Book of Secrets by Chris Roberson

calling Pierce a devil, and that he should be stopped.
      "You don't worry none about that," La Mano answered. "We'll get Pierce taken care of." 
      Reluctantly, the pair left the room, leaving only Pierce still frozen in the act of reaching for the pistol, La Mano standing over him, his twin Colts drawn. Without another word, La Mano holstered his Peacemakers. He then inclined his head to Pierce, and offered him a choice.
      "I don't much go in for cold blooded murder," La Mano explained, "so I ain't gonna kill ya. I'm gonna turn around right now and walk outta here. You can just sit there still, and once we're gone get this here mess cleaned up, and from now on never make any trouble for them Mexican farmers…" 
      Pierce snarled, his lip curled up.
      "Or," La Mano continued, "you can go for that gun. And I'll lay you even odds, fifty-fifty. Either you'll kill me, or you won't."
      Slowly, La Mano turned, and began to make his way towards the door.
      Pierce, a grin of triumph on his face, could not believe his good fortune. He lunged forward, snatching up the gun and bringing it to bear on La Mano's broad back. He began to squeeze the trigger, and fire the shot that would forever end the adventures of that hero of the high plains. 
      In the split-second after Pierce first flexed his finger, and before the hammer had fallen into place, Pierce was outmatched. Often the difference between a good shot and a great shot comes down to heartbeat, and this was certainly a prime example.
      As the hammer began its speedy descent, La Mano suddenly crouched, spinning, and drew one of the Peacemakers in one fluid motion, and fired off a single round, which caught Pierce in his shoulder. The shot blew a blood-red bloom into Pierce, and as he jerked spasmodically his shot went wild, missing La Mano's cheek by inches.
      La Mano stood gracefully, holstered his gun, and then turned and walked from the room. Pierce, still alive, lay in agonizing pain on the hardwood floors behind him, clutching his shoulder with his other hand. Pierce would live, but he, at least, of all his kind, would not be troubling innocents again.

The THIRD DAY

    I was up early the next day and, after saying my good-byes to Tan and Cachelle, was on my way. I had people I needed to see back in Texas, and with a seven hour drive ahead of me, wanted to get there while they were still up and around.
      The morning's drive was long and numbing, just straight highway over bayou and through wood, with nothing much to look at and even less to do. Like a Warhol film on wheels. I think I must have nodded off at one point, but dreamt of driving with my eyes open, so it didn't really make much difference. I stopped once in Baton Rouge for cigarettes and gas, and passing a pay phone decided to make a call. It was kind of nice not having a cell phone ringing all hours of the day and night, but it was hell making outgoing calls.
      The long distance operator found the number for me without too much trouble, and patched me through to the line. After only five or six rings, the line was answered, by a voice that sounded like its owner had far better things to do with his time.
      "KXEN-home-of-Houston's-number-one-newscast-three-years-in-a-row," the script came pouring over the line. "How-may-I-direct-your-call?"
      "Could you give me the news desk?" I asked.
      " Who may I ask is calling?" the voice asked, professional and the polar opposite of friendly.
      "My name is Davis Miles and I'm an attorney representing Mr. J. Nathan Pierce," I spun. "I would like to speak with whomever was in charge of the segment about my client's business interests that aired yesterday morning."
      "One moment, sir," the voice answered, sounding a bit more alert.
      I heard the line click, and enjoyed a muzak version of "Friends in Low Places" for the next fifteen seconds.
      "News desk," came another, more chipper voice. "This is Andy."
      "Yes, this is