"Target," I snap. "Who? Where? When?"
"C-c-c…" His mouth flaps.
I whip my balisong closed, pocket it, and scan the area around me—someone dropped a plastic wrapper on the ground. I tear it open flat and press the clean side to his sucking chest wound—the plastic creates the necessary vacuum in his chest so he can suck in a gasping breath. "Answer me."
"Club…" he wheezes in English. "Vegas."
He's older, late forties or early fifties, grizzled, scarred, tattooed, ugly. The look in his eyes tells me he'll tell me what I want to know as long as I let him die quickly.
"What about the border? How were you planning on getting a caravan of armed men across the border?"
“El Jefe…Mercado, he has a new friend. A powerful man. Italian. Mr. Pool or…or something like that. We are told he will make it so we can cross over—tomorrow…six…six at night."
"And your target was the club in Vegas?"
“Yes. Yes."
"The Arrows aren't even there. They're all hunting your boss." He doesn't answer, and I understand the truth: Myka, Terra, and the others are the target. Kill, kidnap, rape, torture—the purpose is a moot point. "Mercado. Where is he?"
This gets me a laugh—one laden with a death rattle. "Not here. Who knows? Mercado tells no one where he goes."
I jerk my head at the room at large. "Is this it? Everyone who was going to attack the club?"
"No. We were to…to meet up with more who were all…already across the—the border. Not Mercado's men. The other."
"Fuck," I hiss. "Was Mercado ever here?"
"I told…you. I don't…I don't know. I do not see him. I do not speak to him. His orders come from Luis. It is the only name I have heard. He is…Mercado's number two, I…I think."
"Who talks to him? You?"
"He calls me." The fingers of his intact hand point at a dropped cell phone a few feet away. "On…that."
He’s fading. Losing a lot of blood very fast, and even my makeshift patch can't keep air in his lungs. And nothing can stop those lungs from filling with blood.
"When is the attack on the club?" I ask.
"Two…" his eyes roll, droop. "Two…days…after—after border…crossing."
I nod, stand. "Now you may die."
"Wait." He looks up at me. Struggles to point at his hip pocket. "Give…one more…one more."
I crouch back down beside him and dig in the indicated pocket—a small bag of heroin. Lovely. "That's how you want to go out, huh?"
“Sí. Please. Please. I…I told you—what I…what I know."
"Fine."
I open my knife and cut the bag open, dump the poisonous contents out onto his leg. Scoop a big bump onto the flat of my blade and hold it to his nose. He snorts once, twice, hard—with that chest wound, it must have hurt like hell, but I suppose he's past caring about that.
Immediately, his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps.
I wipe my blade off on his sleeve and leave him to his end.
Go in search of Lorenzo.
I only have to follow the screams.
