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He kicked the man, checking for any sign of life.

The man’s body responded with an extraordinarily long final act of flatulence.

El Gato began stepping back to the wall of bushes. As he went though the bushes, he decocked the Beretta and slipped it back in his waistband. The barrel was still warm, almost uncomfortably so against the sensitive skin of his groin.

He looked around. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him or to the side of the convenience store.

Delgado walked up to the driver’s door of the Expedition. He motioned for El Cheque to roll down his window.

“What the hell was that about?” El Cheque said.

Delgado didn’t reply. He was pulling the dead man’s wallet from his pocket. He thumbed through it. He found a state of Texas driver’s license with the man’s picture on it. On the license was the name Salvador Zamora.

He handed it to El Cheque.

“That coyote won’t be needing this anymore. Hang on to it. We might be able to use it for a fake, if it’s not already a fake. Or sell it.”

El Cheque took it.

“Follow me to the house,” Delgado then said. “We can send someone for the Suburban later. Anyone at the house?”

“S?. Miguel.”

“Get on the phone and call him. Tell him to be ready to open the gate when he sees that van. Describe it to him, okay?”

El Cheque began, “Okay. But what-?”

El Gato was already on the way to the fuel pump island.

El Cheque put the Expedition in reverse. He backed up, then stopped and waited, watching Delgado return the pump handle to the pump then get in the driver’s seat of the van.

“Good evening, everyone!” Juan Paulo Delgado said cheerfully in Spanish as he sat in the driver’s seat of the white Dodge van and closed the door. The front passenger seat was unoccupied.

Hoping to project an air of comfortable confidence, he went on, “I am El Gato! And I’ll be taking you to the final stop.”

He pulled on his seat belt. Then he slipped the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine turned over very slowly, then finally rumbled to life.

He looked into the rearview mirror

on the windshield. A sea of surprised and curious faces looked back at him. He counted eighteen heads. There were only two males, both older than maybe fifteen. The age range seemed to go from a couple of toddlers with their young mothers to one of the males who looked to be in his forties. The majority were in their teens and twenties.

And the old guy right behind me looks angry as hell.

They all also looked road-weary. The van reeked of human sweat and greasy fast food.

Juan Paulo Delgado turned on the charm.

“Se?or Zamora asked me to remind you that he would catch up at the next stop. He told you I would be helping, yes?” He didn’t wait for a reply. But he could tell they were not convinced. “Where we are going is only ten, maybe fifteen minutes away. Very close. You will see him soon. Meantime, I’ll start helping you get in touch with your families.”

Delgado smiled broadly into the mirror.

Mentioning family brought smiles to those younger faces.

So there’s no question they’re illegal-and tired from that long trip.

There’s also no question not everyone is convinced I’m their new friend.

But they’re also not trying to run.