Francisco sat relaxed in his chair, legs crossed, touching his forehead as if pondering his next move. In front of him knelt a mid-aged man, hands and mouth bound, his eyes pleading and desperate. Max stood beside the man, his hands smeared with blood from the recent beating.

"He sneaked," Max muttered, loading his gun. "Francisco, he’s an informer, I guess."

Francisco's eyes narrowed, a cold glint flashing in them. Max raised his hand to slap the man again, but Francisco ...