“My gun.” Baby was inside, groping on the floor where the food had spilled. “What happened to my fucking gun?”

     Correon came up the back side of the knoll. He stopped at the Mercedes and spoke to Orlando, and while the radio squawked he pointed up the long driveway that tracked to the road. More vigilantes—I could make out the AK's—were emerging from the field east of the drive.

     Dalzell said, “Why don't we just haul our asses out of here?”

     But as the new squad came into view, more orange stars winked from behind the mango trees that lined the drive. Some of the vigilantes dived, some fell.

     “That was battalion headquarters,” Correon said loudly. “Help is on the way. Fifteen minutes.”

     “So it'll be thirty anyway,” Penney said.

     “What if it is? Thirty minutes is nothing.”

     “We have the high ground,” Orlando said.

     “I'm thinking that we might make for the trees,” Dalzell said. He was looking at the forest where the gully ran through, the path to Lanao. “Jack and Rick and me. They don't especially care about us.”

     “Fine,” Correon said. He was miffed.

     “Unless you think we can help you here.”

     “I wouldn't presume. 'Noy, go hide our friends. I'm sorry, I can't give you any guns. We need all our weapons here.”

     “Oh that's all right,” Dalzell said.

     “I'd rather stay,” Nonoy said.

     “Go. Stay with them until it's over. It would be a shame if they got lost.”

     “I can help here.”

     “I said go.”

     When we left them, Correon was yelling at the vigilantes