The hollow-point struck Sapo L between those bulbous eyes. The bullet, blessed by Buitre’s old Yaqui prayers, did not exit. It tumbled, it expanded, it carved La China’s name into the soft meat of his brain. Sapo L’s body jerked once, then slipped beneath the milky water. The thermal spring bubbled, turned pink, then slowly cleared.
—¡El papel! —grité, acercándome.