“Drop your weapons!”

The sicario with the AK fired into the restaurant, hardly even aiming, and Plato felt his guts start to go as slugs whistled past his head. A woman at the next table wasn’t so lucky: her face blew up as the hollow point mashed into her forehead, blood spraying behind her as her neck cracked backwards and she slid from her chair. Plato hid behind the table, the cold finger of the Glock’s barrel pressed up against his cheek; he hadn’t even managed to get a shot off and now he knew he never would. He couldn’t move. Emelia’s words this morning were in his head, he couldn’t get them out, and they had taken the strength from his legs. He knew he was probably being flanked, the man with the rifle opening an angle to put him out of his misery. Plato knew it would be his wife’s words that would be repeating in his head when the bullets found their marks.

Be careful, Jesus.

You got a different life from next Monday.

It was crazy: he thought of the lawn, and how it would never get cut.

Gunfire.

The tic-tic-tic of the machine pistols.

A jagged, ripping volley from the Kalashnikov.

Screams.

The man who was with the two women had been hit. He staggered against his toppled chair, leaning over, his hand pressed to his gut, then wobbled across the room until he was at Plato’s table. Blood on his shirt, pumping between his fingers. He reached for the table, his face white and full of fear, and then his hand slipped away from the edge and he was on his knees, and then on his face, his body twitching. Plato could have reached out to touch him.

He was facing at an angle away from the kitchen but he glimpsed something move in the corner of his eye, cranked his head around in that direction and saw a cook, covered in sweat and shirtless save for a dirty apron, vaulting quickly over the sill of the wide window that opened onto the restaurant. The man moved with nimble agility, landing in a deep crouch and bringing up his right hand in a sudden, fluid motion. Plato saw a pair of angel wings tattooed across his back as his right arm blurred up and then down, something glinting in his hand and, then, leaving his hand. That glint spun through the air as if the man had unleashed a perfect fastball, like Pedro Martinez at the top of the ninth, two men down, the bases loaded. The kitchen knife — for that was what it was — landed in Machichi’s throat.

He dropped his revolver, tottered backwards, clawing at the blade that had bisected his gullet.

It was the spur Plato needed: he spun up and around, firing the Glock. The sicario with the Kalashnikov took a round in the shoulder and wheeled away, wild return fire going high and wife, stitching a jagged trail into the fishing net that was hanging from the ceiling. Sanchez appeared and fired from the doorway to the restroom; Alameda was nowhere to be seen. All the diners were on the floor now; the cook fast-crawled on his belly between them, a bee-line to the man with the Kalashnikov and, with a butterfly knife that had appeared in his hand, he reached down and slit the man’s throat from ear to ear. He picked up the AK.

He popped out of cover, the muzzle flashing.

One of the sicarios was hit, his head jerking back.

The cook was beneath the line of the tables, firing a quick burst that left most of the top of the man smeared across the carpet and the wall behind him. The gun made a throaty chugging sound. Like someone with a hacking cough.

The remaining pair scrambled back to the door. Plato watched through the restaurant’s large picture window as they hurried to the Q5. The cook stepped around to the window. The car was just fifteen feet away outside. The cook raised the Kalashnikov, calm and easy, braced the stock expertly against his shoulder and fired a concentrated volley straight through the window. The pane shattered in an avalanche of shards, the bullets puncturing the driver side window, none going astray, all of them within a neat ten-inch circle.

The car swerved out of control and hit another. The door swung opened. The airbags had deployed. The driver fell out, his head a bloody mess. The passenger was hit, too.

Plato brought up his Glock and aimed at the cook.

“Police! Get down, señor! Down! On the floor!”

The man got to his knees, put the Kalashnikov on the carpet, then lay down.

15

Milton had lost track of time. Suddenly, there had been sirens, police, ambulances. Six men and two women were dead. It was obvious who the gunmen had been after: two of the dead were from the same table. The police fussed around the bodies, taking photographs and judging trajectories, and then, when they were done, the paramedics were called over to lift the dead onto gurneys, covering their faces as they hauled them away. Milton was detained by the older, silver haired municipal cop who had shot the gunman with the Kalashnikov; he was a little plump around the middle, the wrong side of fifty and he had the smell of alcohol on his breath. The man told him to get a shirt, told him he was going to have to have to come back to the station with him to give a statement. Milton said that wasn’t necessary, he could just do it there and then, but the cop had been insistent. Then, when they had arrived, he had insisted that he be photographed and have his fingerprints taken. Milton said he wasn’t a criminal. The cop said maybe, but he just had his word for that. Milton could have overpowered him easily, and could have gotten away, sunk under the surface again, but there was something about the cop that said he could trust him and something about the night itself that said he better stick around.

He let them take their photographs, front and profile. He let them take his prints.

The man was sitting in front of him now.

“So — you’re Mr.” — he looked down at his notes — “Smith. Right?”

“That’s right.”

“First name John. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“John Smith? Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Alright then, Señor Smith. Sorry about bringing you down here.”

“That’s alright. Why don’t you tell me what do you want?”

“I just wanted to visit with you a little bit. Talk to you about what happened. That was some trick with the knife. What are you, ex-military?”

“I’m just a cook.”

“Really? You don’t look like a cook.”

“So you say. But that’s what I am.”

“Don’t know many cooks who can handle a Kalashnikov like that, either.”

“Lucky shot, I guess,” the man shrugged. “Who are you?”

“Lieutenant Jesus Plato. Where you from?”

“England.”

“Of course you are. That’s a fine accent you got there.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You want to tell me what happened back there, Señor Smith?”

“You saw it just about as well as I did.”

“Why don’t you tell me — give me your perspective.”

“I was in the kitchen and I heard shooting. No-one seemed to be doing anything much about it.”

“And so you did.”

“That’s right.”

“Seriously, Señor, please — you must have been a soldier at some point?”

“A long time ago.”

“Don’t think I’m ungrateful — you saved my life and plenty of others in that room. It’s just—”

“It’s just that you have to make a report. It’s fine, Lieutenant. Ask your questions. I understand.”

“You want a drink of water?”

“I’m fine,” Milton said.

“Smoke?”

He nodded.

Plato took out a packet of Luckies and tapped out two cigarettes. Milton took one and let the man light it for him.

Plato inhaled deeply. “You know who those men were?”

“Never seen them before.”

“Those boys were from the cartel. La Frontera. You’ll have heard of them, no doubt.”

“A little.”

“A word of advice, John. Do you care if I call you John?”