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Tires screamed as the sedan skidded to a stop. The fender and a headlight of the car crumpled as they slammed into the pickup. Flat on his belly beside the pickup, Lyons pulled his Colt Python from the hideaway holster at the small of his back.

A Mexican with slicked-back hair and gray polyester business suit ran in front of him, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands.

Lyons fired a 158-grain jacketed, X-headed hollowpoint into the Mexican’s face. The slug smashed through flesh and skull, the expanding hollowpoint disintegrating, the fragments continuing through the gunman’s brain to explode from the back of his head. The impact threw him down, already dead, his skull a bloody void.

Looking under the pickup, Lyons saw shoes and slacks running from the sedan. The mirror-polished shoes ran around the rear of the pickup. Lyons spun and fired as another gunman appeared, the hollow-point catching the Mexican just above his open collar and tearing through his throat to sever the spine. Momentum carried the dying man forward, the last spasms of his heart pumping blood from the entry and exit wounds. He fell, his Uzi still gripped in his hands, a broken neck allowing his head to twist impossibly, his open, blind eyes staring up at the sky.

Another weapon popped, slugs punching through sheet steel, glass shattering. Lyons heard ricochets hum overhead. A window in a house broke. Someone screamed. Lyons looked back to Alejandro, saw the teenager staring around, his eyes wide with panic. He couldn’t think of the Spanish words to calm the teenager so he shouted, “Be cool, be cool

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