He waited, watched. Figures moved in the lighted shack, threw shadows on the snow. He heard voices again, then a back door opened. A big, bearded man in a leather vest with a blue bandanna on his head came out, stood next to the pickup and urinated loudly into the snow. He zipped up and went back inside.

  Johnny eased the bag off his shoulder, set it at the base of the tree. He retraced his steps, found Tuco standing on the path with the shotgun at port arms. He came up close to him before speaking, his voice low.

  “Two huts. At least two people inside, maybe more.”

  Tuco nodded.

  “I’m going to find another way down the slope,” Johnny said. “You move up to that tree there, wait for anybody trying to run out the back.”

  Tuco shook his head.

  “What?” Johnny said.

  “Joey says I shouldn’t go in. Said I should watch your back, but not get into it.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “No, homes. Way it is. You’re the fucking ninja anyway, right? He told me not to go, so I’m not going.”

  Johnny looked at him.

  “That prick …” he said.

  “Shouldn’t call him that, homes. He’d be angry if he knew.”

  Johnny shook his head slowly, looked back toward the clearing.

  “I’ll be right here,” Tuco said. “Watching your back. Like the man said.”

  “Good,” Johnny said. “You stay right there. And don’t you fucking move.”

  Tuco said nothing. Johnny gave him a last look, then moved back to the slope.

  More shadows on the snow below, voices. He began to make his way to the right through the trees, stepping carefully over frozen roots that had pulled from the ground. The longer shack was dark, with a row of windows. He could hear voices clearly now from the front one, could see the flickering blue glow of a television through a curtained window.

  He started quietly down the slope, boots sliding in the snow, his eyes on the lit windows. At the bottom, he stopped, pulled the ski mask on, adjusted it so he could see clearly.

  He went to the dark shack first, shone the Mag-light through the window. There were cheap canvas curtains inside, but enough of a gap that he could see most of the room. He walked the beam of light across the floor, saw the tables laid end to end, the beakers and paint masks and cans of denatured alcohol atop them.

  Beyond were the plastic vats, six of them. Even through the glass he could smell the sting of the chemicals. He raised the beam, bounced it off the back wall. There were exhaust fans built into the windows there, a fire extinguisher propped in a corner.

  He shut the light off, slipped it back in his pocket, moved along the wall of the shack until he reached the corner. He switched the Sig to his left hand, flexed the fingers of his right to loosen them.

  There were voices from the other shack, close. The rear door opened again, spilled light onto the vehicles and the outhouse. A second man, bald, wearing an identical leather vest over a rebel flag T-shirt, stood in the doorway. He tossed a beer can into the darkness, unzipped his pants.

  “Do that shit out in the yard,” a voice said from inside. “I don’t want to be slipping on your frozen piss in the morning.”

  The biker laughed.

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  “And close the fucking door.”

  The biker spit on the ground, pulled the door shut, walked out into the yard, pants still unzipped. He went up to the outhouse and began to urinate against it, the stream smoking in the cold.

  With the moon, Johnny could see as if by daylight. He switched the Sig back to his right hand, felt the adrenaline, the tightening in his groin, the thrill almost sexual. He stepped away from the corner, silently crossed the distance between them, the Sig coming up as if on its own. At the last moment, his right boot snapped something beneath the snow and the biker turned quickly to face him, looked into the muzzle of the silencer.

  The Sig made a whooshing chug and blood spattered the outhouse wall, steamed there. The biker fell hard onto his side on the frozen ground. Johnny pinned him with a boot, leaned over, picked a spot behind his right ear and fired again. The biker shivered and lay still.

  He pointed the Sig at the closed back door, waiting for someone to come out. When no one did, he flicked the safety on, put the gun back in his jacket. He stepped over the widening patch of red snow, caught the biker by both wrists and dragged him around and behind the outhouse, left him slumped there.

  He counted to ten, catching his breath, then stepped out from the cover of the outhouse. He could still hear the TV. His breath misted in front of him as he took the Sig out, crossed the yard.

  The door opened easily. Inside was a single large room. The first biker sat in a rocking chair, back to the door, watching a color TV atop a wooden crate. The TV had a set of rabbit ears, foil wrapped around them. There was an electric space heater beside the chair, coils glowing. Propped against the wall, within easy reach, was a pump shotgun.

  “Jesus Christ,” the biker said without turning. “Shut the fucking door already.”

  Johnny eased it closed, pointed the Sig at the back of the rocker. To his left was a dark hallway. To the right a kitchen area with a rough table and chairs, hot plates, cases of beer stacked against the wall.

  His finger was tightening on the trigger when the woman came out of the hallway. She was dope skinny, long black hair streaked with silver, eyes deep-set. She wore leather pants, a denim shirt. She looked at him and, without a word, turned and ran back the way she’d come. He heard a door open and slam shut.

  “What the fuck?” the biker said and got up, turning. He saw Johnny, then calmly took the shotgun from against the wall. He racked a shell, aimed.

  Johnny’s first shot caught him in the right hip, spun him slightly. He grunted, brought the shotgun back to bear, and Johnny fired twice more, the Sig jumping in his hand. The biker took both hits without falling, stumbled back slightly into the crate. The TV fell backward onto the floor, the picture tube exploding with a pop and a burst of white smoke. Johnny fired again, saw the bullet strike the stock of the shotgun, splinter it. The gun flew from the biker’s hands, hit the wall and fell to the floor without going off.

  The biker looked at the shotgun, then at Johnny. Then he noticed one of the entry wounds in his shirt, touched it, brought his fingers away red and sticky.

  Johnny aimed again, left hand wrapped around right wrist, and fired four times in quick succession. Smoking shell casings flew out of the breach, clattered on the plank floor. The biker grunted again, went back over the crate. He grabbed for the chair, took it down with him as he fell. The room shook.

  Johnny faced the hallway. He ejected the clip, replaced it with a full one from his back pocket. He could feel it now, moving through him, the surge of adrenaline giving way to the coldness of control. Everything fell away from him except the corridor ahead, the weapon in his hand.

  It was a narrow hallway, a closed door at the end of it. To the right, another door halfway down, ajar. He pushed it open with his boot, pointed the Sig inside. It was empty except for an unmade bed, a mattress on a simple metal frame.

  Back into the hall, the silencer pointing at the far door. The only sound was the muffled thumping of the generator outside. He took aim, fired once at chest height. The round punched a neat hole through the wood, showed light on the other side. The casing jingled off the wall next to him.

  Three quick steps to the door and he flattened himself against the wall beside it. He touched the knob with his left hand. Listened, heard nothing, began to twist.

  The top panel of the door exploded into the hallway. The boom of a shotgun, two barrels, buckshot and splinters flying crazy. Smoke and bits of wadding hung in the air.

  He gave it a second, waiting for another blast, then swiveled into the smoke, pointed the Sig through the hole.

  The woman was standing in the center of the room, a sawed-off double-barrel broken open on her knee. She was prying a smoking shell from a barrel, fumbling with a fresh one in the same hand. She dropped the new shell, bent to pick it up.

  “Don’t touch it,” he said. “Don’t move at all.”

  She froze, looked up at him, the gun.

  “Play this right,” he said, “you’ll walk out of here.”

  She straightened, not taking her eyes off him.

  “Drop the shotgun,” he said.

  She let it clatter to the floor. The room was thick with the smell of gunpowder.

  “Now stand back.”

  When she did, he lifted a boot, slammed the sole into the bottom half of the door, below the knob. It flew open, rebounded off the wall, hung from one hinge. He went in.

  The room was slightly larger than the other bedroom, with a closet in one wall, the door closed. He saw her glance at it, then back to him.

  He came closer, kicked the shotgun away.

  “You live here?” he said.

  She didn’t respond.

  “You want to get out of here, answer my questions. You live here when you cook?”

  She nodded.

  “Where’s the rest of them?”

  “Gone. We finished cooking yesterday.” She had a hard Philadelphia accent, a hollow in her cheek where she’d lost teeth.

  “What are you doing here?” he said.

  “We’re supposed to watch the place tonight. Tomorrow they’re going to come with another truck, take it all apart. You going to kill me?”

  “Maybe not. Why are they breaking it down?”

  “They do it every once in a while. The longer a place is around, the more people know about it.”

  “Just the three of you here?”

  “Yes.”

  He shot her twice. The first shot jerked her around, the second slammed her into the wall. She slid down to the floor, lay still.

  He looked at the closet door, listened, heard a faint scraping inside. He pointed the Sig at the door, moved closer. The sound came again.

  He turned the knob, pulled, stepped back. The door swung open slowly. Inside was a stack of cardboard boxes. In the space behind them crouched a boy of about five, eyes closed, hands over his ears.

  He lowered the Sig. The boy was trembling, silent streaks of tears running down his dirty face. The closet smelled faintly of urine.

  He pulled the ski mask off, pushed it into a pocket.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Come on out.”

  The boy opened his eyes, looked up at him. Johnny flicked the safety on the Sig, lowered the hammer. The boy wore pajamas with race cars on them, the front of the pants dark where he had wet himself. His blond hair was long, uncombed. Johnny wondered if the woman had made him practice hiding here, knowing a day like this would come.

  “Come out,” he said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  He raised the tail of his jacket, stuck the Sig in his waistband and crouched, held his arms out. The boy backed farther into the closet.

  “Come with me,” Johnny said. “I’ll get you out of here.”

  He reached, got his hands under the boy’s armpits and there was no resistance. He pulled the boy toward him, lifted, got him up against his chest. The boy’s arms locked around his neck.

  “Close your eyes now. Tight. Until I tell you to open them again.”

  The boy shut his eyes, put his forehead on Johnny’s collarbone. Johnny lifted him out of the closet, shifted the boy’s weight so he could carry him with his left arm alone. Then he pulled the Sig back out with his right hand, held it down by his leg.

  “Keep them closed,” he said. “Just a little bit longer.”

  He carried him past the woman’s body and into the hallway, moving slowly, listening, hearing nothing but the generator. They went through the main room, out the door and into the night.

  He carried him past the cooking shack and up a slight hill, the boy beginning to shiver with the cold. Johnny brushed snow off a fallen log with his boot, set the boy down on it.

  “Sit right here,” he said. “I’m going to get you some shoes.”

  He put the Sig on the ground, took off his jacket and draped it around the boy’s thin shoulders. The boy pulled it tighter around himself, almost disappearing into its folds.

  Johnny picked up the Sig, went back to the shack.

  There was a cheap dresser in the bigger bedroom, adult and children’s clothes mixed together. He got a pair of socks for the boy, found a sneaker under the bed, looked around until he found its mate. The woman lay where she’d fallen, facedown, one leg bent sideways under her.

  He thought about what it must have been like for the boy to live out here, what he would have seen. He wondered if either of the dead men was the father. He put two more bullets into the woman’s back and moved on.

  The boy was trembling, his nose running freely, when Johnny went back out to him. He knelt in the snow, set the Sig down and rolled a sock up each foot, slipped on the sneakers and tied them.

  “Where’s Mommy?” the boy said when he was finished.

  Johnny looked at him, stood up.

  “You wait right here,” he said. “Don’t go back inside. Don’t go anywhere until I come back to get you, understand?”

  “I’m scared of the woods.”

  “Then just stay right here and you’ll be all right. I’ll come back and we’ll go to the car, get you warm, okay?”

  The boy nodded, looked at the ground.

  Johnny left him there, went back down into the clearing. In the moonlight, the blood was black on the outhouse wall.

  He went around the shack, back up the way he’d come, stepping quietly in the snow. This time he went deeper into the woods. When he came out of the trees, he was behind Tuco. The Mexican had the Mossberg up, was pointing it down the path toward the shacks.

  “Hey,” Johnny said.

  Tuco spun, saw him. The shotgun stayed up for a moment, then lowered.

  “Don’t do that shit to me, homes.” He exhaled.

  “Sorry.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Okay.”

  “You get ’em?”

  “Yes,” Johnny said. “Got you too.”

  He brought the Sig around and fired twice. When Tuco hit the snow, he put two more into him for insurance, watched the body jump. Then he put the safety back on the Sig, tucked it in his belt.

  He found the Explorer keys in a front pocket. Grabbing the parka with both hands, he dragged Tuco face-up down the slope toward the shack. His eyes were open, staring up at the moon.

  Johnny was out of breath by the time he got him into the main room. He left him just inside the door, went back out and got the nylon bag and the Mossberg, carried them inside.

  He was still breathing heavy when he got back to the trees. The boy was where he’d left him, shivering uncontrollably now.

  “Here,” Johnny said. He picked him up, held him tight. They went around the shack and up the path, the boy trembling against him. He carried him all the way back to the Explorer, knowing the path now, the moonlight enough. When he saw the shape of the vehicle, he got the keypad out, touched it and heard the doors unlock. He opened the passenger’s-side door, set the boy in the seat, reached up and turned on the dome light.

  “You wait here, okay?” he said. “Just a few minutes more. Don’t get out of the car.” He closed the door.

  Going back, he didn’t use the flashlight, was able to anticipate the reflectors before he saw them. The adrenaline was wearing off now and he was feeling the cold.

  On the side of the shack was a five-gallon gasoline can used for feeding the generator. Shaking it, he heard the heavy swish inside. He carried it to the cooking shack, used an elbow to break two of the windows, the acrid chemical smell welling out.

  He hefted the can, fed its plastic feeder tube through the broken glass, heard gasoline glug-glug out onto the floor. He did the same at the second window, then splashed gas over the two vehicles, the outhouse, the first biker’s body. He poured a trail to the open door of the shack, tossed the empty can inside.

  One of the fifty-five-gallon drums was only half-full, manageable. He wrestled it around the side of the shack and through the door, pushed and pulled it into the center of the room. He dragged the woman’s body from the bedroom, left her next to the barrel, rolled Tuco beside her.

  The longest fuses were thirty minutes each. He fit a fuse and blasting cap onto each stick of dynamite, carried them outside. At the cooking shack, he broke two more windows—away from the gasoline spill—lit two of the sticks with his Zippo, dropped them through, heard their fuses hissing. The third stick he set against the full fifty-five-gallon barrel in the yard. The fourth he propped against the drum in the living room.

  The moon stayed with him. He found the Explorer again easily, thumbed the keypad to unlock the doors. From the corner of his eye, he saw the empty shell box in the snow. He picked it up, climbed into the Explorer, tossed it in the back.

  The boy was still shaking, looking out the window, expressionless. Johnny started the engine, turned the heater vents toward the boy and switched the fan higher. Then he reversed down the road until it was wide enough to turn around in. He turned on the headlights, started back the way they’d come.

  He was almost at the Parkway when he felt the low rumble through the tires. In the rearview mirror, he saw a glow in the darkness of the woods, rising into the night sky. A ball of red, then another, and then the flicker of flames high above the tree line.

  He stopped at the same rest area near Atlantic City, fed money into the pay phone outside, dialed Lindell’s number. The sky to the west was orange and red, a sunset at 3 A.M.

  When Lindell answered, Johnny said, “It’s done.”

  “Tuco?”

  “No,” he said after a moment. “This isn’t Tuco.”

  Silence on the line, then: “What happened?”

  “He’s gone. There was nothing I could do.”