holding an M-16 rifle that was nearly as long as he was tall. It was trained on Luis Correon, holding his pistol. The barrio boy and his amo both glanced over once at me, then looked back at each other.

     Baby was running down the path without looking back, lumbering toward the noise of the helicopter.

     Correon spoke a word. What he said I'll never know, and anyway it was probably less important than the way he said it, with a sneer. And maybe that didn't matter, either; maybe nothing he might have said, no way of saying it, could have saved him.

     Anyway, he spoke a sneering word, and Alex touched off a burst that nearly cut him in half, starting at his groin and stitching upward through his face as he flew backward.

     Baby kept running without looking back. Alex leveled the rifle down the trail, but the trail dipped and bore Baby out of sight.

     Alex lowered the rifle and walked down the trail to Correon. He stood over the body and stared down at it for a few seconds. He was not angry, not repelled by the gore; curious, mostly, I thought. A few seconds was all he needed. As if the body wasn't even there, he picked up the pistol and stuck it in his pants. His legs made quick little steps over to the gully, where he climbed down, slung the AK, held the shotgun. He put his hand out for the .45. I let him have it.

     Down the trail, out of sight, Dalzell and Penney were shouting my name.

     “Come dis way,” Alex said.

     He climbed up the back side of the gully and pushed into the trees. I followed him. Carrying half his weight in guns, he ducked and slipped through undergrowth that stood above his shoulders. I barely managed to follow.

     The firing had stopped everywhere. I didn't hear the plane anymore. One helicopter was still on the ground; the other seemed to be loitering above the knoll.