I took two steps down the ridge, my boot heels kicking up dry gravel, when a twig snapped hard in the brush behind me.
My brain didn't pause. My body just reacted. I spun around on my heel in a microsecond, snapping the 12-gauge straight up to eye level, finger resting tight against the trigger, ready to blow a hole through whatever fool tried to creep up on my back.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold up, buddy! It's just me! Don't shoot, homie!"
A shadow stepped out from under the pine trees, hands thrown up high in the air. Big guy, covered in road dust, wearing a faded tactical vest over a dark hoodie. Beside his hip stood a absolute unit of a dog—a massive, ninety-pound black Cane Corso with a broad block head, deep chest, and eyes like glowing coals in the dark.
I blinked through the dust, lowering the shotgun an inch. "Paco?"
"Yeah, man! It’s Paco, dog!" He let out a long breath, wiping sweat off his forehead. "Fuck, brother, you almost gave me a heart attack with that 12-gauge."
Paco. I hadn't seen this motherfucker in ten whole years, sabes? Ten years ago back in the city, he owed me big time. I pulled his ass out of a heavy jam when some heavy hitters had him cornered in a alleyway—I took the heat, settled the score, and kept him breathing. But when the world went to hell and I retreated up into these mountains to be left alone, I never gave him the chance to pay me back.
He looked at the flaming wrecks down the road, then looked at me, strapped to the teeth with shotguns, handguns, and my fresh-forged Rambo bowie gleaming on my chest.
"Look, man," Paco said, stepping closer, his voice dead serious. "I was down in the lower valley when I heard those explosions going off up here. Sounded like a damn war zone, bro! And it just triggered in my head with the quickness—I knew it was you up here, and I knew right then this was my opportunity to get even with you. To settle our debt once and for all, homie."
He patted the broad, muscular back of the giant Cane Corso standing beside him.
"What can me and Beast do to help, man?" Paco asked, a dark, crazy grin spreading across his face. "Look at Beast, brother... you know he’s itching for some fuckin' work!"
Right on cue, Beast lowered his heavy snout, locked his dark eyes down the road toward the valley, and let out a deep, chest-rattling bark—WOOF!—that vibrated right through the soles of my boots.
I looked at Paco, then looked down at that mean-ass dog. I couldn't help it, man—a slow, wicked smile crept across my face.
"Órale..." I whispered, racking a slug into the chamber with a heavy CH-CHICK. "Settle the debt, huh? Alright, Paco. You and Beast just earned yourselves a front-row seat to the slaughter house. Grab your gear, homie... we got a gravel quarry to burn down."