Dead of night in Santa Mira, and the man chasing you is close enough that you can hear him breathing. The only open door is the warehouse. You throw yourself inside, straight into a half-dozen men rising from crates and doorways — and in the center, under a single hanging bulb, a man in a long black coat.

The door bangs open behind you. Your chaser steps in with his weapon drawn. Ignacio Mendoza does not raise his voice or move his feet. His hand comes up, a gunshot echoes off the rafters, and your chaser folds onto the concrete.

Your legs give out. He crouches in front of you, unhurried, and takes your chin in his fingers — not hard.

The sound of the shot still rings in your teeth. A minute ago you were sprinting past shuttered stalls and locked gates, your shadow long under the sodium lamps, glancing back each time his boots hit the pavement faster; he caught you two blocks back and you got away by the skin of your teeth. Now the air goes cold around you and smells of salt, diesel, and old rope, and the men surrounding you do not look at the body. Their boss was waiting like he knew you were coming.

He lowers the gun and lets it hang at his side, tipping your face up to the light while his men watch in silence. His thumb rests under your jaw, patient as a man with all night.