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villages. Wiped them out. We, unfortunately, Lieutenant, are the women and children in the village. Do you understand?”
    She had no idea what this was about. “Yes, compañero.”
    â€œWe are too weak to defend ourselves, so we take the brunt of the battle, but there are no warriors coming to defend us, nor revenge us. In America’s eyes Nicaragua’s role, the Revo’s role, is to suffer, to bleed, to starve. The Contra exist only to impoverish us, to sow dissension. That’s why they are so dangerous. The Contra are nihilists capable of murder and suicide.”
    Gladys understood that. “Yes, compañero.”
    â€œThat’s why there can be no half measures. No half commitment. That soldier knew. It is why he submitted to torture but did not break. Did not betray his trust .”
    The visitor jacked the slide on the pistol, chambered a round, set the hammer down, put the safety on, and returned the loaded gun to her butt first—all in one fluid movement, his hands moving like a magician’s.
    â€œThis is not the time or place to carry an unloaded weapon. We don’t have even a second to assess the danger. We are all always on the point of being murdered. Do you understand that, Lieutenant Darío?”
    â€œYes, compañero.”
    â€œGood. Enjoy Ladies Nite. But don’t be out too late. You’ve got important work in the morning.”
    3.
    Ajax awoke with a deep shiver in the pitch dark. The shiver came from a thought ringing through his head like the report of a pistol fired from close by. The bullet was his own name. Ajax.
    Ajax. I know why you’re here. I know what I did, the soldier had said.
    The kid knew my name. He knew my name!
    He’d not noticed it before, but now he heard it and the sound of his own name stunned him.
    He knew my name!
    Then another realization cracked in his mind: he was cold, and dry. It was July and he was cold. He was awake and bone dry. His skin, the sheets, dry. So maybe he wasn’t awake, he never was unless he’d sweated through to the mattress. But he didn’t dream, not like this. And then he felt it, felt it in his hand. The Needle. Unmistakably, The Needle was in his hand. But now it was unwrapped from its oil rags. The leather sheath felt warm. The steel handle, too. The Needle was a wicked stiletto—long and thin with a point like a knitting needle for sticking, but with four edges honed for slicing soft tissue. It was a specialty blade he’d specialized in. He’d carried it in the mountains for years, until that last time he’d used it, and then had put it away. Forever, he’d thought. Yet here it was—so familiar in his palm. Here he was—in the dark. Bone dry. The Needle in his hand. The kid’s voice saying his name.
    And he knew was not alone.
    He could see through the bedroom window into his garden—a blackness stood out against the blackness. A sheen reflecting moonlight—like a freshly painted board. But it moved and swayed, like a curtain hanging in the garden. Had he left a towel dangling from a branch? It moved again, fluttered like a wet black flag in a breeze. Gleaming. But more than that, too. A silhouette? It seemed to have no shape but he felt it was facing him. It couldn’t be looking at him, but he felt watched. Who could it be? He wasn’t in the mountains; he didn’t dream like this.
    And now The Needle was in his hand. And the shimmering shadow in the window was waiting. Watching. Rippling like a shroud in a draft. Ajax silently sucked air, making his chest rise and fall, exhaling for longer than he inhaled. He counted to ten breathing in, to fifteen out.
    He thought he heard his front door scrape open. He turned his head toward the sound. There’s more than one! When he looked back, the silhouette was gone. It seemed like flight, and his hunter’s instinct kicked in, as it did with any predator when the prey showed its