-Yo started shouting in Spanish, at the car, at the street, at the guy cowering and bleeding on the back seat of the Impala.

“Regresense a Tireman, hijos de la chingada! Regresense a Tireman!”

Go back to Tireman, motherfuckers!

He yelled it again and again. People would be listening. Eyes would be peeping through curtains. They’d hear, they’d talk, word would get around. Job done. He started the bike, U-turned, and roared back up the street. At the stop, the family had crossed the road but were frozen on the sidewalk. He stopped right by them. The mother shielded her kids with her arms, wide-eyed with terror. The Yo-Yo pointed back at the Impala.

“Regresense a Tireman, hijos de la chingada!”

What the fuck, he was actually starting to enjoy this. He’d been a little nervous about the Spanish thing, but now? Well hell, it was kinda fun, kinda like a character in a Wild West movie! He moved the bike right into the middle of the intersection. Drivers who were waiting to cross ducked behind steering wheels when they saw the motorcyclist stand astride his machine and pull out a handgun.

Bellowing in Spanish, the Yo-Yo emptied the mag in the air. Then, with a manic laugh, he roared off so hard the Ducati’s front wheel didn’t touch the tarmac for twenty yards.