"There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter."
—Ernest Hemingway
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The low murmur of two voices pulled me out of sleep. I'd dozed off right there in that dusty chair, waiting for the Santoros to come back from wherever they'd disappeared to. Instinctively, I reached for my phone to check the time—only to realize it was gone, just like my cash. Great. Phone gone, cash gone.
I was this close to laughing at my own helplessness.
Through the grimy glass beside me, I caught a glimpse of my reflection—dark circles under my eyes, lips dry and cracked from thirst. I licked them, more out of habit than any hope of relief, then shifted my attention back to the voices. They we
