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out of reflex. Unless . . .

9
    T he
sicario
picked up his pace and reached the skate park and his car. He drove it to the mouth of the alley, backing the vehicle just inside and off the street, but not close enough for the safe house to hear the engine. He threw his wig and hat into the backseat, lifted up a special compartment in the right rear door panel, and pulled out a suppressed Sig Sauer P226 nine-millimeter pistol. The weapon was bigger than he would have liked, made larger still by the five-inch suppressor, but it was necessary. He donned a specially made shoulder rig, seated the pistol, then put on a cheap nylon windbreaker to cover it.
    He exited the car and began walking back around the block, toward South Hill Street and the meat market. He knew that the lookouts would focus on his bald skull and scorched forehead, and the image would preclude their brains from making any connection to the man who had just driven past. Which would cost them.
    He turned the corner and walked with purpose straight toward the meat market, both gang members staring at him intently. He ignored them, stopping short of the building proper and veering toward a gate in the wooden fence that ensconced the market’s property. He opened it like he belonged and went through a six-foot-tall barricade that would preclude anyone from seeing what he was about to do. He searched the area with his eyes and saw nothing but old washing machines and beer cans. No windows on the building or witnesses in the yard. He knelt and called out in Spanish.
    “Help me. Please come help.”
    He waited, then repeated the call. Eventually, the one he’d seen on the bucket came through the gate, saying, “What do you want,
cabrón
?”
    He jammed the suppressor into the thug’s throat and said, “Call your friend.”
    The man splayed his hands out in a gesture of surrender.
    The
sicario
waited a beat for compliance. When it didn’t occur, he twisted the barrel, pushing it deeper into the soft folds of flesh. “Call. Your. Friend.”
    The man did, bleating like a goat. The
sicario
shot him from under the chin, the bullet going through the brain and taking out a section of skull as it exited the top. The body hitting the ground made more noise than the suppressed 226. He waited.
    The wife-beater rounded the corner cursing, walking with a swagger. He saw the body a split second before he felt the suppressor at the base of his jaw, just below his ear. He, too, held his arms out.
    The
sicario
said, “Do not talk. Just nod yes. You know the house you are protecting?”
    A nod.
    “We’re going over there, and you’re going to knock on the door. Get them to open it without alerting them something is wrong. If you fail, you will die. If you succeed, you can run away down the street. I’ll do the rest. Do you understand?”
    Another nod, but this time with a snarl on his face.
    Trouble.
    “Put your arms down. Look at me.”
    The man/boy did so, glaring at him with a challenge, showing he wasn’t concerned.
    “I know whose house that is, and they are of no help to you. I am a Los Zetas
sicario
. Do you know what this means?”
    The toughness cracked and the thug tentatively nodded.
    He jammed the barrel deep into the soft fold of flesh beneath the jaw. “Do you
understand
what this means? For you?”
    The gang member became visibly scared, staring at the molten scars on the
sicario
’s forehead.
    “I have made many men such as you cry for death. Weeping and begging for their mothers. Your next few minutes will decide if you do the same. Let’s go.”
    This time the gang member nodded vigorously. He’d heard the stories. Maybe even seen the pictures. He’d played at being tough in his own little fishbowl, had dealt out his own version of justice in the barrio, but understood the man with the gun operated in a whole different universe of pain.
    They crossed the street, the wife-beater walking in front. When they reached the brick of the house,