For a second, there was nothing but silence on the other end of the radio. Then a voice called out, tersely: "Identify yourself."
Zubair dropped the mic on the desk. The heat had softened the plastic enough that it kissed the wood and left a wet mark.
Anselmo watched him do it, then looked past Zubair through the door slit toward Sera. "You don't need bridges," he told her as if Zubair wasn't there. "Men will carry you. Men will die for you. Why would you stay with these four?"
Sera's laughter reached them on the river wind, short and bright.
Zubair's temper uncoiled another inch.
He put his palm on Anselmo's holster and pushed heat down through leather into metal until the pistol body squealed and slumped.
The belt buckle's shine dulled. Anselmo's breath came a little sharper then, not from pain, from understanding.
"You're going to burn it," Anselmo said. "The bridge. The road. The map."
