In movies, gunshots echoed like cannons. In reality, most just sounded like pops. A quick noise that, in a land of car alarms and back-firing trucks, made people crank up the volume on their televisions so they could hear what color scheme they were talking about on HGTV.

I tumbled out of the trunk of the Deuce. Suffered awhile. Expected more lightning to race through my body and deep fry my soul. I was frantic, yanked the prongs out of my flesh. Struggled and did the same with the dark covering over my head, pulled it hard. Hands were swollen, hurt so bad I could barely get loose. I held on to the bumper, made it to my feet. Leg cramped and that stab of pain hit me hard, sent me backward, threw me into the sand.

They were watching me cling to life. I knew they were.

This was their entertainment for the night.

Pain grew.

Had to sit there spitting sand out of my mouth, with sand all over my face, sand caked on my sweaty skin. Wait for them to have their fun.

They didn’t say anything. But I knew they were there, circling me.

Darkness became lighter, but only by a few degrees. I tried to shake the sting out of my eyes, but too much sweating had left me almost blind.

I mumbled, “Yessir.”

The moonlight showed me that the .380 was next to me, sinking in the sand.

I grabbed that smoking gun, juggled it until I got my swollen finger back on the trigger, and growled out my warning, pointed the gun wherever I heard noise.

Ocean.

Seagulls cried.

Heard a noise.

I jumped, pulled the trigger.

The .380 was empty.

A car or two hummed in the distance.

No homes were in this area, none that I could see. So I wasn’t in Venice or Santa Monica. No homes etched in the side of the hills, so I wasn’t up by Malibu. They’d taken me down to an industrial strip, a remote spot where no one would be around in the thick of the night. Where no one could hear me scream. My mind told me I had to be somewhere between Marina Del Rey and Long Beach. Then my mind told me I was wrong. Could’ve been down in Orange County, somewhere on that strip of PCH that went into Dana Point.

I blinked over and over until I managed a little vision. The world was like a television with bad reception. It gave me a blurry vision of the lion, dressed in jeans and a black jacket, his hands in gloves, that big, square head under a black skullcap.

He was on the ground, on his side, sand dusting his body. He stared at me with one eye. His right eye. A bullet hole was where his left eye used to be. The stun gun was next to that cave in his head, a cavern created by a hollow point. The prongs were extended. He was the one who had shot me. Maybe we shot each other at the same time.

Looked like his fingers were moving, like he was typing a farewell e-mail to his children.

Then he stopped typing. Guess he had hit the send button.

My legs had been tied with Lisa’s Egyptian shawl, the knot was pretty good. I got free, stumbled away from him. Bile rose in my throat. My reaction to all the abuse my body had taken rose up and came out of me in a harsh lurch. Freezing water rushed up to my shoes. We were on the edges of America. The bitter water spread, chilled my entire body. I gave that bile to the Pacific. Cold sweat came out of every pore. Another ocean wave came in, hit me, and I went down to my knees. Another wave rushed up my back, and splashed up on my face.

I crawled away from the water, then got back to my feet.

The night air covered me, felt like a strong breeze was coming in from the Himalayas.

She was out there. Lisa had a Glock and she was out there.

Anxiety never ceased.

I limped toward the car. Expected to hear the engine roar to life, and watch the car pull away.

It didn’t.

Lisa’s purse was in the sand, resting on the other side of the lion.

I kept limping, kept looking, kept listening, kept waiting.

Her Glock was there too.

Wanted to pick it up, tried to bend, but it hurt too much.

I kept limping.

Down the way, I saw a white flag flying in the sand.

I kept limping that way.

Followed small footsteps that had left their impression in the sand.

The space between the footsteps became less and less.

Less and less.

Inside some of those last impressions was blood.

That white flag was Lisa’s beautiful dress. She had run, looked like she was headed away, trying to outrun her own pain, looked like she didn’t know where she was going. Just running. A hole was in her abdomen. Death had caught her before she could get away.