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round, finger already tightening on the trigger of his semiautomatic as a devastating blow to his stomach folded him up.  He snapped forward, discharging a round into the floor as his head hit the carpet and a boot to the head robbed him of his senses.
    Logan retrieved the two handguns, went to the door and opened it, to look out and see a young woman jogging away along the walkway.
    “Hey,” Logan shouted.
    The woman half-turned, slowed down, and then came to a stop.  She stared at him for a few seconds, as if unsure as to what to do, ready to run again as she called out, “Are you with the other two?”
    Logan shook his head.  “They’re no friends of mine,” he said.  “And they are no danger to you or anyone else at the moment.”
    Andrea hesitated.  Didn’t know whether to run or believe the big man.  After mulling it over she walked back towards him, gripping the pistol that was in her coat pocket, hoping that she had the necessary courage to use it if he was one of Slater’s men.  Although she felt safe.  She had watched the two men approach the motel room’s door, pick the lock and kick it open.  Apparently the stranger had been ready for them.
    “Who are you?” Andrea said as she stopped again within eight feet of the man.
    “My name’s Logan.  Who are you?”
    “Andrea.  Those two men killed my boyfriend.  I’ve been following them.”
    “You’d best leave, Andrea,” Logan said.  “This isn’t something you want to be a part of.  Just tell me your boyfriend’s name, and then go.”
    “His name is…was Sam Benton.  And I am a part of it, and I’m not going anywhere.”
    “Come in, then,” Logan said.  “I need to talk to these guys.  And give me the gun you’ve got in your pocket.  I don’t want anything stupid to happen.”
    Andrea handed over the .22 and followed Logan into the room.  He closed the door behind them, having to kick it in place against the now splintered jamb. He then turned on the lights and immediately recognized the guy with the walrus mustache as being the passenger in the pickup that had appeared from the desert and headed towards Ajo.
    Logan always carried a pocket knife.  He severed the cord from one of the lamps, then cut the six foot length in half and bound the wrists and ankles of the other man, before dragging him by the coat collar into the bathroom, where he hit him hard in the temple again, to be sure that he remained unconscious.
    Wayne Miller came round with a pounding head.  Gathered his thoughts and blinked repeatedly until his blurred vision cleared.  He was laid on the carpet facing the side of the bed.  The pool of blood that had flowed from his broken nose was still warm against his cheek.
    Logan said, “Sit up with your back against the wall.  We need to talk.”
    Wayne slowly complied, to sit with his legs out straight and his hands palm down on the floor, steadying himself as he looked up to where the man called Logan was sitting on a wooden chair facing him, with his 9 mm pistol pointing at his face.
    “Here’s the plan,” Logan said.  “You answer every question I ask you.  If you refuse, or I think that you’re lying to me, I shoot you in the kneecap, and then if you still play dumb I’ll empty the mag in places that won’t kill you, but will probably make you wish you were dead.  Do you understand?”
    Wayne nodded.
    “Your name?” Logan said.
    “Miller…Wayne Miller.”
    “And you’re dearly departed friend.  Who was he?”
    Wayne saw more blood on the carpet a few feet away, and couldn’t see Gary.  The big guy had a look in his unblinking gray eyes that he knew was unequivocal.
    “You killed him?” Wayne said.
    “You came here to kill me, so why are you surprised?” Logan said.  “What you need to decide is whether you want to join him or walk away from this, Miller.  Who was he?”
    “His name was Gary Foley.”
    “And you both carried out dirty work for Zack Slater.  Right?”
    Wayne