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AN ACTUAL GUNFIGHT next to a crowded bar was not what Doyle considered low-key. But now that it had started, he didn’t panic. He never panicked. This was his specialty. The government had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to train him in the use of several weapons. But his favorite was the M9, his 9mm Beretta.

He drew his Beretta from his belt holster, where it had been well concealed. He didn’t even look. He popped the gun into his left hand and reached around the dumpster. He fired two quick rounds just to get everyone’s attention and make them lower their heads.

That’s when Rios shouted to him. It made Doyle freeze.

Rios yelled, “You the cat who killed my friends? We been expecting you to show up again. Now we can settle this like men.”

Doyle knew he couldn’t waste time chatting with this asshole. He was relieved to realize no one in the bar had heard the gunshots and there was no panic or rush for the door.

Rios yelled again. “You not going to answer me, pendejo ?”

This guy was going to talk until one of his friends came out to help him. It was a smart move. But Doyle knew what to do. As soon as he heard Rios start to shout again, he didn’t hesitate. He peeked around the corner of the dumpster with his pistol up and fired three times. He was already moving forward when he saw Rios drop to the ground. Doyle was certain he’d hit him twice in the chest and once in the face.

The woman got off one quick shot that went wide to the right. Doyle didn’t stop moving forward as he fired three more quick shots. Same as Rios. Two hollow-point bullets hit the woman in the chest and one in her face. She went down onto the filthy surface of the alley right next to him.

Instinctively, Doyle switched out magazines, giving himself an additional fifteen shots if something were to happen or someone came out of the bar.

He scanned the street and realized there was no one outside. He had just been lucky to see Rios. He was disappointed not to find Oscar Tass at the same time, but he had to be satisfied with one of them.

Doyle slipped the pistol back into his belt holster, covered it with his shirt, and hustled in the opposite direction of the alley. He turned the corner and was in his stolen Toyota less than thirty seconds later. He didn’t race away from the scene. That would attract attention. He pulled from the curb slowly and put on his left turn signal at the next intersection.

There was not a soul on the street. He was one step closer to being finished.