the police, then see what I can salvage from the boat. You can take my truck. The clinic is a yellow building at the far end of town.”
Pitt and Giordino found the engineer’s pickup truck parked behind the building. Pitt took the wheel and drove the single-lane dirt road toward town. The road wound around a forested hill, then into Suchitoto. It was a small, quaint colonial village with cobblestone streets and a tall whitewashed church at its center, La Iglesia Santa Lucía.
As they entered the town, they passed a well-dressed man wearing a hat and sunglasses walking along the road. Pitt drove past him, took a careful look, then stomped on the brakes. As the truck shuddered to a stop, the man produced a handgun and pumped two quick shots into the cab, then fled down an alley.
Fired at an angle, the bullets had ripped through Pitt’s door, passed beneath his arm on the windowsill, and struck the dashboard. Pitt jammed the truck into reverse and floored it, backing up just enough to turn and pull into the alley.
“How did you know?” Giordino asked as the truck raced after the fleeing figure.
“His shoes. They were covered in fresh mud. He didn’t exactly look like he was dressed to go clamming.”
They gained on the man until he turned the corner into a narrow side street. Pitt threw the truck into a slide to follow, but then stood on the brakes and jerked the wheel to one side.
Filling the cobblestone lane, a half-dozen small boys were engaged in a game of soccer. The speeding truck ground into the stucco side of a corner building, stopping just short of the nearest boy. A few yards ahead, the gunman had already threaded his way past the boys. He glanced toward the damaged truck and ducked into a long brick building.
Giordino flung open his door and jumped to the ground. “Glad to see the team didn’t lose a man. I’ll see if I can cover the back door.” Then he was gone, sprinting around the rear of the building.
With the driver’s door wedged against the wall, Pitt slid across the bench seat and climbed out. The foolishness of chasing an armed man through town flashed through his mind. Maybe the assailant didn’t know he was unarmed. Pitt glanced into the back of the truck, scooped up a hammer lying in the bed, and turned up the street.
The boys playing soccer stared at the tall stranger as he approached the building and paused beneath a hanging sign marked FÁBRICA DE VIDRIO. Pitt stepped to the entrance, eased aside the door handle, and then burst inside.
6
Pitt had lunged into a showroom lined with high wooden shelves, each overflowing with glass objects: vases, dishware, drinking glasses. The Fábrica de Vidrio was a factory that produced colorful tableware for local use and souvenirs for the tourist trade.
The showroom was empty, save for a young girl cowering behind a counter, staring at Pitt through frightened brown eyes.
“¿El hombre?” Pitt asked.
She pointed at an opening that led to the factory area. Pitt slipped around the corner and was instantly met by a gust of hot air. The back of the building was a high-roofed production bay, constructed around a mixing furnace, an open-air reheating pit, and a drying kiln. More shelves of glassware filled the sides, with stores of sand, soda ash, and limestone.
Two workmen sat on stools beside the open-air firepit, shaping balls of molten glass on the ends of blowpipes into small vases. They stood and shouted as the fleeing gunman sprinted past, kicking over a rack of animal figurines. The assailant ignored the workers and weaved his way to a heavy metal door at the rear.
Pitt entered the bay as the man reached the back door and twisted the handle. He got no farther. Giordino had just made it to the other side and rammed the door into him as it opened. The unexpected blow flung the gunman backward onto the concrete floor. Recovering quickly, he thrust the gun forward and fired two shots at Giordino while climbing to his feet. Both shots went high, but forced Giordino to duck behind the door. Pitt intervened before the man could fire again.
From across the bay, he wound up the claw hammer he’d taken from the truck and flung it. The tool spun through the air and struck the gunman’s back shoulder. Dropping to one knee, the man gasped in pain, but only for a moment. Then he was