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of people are strolling among shops and restaurants. Everyone turns to the commotion. Pedestrians dive out of the way as the vehicles roar by at about eighty miles per hour.
    A policeman blasts the rear right tire, hollow-point lead ripping through the rubber, sparks dancing around the hubcap. The incapacitated truck destroys five cafe tables, then slams into a brick restaurant front. Smoke rises from the wreck, no more than a few blocks from the Santa Prisca Church, an ornate cathedral towering above town. Bystanders rubberneck from the periphery.
    Salinas the narcotics kingpin and a bodyguard with an AK-47 stagger from the Escalade bleeding from their heads and arms. The underling lunges in front of the boss to defend him, spraying his weapon at the van. The cops roll out and crawl behind, metal-on-metal bangs rippling through the streets as the siding gets pummeled.
    One of the policemen slides around the bumper, pumping two cover shots. A second slips around the other end, capturing the henchman in his crosshairs, discharging a round at him. It enters him about an inch under his right eye, a rope of blood squirting as his body crumbles to the asphalt. Still alive, he sweeps for his gun but goes lifeless when two more slugs pass through his forehead.
    Salinas is terrified without his human shield. He fumbles under his jacket for a pistol but can’t get to it in time. The cop sticks three bullets into his chest, knocking him ten feet back while he chokes on his last breaths.
    As the officers pile into their vehicle, onlookers scream, four riddled corpses on the pavement, two belonging to the criminals, two to a young man and woman killed by stray fire from the AK-47.

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    Sitting cross-legged on his blue bedroom carpet, Sean pours crackers on a paper plate. He’s in a better mood today, the bird predicament almost behind him after a few days of talking it over with his aunt. His best friend Kyle eyes the saltines between them. “One minute,” Sean says. “The whole thing.”
    “Come on,” Kyle says as if his buddy’s been lying to him. “It’s not that much.”
    Smiling, Sean claps a couple times. “All right then hotshot. Go for it. Twenty bucks if you do it.”
    “You’ve got the money?”
    Sean walks to his desk, pulls a ten and two crumpled fives from a drawer, and drops them on the rug. “It can be yours in sixty seconds.”
    “You’re telling me nobody can do it?”
    “I’m not telling you anything other than if you eat six of them in a minute you get twenty bills.”
    “How you timing it?”
    Sean points at a digital clock on the wall by his Die Hard poster. “As soon as the minutes change you start. You got until they do again. Cool?”
    “Easiest twenty bucks I’ll ever make,” Kyle says, arrogant. He extends his hand, Sean shaking it. They watch the clock, Kyle brushing away strands of his straight black hair. In a few moments it flips from 3:07 to 3:08.
    “Go,” Sean says, leaning forward.
    Kyle downs the first. “That’s one,” he says, grabbing a second. He takes some bites and finishes. On the third, his chewing slows.
    With delight, Sean sees his expression go from cocky to distressed. “How’re those gums feeling champ? Nice and moist?”
    “Shut up,” Kyle says with a mouthful, speech muddled. He gropes at the plate for another.
    “Time,” Sean says with a celebratory slap on the floor.
    Crumbs all over his lips, Kyle gawks at the clock. 3:09. “No way that was a minute.”
    Sean snags the cash and sticks it in his pocket with a smirk. “Want some water?”
    Kyle nods, gnawing what’s left in his mouth. “Still can’t believe it.”
    “You saying I rigged it somehow?”
    “No...just...I don’t know.” He swallows. “Whatever. I need some Goddamn water.”
    “Kitchen. Come on.” They stroll out, then down the stairs.
    Sean opens the refrigerator and fishes out a bottle of Poland Spring and a canister of Tropicana. Kneeing the door shut, he tosses the