He spotted two more agents on the ground. Maybe they were dead too, Elvis wasn’t one hundred percent sure. A woman, her mouth filled with blood and missing a few teeth, stared at Elvis from behind a desk. She had a broken lamp in her hands. The hippie Elvis had been following was slumped in a corner. He couldn’t see Maite, but there was an unexpected spectacle: the fucking Russian who had given him a beating was fighting with Anaya, both of them struggling over a gun. Anaya seemed to be winning, though Elvis wasn’t sure if he was playing fair—the Russian had been wounded. He was trailing blood down his leg, and by the gash on his trousers it was a knife injury, which could be very bad news.
He took a deep breath, trying to decide if he should intervene. This was like watching Godzilla versus King Kong, and he didn’t know if he should be cheering for the lizard or the monkey. Probably neither, but he also didn’t feel it was right to shoot both of them while they were distracted.
Anaya gave the Russian a fierce blow to the head and grabbed the gun; then the fucker turned his head, saw Elvis, and pointed the damn weapon at him. Elvis couldn’t even duck. Jesus Christ, not again! He was going to get shot a second time in the span of three minutes.
The bullet hit the shelf next to Elvis, steered off its course by the Russian, who had smacked Anaya in the arm, making the agent miss his mark. The gun went flying through the air, and the Russian clutched his leg, grimacing.
That did it. Elvis shot Anaya in the leg. Not because the asshole had tried to kill him, but because it definitely wasn’t fair to have one man bleeding out all over the floor. Let the two assholes face each other in equal conditions.
Anaya yelped and stared at Elvis in surprise. The Russian took advantage of the chaos and confusion to jump on top of Anaya and slam him down against a desk. Papers and pencils and splinters went flying through the air as Anaya’s body hit the cheap piece of furniture and he was toppled backward.
The Russian didn’t waste time. He jumped on top of Anaya, punching him in the face two, three times. Anaya responded by roaring and punching back. Both men rolled across the floor, smashing into chairs and boxes.
The Russian reached for a telephone and yanked its cord, wrapping it around the agent’s neck from behind. Anaya’s eyes opened wide, and he tried to elbow the Russian in the ribs, to no avail. The Russian held the cord tight against the man’s throat until he stopped moving. The Russian winced as he released his hold on the cord and let Anaya’s body flop against the floor. He was breathing hard as he looked up at Elvis and pressed a hand against his leg again.
“Thanks. I thought you were DFS,” the Russian said.
“We both know that was bullshit.”
“I don’t like Hawks any more than I like DFS agents.”
“And I don’t like Russians, but you just saved me from a bullet to the head.”
“I guess that makes us even.”
Elvis had assumed if he ever saw this son of a bitch again he’d beat him with a hammer, or the Russian would kick his teeth in. He didn’t think they’d take it easy with each other, but the Russian had his share of cuts and bruises, and Elvis thought that, yeah, it was as even as it would get.
“Where’s the film?” Elvis asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Elvis walked toward the hippie slumped in the corner. The woman with broken teeth had retreated to the opposite side of the room, but she yelled at him. “Leave him alone!”
Elvis knelt next to the man and pressed a hand against his neck. His eyes were closed but he had a pulse. And two bullet holes in his body. Elvis slipped his hands into the man’s jacket pockets. Nothing. He stood up. “You better phone him an ambulance,” he told the woman.
She stared at him, then stretched a shaky hand toward a telephone and began dialing.
Elvis walked to the door.
“Hey! Where are you going?” the Russian asked.
“I’m guessing if the film’s not here, then it’s with his lady friend,” Elvis said, pointing at the hippie with the two bullet holes.
“Pretty big guess.”
“I’ve got to find her.”
“And get your film.”
Maybe he wanted to find her, period. Elvis’s shoes were stained with blood, and his hands were shaky. He was tired and spent. Just damn fucking spent. Every last bit of him gone. He couldn’t do this shit.
“You know where to start looking?” the Russian asked.
“I’ve got a hunch.”
“Wait a minute, I’ll go with you,” the Russian said, limping toward Elvis.
“Why the fuck would I let you go with me?”
