“Help!”

“You’ll thank me after,” he said, barely noticing the pummeling Jessica was delivering. “Besides, you called my dad a crazy Mainer. You hurt my feelings.”

“Stop!” she yelled. “Help! Someone help me!”

When the water reached his waist, Dewey dived forward into the frigid water, still holding Jessica. Her screaming was muffled as they crashed into the water. A moment later, when she surfaced, Jessica began howling all over again.

“You bastard! I’ll get you!”

She splashed water at him, but all he could do was laugh.

They swam in the pool for a while, eventually getting used to the temperature. On the far shore, Jessica swam to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

“It actually is kind of refreshing,” she said.

“Does that mean you’re not mad?”

“No, I’m still mad. I like being mad at you. It’s fun.”

“How can I make it up to you?” he asked, wrapping his hands around Jessica’s back. She wrapped her legs around his torso and moved closer.

“Well,” she said, kissing his lips, “I can think of something that might make me forgive you.”

Dewey carried her to the shore. They made love in the warm grass just above the stream, without a soul for miles.

Afterward, they swam back across the stream. Jessica spread out a red chamois blanket in the shade of the tree. They ate—ham-and-cheese sandwiches made by the chef back at the ranch—then lay on the blanket. Jessica put her head on Dewey’s shoulder. They fell asleep to the sound of the stream running by.

By the time they awoke to head back to the ranch, the sun was gone and the sky was turning into a beautiful dark purple.

*   *   *

Chang sat with his legs crossed, staring through the scope at the Suburban. The sky was growing dark.

He saw the sedan pull into the driveway at a few minutes before eight o’clock.

“He’s back,” said Chang.

Hu-Shao sat up abruptly, his eyes growing alert. He glanced at his watch.

“They’re running four-hour rotations,” he said. He turned to Raul, who was lying on his back, eyes closed. Hu-Shao snapped his fingers. “Let’s go.”

Raul stood and walked to the Dragunov, which was set up on its bipod and trained at the Suburban. He got down on his stomach and studied the vehicle through the high-powered thermal night scope. The two Americans were chatting again. Finally, one of the men climbed into the sedan. He pulled a U-turn and sped away. The other man climbed into the front seat of the SUV.

The Suburban was blocking some of the heat of the man’s body, and Raul wasn’t getting a very good heat print in the scope, but he was getting enough. He was, he guessed, just under a mile from the target. Raul rubbed his finger along the steel trigger. Then he fired.

A low boom exploded from the Dragunov as the high-powered rifle kicked back and a 7.62mm Kevlar-tipped cartridge ripped from the muzzle of the rifle. He heard nothing; yet through the scope, he watched as the front side window shattered.

“What happened?” barked Hu-Shao.

Raul said nothing as he retargeted the scope and prepared to fire. He concentrated, searching for the heat spot of the target. Then he found it, in the same place it had been before; he’d killed the American.

“Bull’s-eye,” he said. “Let’s go. We have four hours until he’s discovered.”

*   *   *

At the polo house, Alvaro took the horses from Dewey and Jessica. They walked beneath the darkening sky back along the gravel road to the ranch. Inside their suite of rooms, they took showers, then dressed for dinner in the main house.

*   *   *

Raul drove the Land Cruiser in a slow, circuitous arc toward the back of the ranch. The headlights illuminated knee-high grass, night bugs, and darkness. His destination was a field of low hills at the back of the ranch house. Had they moved in a direct line, the route would have been just over a mile. Instead, they drove in a two-mile arc.

Raul stopped when Hu-Shao gave the signal. They climbed out of the SUV.

On foot, Raul, Hu-Shao, and Chang traveled light. Hu-Shao and Chang carried assault rifles and handguns. Raul carried the Dragunov, strapped across his back. He also packed his sidearm, a well-worn Colt .38 Super “El Capitan,” with a custom snub-nose suppressor in the muzzle, his most prized possession, a present his father had given him on his ninth birthday. He tucked it between his belt and back.

From the Land Cruiser, they moved in the darkness, Hu-Shao navigating with his phone. Eventually, they came within sight of the ranch house, far in the distance, its yellow lights twinkling.

Hu-Shao took out his night scope and scanned the house.

“Here,” he said, pointing at a small grassy knoll.

“What’s the distance?” asked Raul.

“Half a mile.”

Raul sighted the sniper nest atop the knoll, setting the Dragunov on its bipod. He spent several minutes calibrating the scope as well as adjusting for bullet drop. Once he had the rifle good to go, he moved it slowly back and forth along the back of the rambling stucco mansion.

Chang pulled an MRE from his pack and ripped the tinfoil lid from it, then stuffed the food into his face.

“We have three hours before the dead guard is discovered,” said Hu-Shao.

Raul listened, studying the house, looking for signs of life.

“What if I don’t get a shot?” asked Raul.

“Then we hit the house. If you haven’t killed Andreas in two hours, we move in.”

Raul pulled his eye from the end of the rifle scope. He stood up.

“Where the hell are you going?” said Hu-Shao angrily.

“To take a piss,” said Raul, pointing to his crotch. “I might work for you, Chinaman, but he doesn’t.”

*   *   *

As Raul walked off into the darkness to pee, Hu-Shao put the scope to his eye, pretending to study the house; but his eye glanced sideways, watching Raul as he walked away.

Hu-Shao removed a 9mm Strike One from his shoulder holster. He reached into his front pocket for a suppressor, screwing it into the muzzle of the handgun.

Chang, on his back, looked up from his MRE.

“What are you doing?”

“Following orders,” answered Hu-Shao, checking the magazine. “Eat your dog food and shut the fuck up.”

He gripped the weapon and stuck it into the pocket of his Windbreaker, clutching the grip, prepared to fire.

“What did he do?” whispered Chang.

Hu-Shao sat down on the ground, against a rock, behind the sniper rifle. He was directly behind where Raul would be after he shot the American.

“That’s the wrong question,” said Hu-Shao.

“What’s the right question?”

“The right question is, am I going to kill you too?” Hu-Shao whispered, smiling viciously.

Chang laughed nervously.

“When will you do it?” whispered Chang.

“After he shoots the American.”

*   *   *

Raul walked behind the hill for several hundred feet, whistling. The sky was black and blue and dotted with stars. He unzipped his pants and peed on the ground, then began a slow walk back toward Hu-Shao and Chang. He walked nonchalantly over the hill, to the right of where he’d left. The dark outline of the ranch house was visible in the far distance, the lights from windows casting dull yellow into the evening.

He saw Chang first, lying on the ground, next to the Dragunov. He was staring through his night optics at the ranch house.

Hu-Shao was behind Chang and the rifle, reclined against a rock. His hand was stuffed inside the pocket of his Windbreaker. He was looking in the opposite direction, waiting for Raul to return.

Raul removed the Colt from his jeans. He moved the safety off. He walked in silence down the slope of the hill. He aimed the gun at the back of Hu-Shao’s head. He paused for a moment, then two. Finally, as if by instinct, Hu-Shao turned.

Hu-Shao’s eyes met Raul’s. Hu-Shao’s mouth went agape. He tried to say something but couldn’t. Then he ripped his hand—clutching the weapon—from the Windbreaker and swung it up at Raul.