A brief preview:
Enrique is about to charge off—after a child—when his brother stops him with a hand. He mutters something in Spanish. Enrique rolls his eyes and swears under his breath.
Suddenly, his eyes turn to MacLeod.
He grips the front of MacLeod’s sweatshirt and pulls.
Enrique practically drags him to the back of the cabin. MacLeod’s eyes follow the smoking rifle, swinging about wildly. It almost tags him in the ribs.
Keep it away from me!
“You, MacLeod! Take a look at this. Eh?! Take a good look!”
He has pulled MacLeod to the house, up to the back screen doors.
A man’s body is lying face-down. Latin. White T-shirt and red shorts. Half the T-shirt is stained with red from two bullet-holes. His left arm is open at the back. What must have been his triceps muscle lies aside, still attached at one end. Like pork tenderloin from his sister’s kitchen. He’s wearing a gold necklace. Part of his head is gone. Flaps of scalp have black hair and pink material—sitting in a lagoon of blood.
The world swims. MacLeod has to lean on something. The smell hits. Raw lamb when Emma chopped it into cubes for stew. And something else, coming from his stained shorts.
MacLeod looks down and realizes he’s standing on a chunk of squishy pink material.
Vomit comes up, spills out. Enrique holds him in place.
“You see this?” He grabs MacLeod about the head, to force him to look. “We left a note—to warn people. Did they listen? No, they didn’t. Look what happens! This is what happens when you fuck with the wrong people!”