No one spoke.

Enoch's chest rose and fell with barely contained fury, but at last he sat as well, turning to stare straight out the windshield. In the driver's seat, Vickers's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. The bus's headlights showed nothing ahead but scrub brush and desert but Vickers kept driving, with Enoch quietly urging him onward.

The bus shook mercilessly, and once Savannah struck her head on the window. Zeke saw her wince and his chest ached with cruel hope. If she had felt that-if it bothered her-then surely she must have been getting better. Such thoughts were the only things that kept him from screaming.

Vickers had driven through a rough no-man's-land for nearly half an hour when, at last, Enoch commanded him to bring the bus to a creaking stop.When he killed the engine and turned off the headlights, their eyes quickly adjusted to the moonlight. Zeke blinked and rubbed at the bridge of his nose and when he looked up, Enoch had stood again.

"The compound is three miles due south, on foot. If we get any closer, they'll see the headlights," he said. "So we walk from here."

Again, this was nothing they hadn't been warned about, but even if any of the proxies wanted to complain, none of them would have dared. Not now. One by one, they took out their pipes and began to play, breaking off only to issue instructions to their broken loved ones, who staggered to their feet and shuffled off the bus, trapped halfway between the living world and the land of the dead. Vickers had gotten Martha off first and Enoch had put the gun crates on their seat, so that the proxies could each take a weapon as they climbed out into the cool night.

Zeke took one of the Mata Policias and stuck it into his waistband. He took a second gun, intending to keep the first for himself, and then blew a few extra notes on the pipe, just to make sure that he had Savannah's attention and that she wouldn't fall on the steps. For a moment, his mind went back to the hour of their departure, when he'd seen Skyler standing by the roadside with her hopeful, handmade sign. come back, she'd written. But out there in the Mexican desert, home had never felt so far away. The future he hoped for, days of peace and laughter for himself and Savannah, seemed little more than a dream.

Out in the middle of nowhere, the day's heat quickly vanished. Zeke saw many people shivering with the chill and it took him a moment to realize Martha Vickers was one of them. He exhaled a quiet thank-you to whatever powers might have been watching over them-if she could feel cold, maybe she really was creeping nearer to being fully alive again.

Savannah's hand brushed his. Zeke turned toward her, heart pounding. She had been standing next to him, but had she touched him on purpose? He stared at her for several seconds as more people climbed off of the bus, guns stuck in pockets or carried in hand, aimed at the ground. It struck him that he had left her sweatshirt on the bus and he started back toward it, frustrated that he had to wait for the rest to get off and not wanting to leave Savannah alone for too long. Again, he thought of Skyler and her sign. come back. Zeke stood at the bus door as Arturo Sanchez climbed off. The man stroked his graying mustache and played several notes on his blood-smeared pipe, and then Zeke found himself face-to-face with the resurrected corpse of Arturo's mother. Her glazed eyes blinked and then narrowed, focusing on him, and Zeke found himself smiling at the dead woman. She'd seen him.Was aware of him.Another hopeful sign.

He had turned to say that to Arturo when the night erupted with the roar of multiple engines. Bright lights bathed the pitiful school bus from all sides.

"Mother of G.o.d," Arturo whispered, turning and trying to push his mother back onto the bus.

Zeke tightened his grip on his second gun-the one intended for Savannah. He spun and ran toward her, instinct kicking in, knowing the thunder of those engines could only mean danger, and he would not allow her to die a second time. People were screaming around him, some picking up the barely alive and struggling to carry or drag them back toward the bus while others drew guns and aimed at the oncoming headlights.

"What the h.e.l.l is this?!" Lester shouted at Vickers.

But Vickers's eyes had gone wide like an animal's and he drew Martha to him and began to cry, surrender etched deeply into his face.

Zeke reached Savannah. He stared into her eyes for a second. He knew she was in there, fanning the spark of life back into a flame, if only he could give her the time. He kissed her forehead, put one arm around her, and waited, gun ready.

"Enoch!" Lester shouted, rushing at the little man, whose eyes were once again alight with a golden glow. "What's going on?!"

"Are you blind, Mr. Keegan?" Enoch said, his words dripping with venom. "It's an ambush."

"No," Lester said, shaking his head as he backed away, running to his son but twisting around as the five raised pickup trucks charged toward them. "This ain't happening!"

"Lester!" Zeke shouted. "Get your s.h.i.t together!"

He saw Lester freeze, nod, and then raise his pistol.

"All of you!" Lester shouted. "Guns up. Shoot the first son of a b.i.t.c.h who-"

A bullet blew out his left temple, spraying brain and bone shards onto his dead son.The gunshot echoed across the desert as Zeke screamed his friend's name and turned to see that Aaron Monteforte had fired the shot, using the gun that had been tucked into his waistband. Sweating, eyes frantic,Aaron took aim at Zeke.

"Guns down, Mr. Prater," Aaron said. "I don't want to have to kill you."

"Aaron," Zeke said. "What-"

One by one, the pickups skidded to a halt, caging them all in a lattice of headlight beams.The men who jumped out of the backs of the trucks and climbed from the cabs carried a.s.sault rifles instead of pistols.

Zeke had watched his daughter die once, and he'd die himself before he would witness her murder again.

He raised his gun and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Around him, others had done the same. Arturo Sanchez ejected the magazine, trying to figure out what the h.e.l.l went wrong, but it was too late. If there had been a moment when Zeke could have punished Aaron Monteforte for his betrayal, it had already pa.s.sed.

The cartel gunmen surrounded them, gun barrels taking aim, promising death.

Zeke moved himself in front of Savannah. He could feel her reedy breath against the back of his neck and prepared to die for her.

8 Don't be a hero, Zeke told himself, thinking only of Savannah. But as they were all herded together at gunpoint, their weapons torn violently from their hands, he realized that there would be no heroes that night.

The cartel gunmen stared at the resurrected dead amongst them and he caught several of the hardened killers crossing themselves and muttering quiet prayers. A few others laughed in amazement. One poked a finger through the bullet hole in Big Tim Hawkins's neck and Alma shoved him away, leading to amazed chatter among the gunmen.

"Hold up, amigo,"Aaron Monteforte said, trying to extricate himself from the other pipers, all muscle and scruff and just enough bravado to veil his terror.

Aaron held his gun with the barrel aimed at Linda Trevino, who hugged her undead son, Ben-Ben, whom Savannah had once had such a crush on-and shielded him with her body. Tears streamed down Linda's face, but she did not beg to be left alone. She was smart enough to know there was little chance of that at this point.

"Put it down, a.s.shole," one of the gunmen said to Aaron, the moonlight making the jagged scar on his left cheek look like mother-of-pearl.

"Whoa," Aaron said. "I'm with you guys." Zeke felt bile burning up the back of his throat and his fingers flexed, either wishing for another weapon or wanting to be wrapped around Aaron Monteforte's throat, or both.

The man with the gleaming scar raised his a.s.sault rifle, braced it against his shoulder, and took aim. "Gun on the ground, chingado. Now."

Aaron held up his left hand and gently lowered his weapon to the dirt. "Okay, all right. But take a breath, man. I'm with you, I said.All this s.h.i.t wouldn't be happening if it wasn't for me.Ask Carlos-"

A cl.u.s.ter of cartel thugs scattered, parting like the Red Sea as a tall man strode amongst them.

Unlike the rest, the newcomer carried no gun, only a hunting knife sheathed at his hip. His white cotton shirt and brown dress pants had clearly been tailored to fit his slim, powerful physique and seemed out of place amongst the denim and leather of the others.The shoes on his feet were of a soft leather than must have cost a fortune.With his thick mane of hair slicked back, curling at the ends, and his beard trimmed to a stylish severity, he looked as if he had just walked out of a business meeting and into a nightclub. "Ask Carlos what?" the man inquired.

Aaron exhaled. "Carlos . . . Mr. Aguilar . . . tell 'em, please. Tell 'em I helped you."

Aguilar nodded emphatically, spreading his arms wide as if in a spirit of generosity.

"Did he help me?" Aguilar said, turning a radiant smile on his prisoners, both living and not quite. "Absolutely, he helped me. You should all know that. Your friend, here . . . he's been working for me for more than a year."