I grin at her. "I'd rather be on a beach on Tortala, sipping a G-and-T and wondering when we can go back to the hotel so I can do bad things to you again.” I lean in and kiss her, softly and quickly. “But I suppose this'll do."
She rolls her eyes, but can't suppress a grin. "Rush. You know what I mean."
"Missed you too, love." I eye her. "Pugli…he didn't do nothin' to you, did he?"
"No," she answers. "He wanted to, but he's scared of Mercado. Or maybe not scared exactly, but…Mercado wants me. Or wanted me. He wants the boy more. Why, I don't know."
"Cuz he's his father, that's why. The woman who got killed wasn't the boy's actual mother, like biologically. There's another woman named Inez who those blokes out there are scared shitless of—she's his mother, I guess. It's fuckin' complicated, is what it is."
“Ah, that makes sense. But no, Pugli didn't hurt me. He really fucking wanted to, but he didn't. I’m okay. Just…very, very pissed off."
"These narco wankers are pissing off a lot of the wrong people,” I tell her. "Your lot is out there, Inez's lot, and RMI."
"Inez's lot?"
"Weird bunch, but damn good shots. Call themselves the Broken Arrows."
"Ah. The Arrow-men. The broken Arrows. Inez must be La Víbora."
"Who? The Viper? Who's that?"
"Mercado's ex-wife. Those guys out there are scared shitless of her. And the Arrows."
"Rush," Harris says in my ear. “Ready?"
"No. Give us two minutes."
"Get the boy and my daughter to us, Rush. We'll hold them. You just get them here."
"Copy you,” I answer. To Bryn: "Get the boy. It's go-time."
She crouch-runs back across the destroyed shop—there's a door at the back, which she shoves open. I catch a slice of an office—a desk scattered with papers, a dark computer screen, a filing cabinet, boxes of cigarettes, and cases of liquor. Fuck, I'd kill for a shot of something to dull the pain, but I need my wits about me.
I see two figures huddled on the floor under the desk, a young Hispanic boy of six or so, and a young man of twenty wearing a ballcap and a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. Bryn pulls the boy by the hand, and he follows her to me, doing a good job of staying low.
I address him in Spanish. "My name is Rush. You're Ren, aren't you?"
He nods. "Do you know Big Ren?" he asks.
I assume he must mean Lorenzo. "No, but I'm friends with his friends. They're out there." I gesture at the doors. “We're going to make a run for it, okay? There's gonna be a lot of shooting and scary noises, but I'll keep you safe."
He looks at my arm, where the bandage is stained red as I bleed through it. "You are shot."
I grin at him, lift my shirt to show him the various places I've been shot. "Not my first time. I'll be fine. Just my arm."
He frowns at me. "Are you ever afraid?"
I nod. "Sure, all the time. If you're not afraid when someone is shooting at you, you're either crazy or a liar."
“You have been shot, and you are afraid, but you are still here."
"That's the job, mate." The word “mate” comes out in English, the rest in Spanish. It's as weird as it sounds. I indicate Bryn. "But mainly, I’m here for her."
He smiles at this. "She is crazy! She says crazy things to the bad men, until they are very angry."
Bryn watches this exchange suspiciously. “He's talking about me, isn't he? What's he saying?"
"The little bad man, Anatoly," he stumbles over the unfamiliar name. "She killed him with her legs."
