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some injury that I’d had no control over. It made me a victim, took away my consent. And I had consented -- hadn’t I?  
    I looked at Hollman, uncertain what name I should use. “Do I still sign as Garnet?”  
    She nodded. “I’m sorry about what I said. Cohen just pissed me off too damn much.”  
    “Yeah.” I smiled for the first time since leaving Jaime’s apartment. “I’m betting he has that effect on a lot of people.”  
    Finished signing the paper, I hesitated in pushing it towards her. “Is he still in the building?”  
    As the last word left my mouth, I heard the dull rumble of an engine starting and recognized the sound as belonging to the van. Confirming that it was Dino pulling away, she shook her head.  
    I bit at my bottom lip for a few seconds until I was sure I could ask the next question without my voice trembling. “Can you tell me his first name?”  
    “Dean.” Reaching across the table once more, she gave my hand a sympathetic squeeze. “Dean Ramirez.”  
    *****  
    On your feet, Ramirez!  
    Dean Ramirez peeled one reluctant eye open, the raspy voice of Drill Instructor Theodore Bayhune echoing in his memory.  
    You have three seconds to stand up or I’ll send your ass back to the barrio, chico.  
    High noon in the Sonoran desert, the sunlight pierced Dean’s skull. With his left arm and shoulder coated with congealed blood and debris from the desert floor, he tucked his right arm under his torso and pushed up.  
    One, chico! You missing your mama’s beans and rice? You want to go home, is that it, boy?  
    A body’s length in front of Dean, a turkey vulture pulled its head from the chest of Oscar Torres, tearing at the old man’s heart with its hooked ivory-colored beak. His knees and one good hand scraping and dragging over rocks and sand, Dean crawled toward the old man.  
    Two! This aint no fucking siesta, recruit. Get your ass up, now!  
    Torres had been cowering, cane in hand, behind his remaining gun man as the last bullets had been fired. Locked in a death grip, his fingers clutched at the silver rooster head. Dean jerked the end of the cane, causing the buzzard to dance in agitation.  
    He lifted the cane, smashed it down, the sound of dead and drying fingers breaking no more than a whisper on the wind. His hand curled around the center of the cane, Dean jabbed its silver-tipped end into the sand.  
    A pint or more of his blood stained the ground behind him. His arm shook like an old man trying to rise out of his rocking chair as he pushed on the cane. Knees wobbling, his feet slid away from one another on the loose ground. His left knee gave out, hitting a fist-sized rock and threatening to send him sprawling face first into the bloody, gaping hole that had once housed Oscar’s heart.  
    Three! I’m kicking your ass all the way back to East Los Angeles if you don’t get on your feet right fucking--  
    “Now!” Dean lurched forward, cane and arm flailing for a few seconds before the tip struck solid ground. Leaning on the stick, he dragged a ragged breath in, feeling every last grain of sand that clogged his nostrils and throat.  
    Water. He needed water, needed out of the heat and into some shade. Without either, he’d die before the sun dropped below the horizon. He squinted, head slowly swiveling as he surveyed the area.  
    The black Mercedes Torres arrived in had burned through the night, the tank exploding from Feo’s last round. That left the blue rusted Ford truck half a football field away as the only way out. Feo was sprawled face first on the ground in front of it, courtesy of Dean’s final shot.  
    Half a fucking football field.  
    Thought you were done, chico? Thought it was time to collect that Eagle, did you? No sirree. First you have to cross the Desert of Death.  
    “Bayhune.” Dean spat a mix of blood and sand at the ground, the spasms in his lungs threatening to turn his legs to rubber once more. Closing his eyes, he could