“Other side of the intersection, that condo,” I said, “let’s go.”
We double-timed across the pavement—or what was left of it—to where a concrete overhang offered some measure of cover.
“Hold up,” said Nigel. He dropped to his knees and began assembling his weapon—a commercial weed trimmer outfitted with a 10” saw blade—as Lazaro hovered above him.
“Yeah, hold up. Nigel saw some grass he wants to trim,” said Lazaro.
Nigel primed the trimmer but didn’t start it. “I didn’t hear you complain when this opened the belly of that Barney—you know the one that had you pinned? Or did you forget about that?”
“And covered me with its guts,” said Lazaro. He pumped his shotgun briskly. “You were too close. Charlene would have taken you both.”
“That so, mon? Like it took Chives?”
I glanced at Laza
