As if right on cue, the cell in Rebel’s drink holder starts to ring, blaring out a loud, tinny rendition of A Boy Named Sue by Johnny Cash.

“What the fuck?” Doesn’t seem like a song choice Rebel would have gone for.

He mutters something about someone driving him crazy and picks up with a brisk, “Tell me.”

There’s talking on the other end of the line, almost audible though not quite, and then Rebel’s hanging up again. Just like that. “What’s the deal?” I ask.

“They’re at the Downtown Marriott. Julio’s planning on slitting my throat open and letting me bleed out.” He says it so casually that it almost sounds as though he’s talking about going out to grab a bite to eat, not heading toward a meeting he’s not supposed to make it through alive.

“So, you have a plan?”

“Sure. Andreas is gonna plunge a knife into that fat fucker’s heart before he can lift a finger. We’re gonna take Cade and then we’re gonna go and get something to eat. Chinese food. I think I could go for some Chinese food.”

Now he actually is talking about grabbing a bite to eat. He’s always been crazy but this is cavalier, even for him. I guess I wouldn’t know, though. Maybe this is who he is now, a man completely unfazed by the world.

Rebel sends a text message to Julio—where are you?—because we’re technically not supposed to have that information yet, and ding, ding, two seconds later we have confirmation Andreas has told us the truth. The Downtown Marriott is, indeed, the venue for this showdown.

Fifteen minutes later, Rebel’s parking the Humvee and we’re heading into the hotel—standard chain hotel. Obscure glass balled objects stacked in beaten copper bowls that are apparently pieces of art, generic, non-offensive contemporary paintings in neutral tones, plush carpets, and polished tiles. We draw attention to ourselves; of course we do. Five guys dressed in torn jeans and covered in tattoos, and a black guy in a pristine dove-gray suit? Yeah, there’s no way we’re not noticed. We head to the eighth floor, and then Rebel’s knocking on the room door, 8205, and this is all happening very quickly.

This is one of those situations you can never really prepare for, though. What would be the point in pausing to take a moment, talk the whole thing through, when the events of the next few minutes are completely out of our control? Someone is going to try and kill Rebel, and since I’m with him the likelihood is that they’re going to try and kill me, too. I have a gun; I have a knife. I am forewarned and forearmed. There’s nothing else for it.

The door opens and a pair of almost-black eyes are sizing us up. A tall Mexican guy, ripped, covered in ink—I’ve not seen this guy before but he’s clearly no stranger to this type of situation. “Only you, man,” he says, stabbing an index finger in Rebel’s direction. “Julio said ain’t no way you bringing anyone else.”

Rebel raises his eyebrows. He passes me a look, then glances at his boys. From his jeans pocket he pulls out a small black clip, opens it, and takes out a toothpick. The toothpick goes into his mouth. “I’m not leaving them out here, friend. So you can tell Julio that. You can also tell him that if I have to turn around and leave this building without my boy, I have some delightful repercussions for him to deal with.”

The guy with the gang tats blinks at Rebel, and then he closes the door.

“Well, that went well,” Rebel says. He flicks the toothpick over to the other side of his mouth and braces his hands against the doorframe, waiting. When the guy returns, his expression is even harder than before. “You’re choice, ese, that’s what Julio says. You friend ain’t looking so well. He might need to see a doctor. Better you get in here and take him now than wait much longer. You might be carrying him out of here in pieces, otherwise.”

This isn’t the kind of attitude that my cousin appreciates. Never has been. He nods, glancing at his feet—his boys behind him are fighting back knowing smiles. They see what’s coming before the guy at the door does. Rebel reacts quicker than lightning, throwing out a powerful right hook that smashes directly into the guy’s throat. He bends at the waist, staggering backward, hands fumbling over his chest as he tries to fight the urge to clasp at his throat and instead reach for the weapon tucked into his waistband. Rebel makes a tsking sound between his teeth and steps into the hotel room, landing a solid front kick into the guy’s stomach just to finish him off. I’m right behind Rebel, and so are the other guys.

We walk into chaos.

A chorus of yelling erupts, a mixture of Spanish and English, and suddenly there are twelve guns pointed at us. Each of those guns is in the hand of an angry gang member, and each of those gang members looks pissed. Julio Perez sits on a sofa amongst all of this with a displeased expression on his face. The fat bastard is wearing sunglasses indoors.

“What the fuck are you thinking?” he asks quietly. The moment he opens his mouth, his men fall silent so he can be heard. “This is very poor etiquette. While I’m here, this hotel room is my home and my men are my guests. You can’t just assault them without my permission.”

“I don’t really hold with the whole while under my roof bullshit,” Rebel replies, giving Julio a dazzling smile. “You invite me somewhere, Perez, you invite my guys, too. You asked me to come here for a pick-up, so I’m here for the pick-up. Where is he?”

It’s true that I don’t see Cade anywhere. I don’t see Medina anywhere, either. Julio sucks on his teeth, as though he has a sour taste in his mouth. “I thought we might have a conversation first, Rebel. There are some things I’d like to discuss.” He gestures to the couch directly opposite from his. “Perhaps you might ask one of your men to remain with you, and the others can wait outside?”