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No one answered.
He knocked again, harder.
After a few minutes, they heard the sound of shuffling footsteps. Then the door cracked opened.
A short, sleepy Hispanic male with a bad mustache stood there. He wore only boxer shorts and had a bandage around his left thigh.
“Your order,” Esteban said, holding out the bag of Chinese takeout. “It is prepaid.”
“We didn’t-” Jes?s Jim?nez started to say. Then through his sleepy haze he heard the “prepaid” part. The groggy teenager decided he was hungry.
Esteban had been told not to stand too close to the door.
Jim?nez had to reach out of the house in order to grab the bag.
And when he did, Jim Byrth grabbed his arm and spun him. He threw him to the floor and had the surprised kid handcuffed in no time. He stuck the muzzle of his.45 into the kid’s mouth. The kid’s suddenly widened eyes suggested that he’d instantly understood the message.
As Payne moved closer to enter the door, he looked down at the Hispanic male.
That’s the shooter from the hospital!
The sonofabitch who killed Skipper!
And who I shot!
I should just- Bryrth then quickly jerked Jim?nez down to the van, practically carrying the small teenager. He unlocked one of the handcuffs and clipped it to the sliding door handle.
As Byrth returned, Payne wordlessly signaled Paco Esteban to go to the van. Esteban shook his head, then very reluctantly did as ordered. When Jes?s Jim?nez started to shout a warning, Esteban surprised both Payne and Byrth by punching the teenager in the face, knocking him out cold.
Well, that just earned him monetary payments and certain other tokens…
Payne and Byrth looked each other in the eye. Byrth nodded for Payne to take the lead.
Even with the front door open, it was dark inside because of the front windows being covered.
They walked in a crouch, staying close to the walls. There was almost no furniture.
Payne heard voices coming from the back of the house.
They entered a room that appeared to be the dining room, and which held only a couple of wooden armchairs. On the far wall was a swinging door, with light from the far room leaking around its edges.
Payne moved fluidly toward it, Byrth on his heels. As they approached the swinging door, the voices became louder and more clear.
Payne could distinguish at least two-both males, both with Hispanic accents.
They listened for another minute. There was no additional voice.
Then one of them yelled, “Jes?s! You okay? Who was at the door?”
Matt looked at Jim. They were both half-lit by the dim light bleeding around the door. Jim signaled for them each to take a side of the door.
Matt moved to the left, Jim to the right.
Matt could see the rusty gold-colored hinge by his head. He tried to peer into the kitchen, but the gap between the door and its frame wasn’t large enough and there was a piece of painted wooden trim on the far side.
Then they heard the first voice again. He barked: “Go look!”
And a second later, the door swung into the dining room, as Omar Quintanilla sauntered through, absently holding a pistol along his right leg.
