lder than I remembered from the Bronx, his face etched with the brutalities of his trade, but the same

otion?" he demanded, h

ine of sight. They wanted to hide their mistake,

wasn't

of my will. I twisted, thrashed, and with a final,

AN

oed in the su

aze fell on me, a battered, broken heap on the

my last

d my body, contorting myself to expose th

tten years ago. The original, intricate coyote ste

strode over, pushing his terrified men aside as if they were children. He knelt

eath h

r, a flicker of something almost like wond

old fury. He turned on his men, h

in Spanish. "This is my good luck charm! The artist

khanded Hector across the face, the

st doctor we have. If she is not treated,

tied me, their hands trembling, and lifted me with a ca

eyes with El Martillo. He gave me

live. I