The Kill Option

By Bryan Cassiday

In the explosive international thriller "The Kill Option," the feuding McQueen brothers must band together to prevent the apocalypse of World War III. One brother, Nick, is a journalist who seeks the truth. The other, Barry, is a CIA hit man who leads a double life. The two brothers must come to terms long enough to thwart a Basque hit man who has been hired in Paris to trigger the war to end all wars. The brothers discover that the assassin is merely a pawn in a ruthless grab for power by a supranational cabal that wants a certain world leader killed at a summit in Pike National Forest in Colorado and has both brothers in its crosshairs as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryan Cassiday
• Release date: May 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983498919

Bryan Cassiday

Bryan Cassiday is an award-winning author who writes horror books and thrillers. His novel "Horde" won the Independent Press Award for Best Horror Novel 2022 and the American Fiction Award for Best Horror Novel 2021. His story "Boxed" was published in the anthology "Shadows and Teeth Volume Two," which won both the International Book Award for Best Adult Horror Anthology 2017 and the Florida Association of Publishers and Authors President's Award Gold Medal for Best Adult Horror Anthology 2017. He wrote "Zombie Apocalypse: The Chad Halverson Series," which includes "Zombie Maelstrom," "Zombie Necropolis," "Sanctuary in Steel," "Kill Ratio," "Poxland," "Horde," and "Cutthroat Express." He lives in Southern California.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

She died poorly, thought the wiry man with the hatchet face. He sat on a cane chair behind a round marble-topped table on the sidewalk in front of Le Dôme Café on the café-lined Boulevard du Montparnasse in Paris.

At the present time he went by the name of Juan de Corazones. Before him the miniature table could barely hold one bottle of Pernod, one of absinthe, and two glasses.

Dressed in tight European designer jeans, a rep cotton maroon turtleneck shirt, and a black leather bomber jacket, he was thinking of the last woman he had killed and how she had screamed, "Madre!" as the arc described by the burst from his wheeling H&K MP5 9 mm submachine gun had scythed her head off. You would think she would be tougher, that she would die in stoic silence, since she worked for his archenemy, the ruthless Spanish Grupos Anti-Terroristas de Liberacion.

Now, sitting across from him was a square-faced man with high cheekbones. Steel-rimmed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. The fixed, burning gaze of his eyes was that of a madman or a fanatic. His stolid face bore a no-nonsense cast to it that would have intimidated most observers but not de Corazones. De Corazones had seen the man’s kind before; he had dealt with them; he had even, when the necessity arose, killed them. De Corazones may have had only one eye, his other a glass one—but, in truth, he could see more clearly than most.

There was no violence here, yet the tension between the two men could have been cut with a knife. De Corazones could feel it as surely as he could feel the Parisian sun beating down on his face.

It would be striking a blow for justice for your people, the Basques, said the square-faced man called simply Damian.

At this time of the day, near three o’clock, few customers patronized the café, even though the sun shone warmly overhead in a clear blue sky, flooding the thoroughfare with waves of straw yellow light. Consequently nobody was in earshot of de Corazones and Damian.

Across the thoroughfare the Rotonde Café looked equally empty. Inside it a waiter stared blankly at the halting motor-vehicle traffic on the street, a copy of Le Monde gripped in his hand at his side.

De Corazones fleered at Damian’s remark, which gave de Corazones’s hard-bitten face a feral aspect. De Corazones noticed his expression reflected in Damian’s glass. The reflection gave de Corazones’s face the eyeteeth of a wolf. Excellent, thought de Corazones. How true. Just call me El Lobo.

Justice, he said. Tell the Spanish dictators about justice. They are always preaching about justice to us Basques. They preached about it when they killed my brother. His voice dripped with sarcasm as he shifted on the squeaky cane chair.

I didn’t come here to talk about your ETA freedom-fighting activities—like knocking over Spanish banks with a submachine gun to fund your cause.

I’m losing patience. De Corazones tapped a tattoo on the sidewalk with his right foot, his aquiline nose’s nostrils flaring. Why did you ask to meet me here?

As you know, I work for the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, SVR.

De Corazones noted Damian’s blue, feeding-frenzied shark eyes, which did not blink. So?

Moscow Center knows your reputation, said Damian. We want to hire you for what my people call a wet affair.

De Corazones looked uninterested, his right foot motionless now as he realized he was in the driver’s seat. Why should I agree?

For the sake of justice.

De Corazones sneered. There’s only justice for the rich and injustice for the poor. He lifted his glass of Pernod from the tabletop to his lips and took a snort of the liqueur.

You can change that by accepting this assignment, said Damian, undismayed by de Corazones’s access of bitterness.

De Corazones leaned toward Damian and snarled, his jaw tense, I work in the gutter doing the dirty work for idle rich bastards like you so you can drive around in stretch limos and screw any broad that turns you on. You call that justice?

You make me sound like an American, Damian objected. I’m not an American boss. We wish to strike a blow against American imperialism, against their new world order.

De Corazones relaxed and leaned back in his seat. He knocked back his Pernod. What does this have to do with me?

Damian was initially startled by de Corazones’s abrupt turnabout in mien. Once Damian got over it he said, No more beating around the bush. You’re the best assassin in the business. That’s why we want to hire you. He lowered his voice. We know you’ve terminated over thirty enemies of the ETA freedom force that you belong to.

Way over. De Corazones’s voice and visage conveyed nothing. His words hung in the air like dead things.

Thrown by de Corazones’s key, Damian changed position in his seat and squinted for a second. He did not want to antagonize de Corazones, so he changed the subject.

Do you accept the assignment? asked Damian.

Slaving for you isn’t my idea of justice. De Corazones’s voice remained cool. Maybe it’s yours, since you’re obviously well fed. When your kind starts harping on justice they usually want something for nothing. From my point of view that’s injustice.

Point taken. Now let me add that besides fighting for justice and freedom for the working man you will be earning the equivalent of one and a half million American dollars in Swiss francs.

De Corazones took a slug of Pernod. He smacked his lips. This is truly justice.

Then you accept the assignment?

You would not have thought from the looks of him that de Corazones was only twenty-seven years old. He looked and acted older. He had no youthful enthusiasm. In fact, though Damian was over ten years de Corazones’s senior, Damian appeared the younger of the two.

How do I receive payment? asked de Corazones in a businesslike tone.

We’ll set up a secret numbered bank account for you in Switzerland. When the time is appropriate we’ll transfer funds to that account by means of a fiduciary.

Fiduciary?

It’s a small company operated by Swiss lawyers, who may or may not exist.

Why do we need a fiduciary?

With their help we can transfer funds to your account by means of a phone call. Swiss banks themselves won’t do that over the phone for their customers. The banks need a written request. That takes time and leaves a paper trail as well. A fiduciary will eliminate these technicalities.

Damian tossed off his absinthe after finishing his explanation.

How much money can you transfer at a time? asked de Corazones.

Any amount we decide on. Damian paused. By using a fiduciary we can hide our identities. No one will ever be able to connect us. Swiss law will protect us. Even the CIA does business in this manner.

What about expenses?

Damian withdrew a slip of paper from the inside pocket of his challis jacket, handed it to de Corazones, and said, Phone the number on that paper when you need money in the United States. Ask for Lydia and then say how much money you want. It will be wired to you in cash at the nearest Western Union office.

De Corazones memorized the phone number then burned the slip of paper in the cut-glass ashtray on the neighboring tabletop.

Who do you want eliminated? he asked, watching the flames.

Damian extracted a newspaper article from his jacket pocket and handed it over the marble tabletop toward de Corazones, who took the article and eyed it with a start.

I don’t understand, said de Corazones.

At that moment a brunette prostitute in tight jeans and a leopard-skin bolero jacket swung by them. She smiled at them archly with a smile that asked if they would like to do business. She waited for the magic, leg-opening word "¿Combien?" When it never came she looked disgusted and strutted away.

Damian told de Corazones after she left, If you succeed we’ll reorder the world, for your gunshots a week from now will start World War III, the beginning of the end of the world as we now know it.

Before the words were out of Damian’s mouth de Corazones whipped his head around at a shrieking sound behind him. A police siren.

He braced Damian, snarling, You set me up.

The hell I did, blurted Damian.

They bolted to their feet, upsetting their table with their straightening legs. The Pernod bottle and the absinthe bottle dropped to the cement sidewalk and shattered against it, splashing it with booze. Their glasses burst into shivers against the cement.

A French squad car screeched its tires. It fishtailed as it careened around the corner opposite Le Dôme Café.

"Then how could the flics know I was here?" de Corazones asked Damian and drew a black Beretta 9 mm semiautomatic from his rear waistband.

They must have dogged you here, said Damian.

He turned tail and ran down the street away from the still-screeching squad car, whose skidding, smoking wheels were jerking gold sparks off the pavement.

De Corazones shot a hollow-point round through the squad car’s windshield into the driver’s forehead. The squad car then crashed into the curb in front of the bookstall that bordered the café. The squad car leapt the curb, jounced onto the sidewalk, and plowed into the bookstall, knocking it over and flinging its paperbacks helter-skelter.

The driver sat in the car, quite dead, his blood-drenched right eye in his lap. Three fellow officers stormed out of the car.

De Corazones flashed into the café and through it, overturning tables behind him to impede his pursuers. He fled out the rear entrance. Two flics gave chase after him even as their cohort sprinted in the opposite direction after the hotfooting Damian.

De Corazones ducked into a deserted cut, adrenaline shooting through his veins. Maybe that bitch from the Spanish GAL had put these flics onto him before he had clipped her, was the thought that came into his head. Damn her!

In any case, he always made sure to plan at least two avenues of escape from any tryst. This time he chose his alternate route and whisked through an alley doorway seconds before the two flics belted out of the back of the café into the cut, guns drawn, their eyes casting around wildly for him.

CHAPTER TWO

The next night, de Corazones and Nacho and Pablo, two Mexican coyotes, or guides who smuggled aliens illegally across the Mexican-American border into the US, piled out of Nacho’s beat-up white Ford pickup and stole along the outskirts of Tijuana through the sultry evening air to the chain-link fence erected along the border. During the afternoon, De Corazones had slept off most of the jet lag he had experienced after his flight from Paris to Mexico City.

The uninhabited desert rolled out desolately before them down into a gorge. De Corazones could not see much of anything beneath the faint moonlight that powdered the barren landscape dotted with chaparral and mesquite.

Nacho, the stocky, homelier Mexican with blubbery purple lips, a worm-eaten complexion, and a single bushy eyebrow that stretched all the way over both of his eyes, led them to a yard-wide hole in the bottom of the bent and rusted chain-link border fence.

And we get the second five hundred dollars once we get into America, he said. "¿Es verdad?"

"Es verdad, said de Corazones. It’s in my wallet."

Nacho grinned. Crooked teeth broke through his curling blubbery lips like bone splinters.

We know, he said. We see it when you hire us in Tijuana. The grin stopped at his mouth. His eyes remained hard and black.

Dressed in khaki jeans and T-shirts, the three of them crawled through the hole Indian file.

This part easy, said Nacho as he led the way. He nodded forward. The border patrol is on other side of gorge above barranca.

Get down! blurted Pablo. He dove to the ground.

De Corazones followed suit without pausing to ask why. It did not take him long to find out the answer.

In front of them a cone of white light that emanated from the brow of the far barranca traversed the dry gorge by degrees. The three of them ducked and hugged the dirt between the thorny chaparral around them while the beam of light glided over them.

De Corazones did not know what was happening but he knew his heart was hammering like mad against the dirt and greasewood scratching his chest.

What is it? he whispered.

"American federales, answered Nacho. They have spotlights on squad cars. That one ahead. They try to catch hombres that cross gorge. Nacho giggled. They never catch us like that. Stupid gringos."

After the spotlight’s beam passed over him he sat up casually. His cheek bulged with chewing tobacco inside it.

What do we do now? de Corazones asked, sitting up.

Nacho grinned at him then spat tobacco juice onto the ground. "We reach rim of gorge and wait for spotlight to pass over us. Luego we have enough time to climb down into gorge and find cover before spotlight returns."

"Luego we run across gorge," added Pablo, who was busy brushing the dirt off his T-shirt with his hands.

He had a slight build and seemed hyperactive on account of his constant jerky arm movements, de Corazones noted.

Nacho stood up and led them past Joshua trees and Spanish bayonets to the lip of the arroyo. De Corazones peered over the edge and spotted a berm that zigzagged down the barranca they stood on.

Long way down, said Nacho. He grinned, revealing his snaggleteeth.

This where fun start, he went on. "A causa de spotlight you have only three minutes to reach bottom. You must reach it before spotlight returns. There nowhere to hide on path. You on it when light returns, federales see you and find us and catch us as we cross."

You have to move pronto, Pablo told de Corazones. "It can be done, amigo. We do it before. One of us go at a time. You walk down, you never reach bottom in time. Run, amigo. Run."

See, Nacho told de Corazones. Path very narrow and wind like snake so be careful and don’t fall off. Grinning, Nacho joked, We don’t want to lose our money in your pocket.

De Corazones did not like the way Nacho said this. As well, he did not like the gleaming leer in Nacho’s dark eyes.

"¿Comprende?" Pablo asked de Corazones.

De Corazones nodded.

"It easier for us to climb down porque we do it before and know every twist and turn in path so it make no difference we no can see it in dark, Nacho told him. You on other hand have no idea what path shaped like."

For the first time de Corazones felt misgivings about having hired the two coyotes, especially Nacho, who was getting more and more on his nerves. Nacho seemed to be testing him, trying to funk him.

De Corazones decided Nacho might try to jump him if he sensed fear in him. Nacho might do it if he figured he had the whip hand and could not possibly get hurt.

Like cigarette before climbing down? Nacho asked him and reached for a pack of Marlboros in his breast pocket. It calm your nerves.

My nerves are fine. Was it so obvious they weren’t? de Corazones wondered.

"No, no aquí, said Pablo. Federales see flame."

Nacho nodded. Later, after we cross, he told de Corazones.

Pablo crouched behind a mesquite at the head of the defile and waited for the spotlight to pass over him, then before de Corazones could blink Pablo bucketed down the path out of sight.

Whatever you do, keep moving, Nacho told de Corazones. "Don’t stop for nothing. You stop even once, you never reach bottom before spotlight return. ¿Comprende, hermano?"

I won’t stop.

"Bueno, Nacho said. I knew you would not be scared of dark, steep path you never see before," he added, rubbing in the danger to de Corazones’s obvious discomfort and delighting in it.

Nacho watched the arc described by the roaming beam of the spotlight. Soon your turn. Go, wait behind mesquite where Pablo did.

De Corazones darted to the mesquite and waited for the spotlight to pass over him.

"¡Ahora!" said Nacho in a stage whisper.

De Corazones was off and running down the berm even as Nacho spoke. De Corazones could not see ten feet ahead of him. Was that a turn coming up? he wondered. Yes. A hairpin turn, no less. He slowed down and negotiated it. All he had to do was stay on the defile and not fall off while tearing down it at breakneck speed. Easy, he thought. Jesus Christ!

He jogged downward and came upon another switchback for which he reduced speed and jibbed. He had no other choice. There was a snake coiled in the middle of the berm, blocking his way. Shit! What was he supposed to do now? he wondered. How could it be a snake? Snakes didn’t come out at night, did they?

Knowing he could not stand still and lose precious time he took a deep breath and leapt over the coiled black object at his feet. Airborne, he dreaded its striking him. He sighed with relief when it did not. He landed on the path behind it. Now he had to make up for lost time so he doubled his speed. Nacho had said he would never make it if he stopped even once.

De Corazones sprinted headlong down the dirt berm, his eyes glued to it following its every curve. He could all but sense the spotlight returning toward him.

From somewhere down below he heard a ghostly voice but he could not make out what it was saying. His heart and his breath were too loud, deafening him. Finally he could hear the voice and discern what it was saying.

"Fifteen seconds, hermano. ¿Dondé está? Pronto!" the voice whispered.

De Corazones knew it must be Pablo. The voice seemed distant. His heart in his mouth, de Corazones wondered if he could reach it in time. Apropos of nothing, he thought, why do they call me hermano? I’m not their brother. What difference does it make? Keep moving! Faster!

He pumped his legs higher, accelerating, as he pelted down a straight reach of the berm then lowered them, decelerating, as he descended another switchback.

Then he saw it.

The light.

Returning.

How much farther did he have to go? he wondered.

At speed, he could not slow down enough to negotiate the upcoming turn that seemed to come out of nowhere and then his feet were stumbling and he seemed to be flying and he realized with a turn that he was falling down endlessly like in a dream. He struck dirt and rocks with his chest and face and he was rolling now over and over down a steep declivity into the coulee.

The light nearing him, he was rolling faster, his arms barked and bleeding, his chest bruised. He grabbed for purchase but found none.

He could not keep track of where he was. He was too dizzy. He did not know his bearings. Was he rolling downward or sideways? he wondered. Or horizontally? Now he seemed to be rolling horizontally, or was that a trick played on him by his swimming head?

He lay still.

On his back he could make out the light passing over him, illuminating the cranky berm he had just shot.

After the light swept past him he heard footfalls, and Pablo was standing over him.

You OK? Pablo asked. What happened? A halo of moonlight engirdled his head.

I must have fallen.

"Lucky you do. You never make it otherwise. I think you dodge light OK. Sí, said Pablo watching the beam, es verdad. It goes on its way. They see you, it stop and come back looking for you. Bueno."

De Corazones rose on his aching feet. He took pains to suppress a grimace.

I don’t think anything is broken, he said.

Even if it was, de Corazones would not have told Pablo, who would take it for a sign of weakness and be encouraged to waylay him at the first opportunity. A man with a broken bone was an easy mark for muggers.

Let’s hide behind boulder and wait for Nacho, said Pablo.

He crouched behind a boulder to hand. De Corazones did likewise.

It was not long before Nacho appeared, panting for breath. "Hard to run in this heat. We should bring agua."

Pablo said, "We can get water once we reach San Ysidro. Can’t you last that long, or are you puta?"

"What do you know, maricón? You think you know everything, asshole grande? Why you no think of bringing water? Do I have to think of everything? Do I have to tie your shoes in the morning too, you fucking chiquito?"

Pablo looked disgusted and fell silent.

You look in pain, Nacho told de Corazones and scrutinized him. "You OK? ¿Qué pasó?"

He fall, said Pablo.

Do I ask you? Nacho asked Pablo. He has mouth. Let him speak for himself.

Pablo growled obscenities under his breath.

Nacho grinned at him. What you say?

Pablo shook his head. He said nothing.

Again Nacho asked de Corazones, You OK?

De Corazones sprang to his feet to convince Nacho he was in the pink. Even though his muscles were smarting he betrayed no emotion to let on about his pain.

Let’s go, said de Corazones. I’m fine.

"Bueno," said Nacho, sounding like he could care less.

Despite Nacho’s matter-of-fact reply, de Corazones observed that Nacho was watching him more often now, scrutinizing him for any sign of weakness, forever glancing at him.

They struck out for the other side of the gorge at a trot, Pablo in front, de Corazones in the middle, and Nacho bringing up the rear.

De Corazones concentrated on looking nonchalant and maintaining a steady gait. He had found out a long time ago in this game that appearance was everything and nobody could tumble to anything about your thoughts and feelings if you were a skilled enough actor.

When they saw the light approaching them they flattened on their bellies behind a copse of chaparral.

No more cover from here, said Nacho. He pointed forward. "Now we run all the way to base of barranca without stopping. Once we there, federales no can shine light on us."

Run fast and you make it safely, Pablo told de Corazones, looking over his shoulder at him. Even Nacho can do it with his lungs black from tobacco.

Shut up, said Nacho as the spotlight swung away from them. "¡Vamanos!"

They bounded to their feet and charged across the hardpan of the dry riverbed toward the barranca. The spotlight arced off to their right.

De Corazones glanced up at the top of the canyon wall and thought he could make out the silhouettes of two figures standing near the spotlight.

Don’t look up there! said Nacho. They can see your eyes.

De Corazones did not believe him but looked away nonetheless. The three of them had no trouble reaching the barranca before the spotlight’s beam played over them. Instead the trouble commenced afterward and it did not come from the federales.

Nacho stood and gasped for breath. His arms dangled at his sides. His tongue hung out.

Where the hell is the water? he said.

Pablo did not want to get into it again with him, so he stared at him with vacant eyes.

"Many trails go up barranca and federales no can cover all of them, Nacho told de Corazones. Something else we must worry about aquí. Nacho paused to see what effect his words were having on de Corazones, who stood listening to him, stone-faced. Bandidos roam these trails. They ambush and rob us if we not careful."

"They rob us, nothing we can do because we illegals and no can report it to federales," said Pablo.

Nacho grinned cryptically. You wait here, he told de Corazones. "We scout up ahead and find a path, luego we come back for you."

Motioning to Pablo with his arm, Nacho made his way toward the barranca. Pablo followed him. Nacho turned back once to grin at de Corazones in the moonlight that percolated over them.

Nacho’s actions struck de Corazones as odd. Why would Nacho leave him alone? de Corazones wondered. Isn’t he afraid I’ll cut and run as soon as he leaves?

De Corazones felt uneasy. He peered after them through the darkness but could not distinguish them. A warm humid wind was flowing through the arroyo, doing little to cool the sweat on his clothes and face. Even as de Corazones continued peering through the darkness, Pablo and Nacho materialized before him, moving deliberately.

Back so soon? wondered de Corazones.

At length he could make out their faces. Nacho was still grinning. But there was something different about him now, his movements tenser, as though he was stalking prey. And then, as de Corazones’s eyes roamed down Nacho’s body, he spotted an interesting object in Nacho’s hand—an automatic.

It was trained on de Corazones. It looked as though it had a silencer screwed to its muzzle, though de Corazones had difficulty seeing through the night.

De Corazones started. Scrutinizing Pablo he spotted a hunting knife in Pablo’s hand.

"Don’t look frightened, hermano, Nacho reassured de Corazones and grinned wider to expose more of his jagged teeth. We protect you from bandidos. Pistol—Nacho raised it higher—not meant for you. Do not get wrong idea. You look frightened and no hay reason for it."

Your eyes deceive you, said de Corazones. A trick of the moonlight.

He had heard Nacho clearly but did not believe a word he was saying. Why was Nacho’s automatic out if there were no bandits in sight? de Corazones wondered. De Corazones stiffened and turned ideas in his mind in a trice. He decided to offer Nacho money to placate him.

Do you want three hundred dollars more, now that we’re here? asked de Corazones.

"Hermano, said Nacho with studied patience. You owe us five hundred dollars or you forget?"

We still have a ways to go.

Nacho approached de Corazones and said, It sound like you trying to rook us. His voice sounded steady, not accusatory, as though giving de Corazones the benefit of the doubt.

I’ll pay you the full amount when we’re all the way across. That was our deal.

Nacho studied him. "Hermano, we think you have more money than five hundred dollars and we deserve more because of this dangerous journey. Es muy peligroso."

De Corazones stated firmly but not bellicosely that Nacho would get the agreed-upon five hundred dollars after all three of them crossed the border.

"Hermano, Nacho said. Pablo and me think you hold out on us. We think maybe you big-time dope dealer and you got cocaine on you. You no tell us about it when we start. You had, we charge you much more than a lousy thousand dólares. ¿Comprende?"

I don’t have any drugs.

Then we no understand why you sneak across border in dead of night. Nacho glanced at Pablo and Pablo nodded.

I am poor, said de Corazones, his eyes humbly downcast. I need a job in America.

"You so poor, why mucho dinero on you?" asked Nacho, snickering.

I don’t have a lot of money.

De Corazones did not like the tenor of the conversation. He knew he was in for trouble. There seemed no way to avoid it. He raised his eyes but not defiantly.

How we know that? asked Nacho.

Because I said so.

It sounds bullshit to me. Nacho turned to Pablo. What about you, Pablo? Does it sound bullshit to you?

Pablo nodded his head, yes. He caressed the blade of his knife with his left forefinger. The blade caught the moonlight and gleamed dully like graphite.

There you go, Nacho told de Corazones. "Pablo agree with me. Hermano, you lying, look like to me." Nacho grinned at de Corazones. The grin of a Doberman poised to tear out your jugular.

Calmly, de Corazones said, Let’s keep going and we’ll hash this over later.

I get tired of this game, Nacho said, his rictus gone. You owe us more money and we want it now. He raised the automatic in his hand. He brought the gun to bear on de Corazones’s head. "Hand it over or chinga tu madre! Goddamn cabrón!" Pumped up, he chewed his tobacco faster.

At the same time, Pablo spread his arms like lumber at his sides. His black eyes bulged.

You dirty drug dealer, Pablo snarled at de Corazones. Give us your cocaine so you no push it to poor addicts. Pablo concluded by growling obscenities.

Nacho grinned in counterpoint.

De Corazones knew Nacho would not fear shooting as his automatic was silenced and would not alert the border patrol if fired. De Corazones was on his own. He had not brought a gun because he thought it would alarm the two Mexicans. If de Corazones tried to take a powder he knew Nacho would shoot him dead before he took three steps. There was no cover that de Corazones could see in the arroyo. He had no choice. He had hoped to have it out with them later, after he was safe on top of the barranca that bordered the US, but . . .

They would have to go at it now mano a mano, de Corazones decided. Nacho and Pablo had made that choice for him.

"Come on, puta! Nacho snapped at him then spat on the ground. Hand over dinero and drugs or you die where you stand."

Pablo was still cursing