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I push off the ground and rush down the valley toward the overturned vehicle. Gauge sprints to catch up.
When we reach the car, I get on my hands and knees, observing the passenger. He’s blood-soaked and dead, much like the driver. I reach in and yank the man free of the car, ripping his shirt open in search of any tell-tale signs it’s Esteban.
No tattoo of my mother’s name across his clavicle. No previous gunshot wound above his heart from where I nearly succeeded in killing him two years ago.
In other words, not Esteban.
This guy is an Esteban imposture. A decoy.
And the second car we knew nothing about had my real target.
I throw my head back, roaring. This isn’t the first time a double has taken my bullet, and I hate having failed again.
Gauge lays a heavy hand on my shoulder and yanks me to my feet. “We need to get the fuck out of here.” He helps to push me forward, back toward the summit to collect our things, and start our pursuit all over again.
