A gentle hand tugged at Hall's shoulder. "Enough, Mateo. The cabrón is dead."
Emilio Vicente had climbed into the room from the balcony. He had a pistol in his hand. "The woman," he said. "She has fainted."
Jerry was lying in a heap on the floor near her chair. "Christ, she was hit!" Hall rushed to her side, examined her for bullet wounds.
"No, Mateo. His bullet sailed over my head. My bullets both hit him. I aimed for the heart. See, you are covered with his blood, no?"
"Water." Hall was sitting on the floor, Jerry's head in his lap, a hand clasped firmly over her mouth. He dipped a handkerchief into the glass Vicente gave him, ran it over her face. "Jerry," he whispered, "promise me you won't yell if I take my hand away? Everything is all right. His shot missed us both, and now he's under control."
She nodded. "I'm sorry I passed out," she said.
"You're O.K. now."
Vicente, standing over them, grinned at the girl. "Sí, you magnífica," he said. "You make boom noise of comb. She"—he pointed to Androtten, who lay under a blanket Vicente had found while Hall was reviving Jerry—"she have much scare of boom, she shoot much badly. Me, Emilio, shoot much good. She no good no more."
"Is he dead? Muerto?"
"Much dead." Vicente showed them his pistol. He pointed to his own silencer. "I heard the son of a whore mother," he said to Hall, a sardonic smile on his grim face. "When he gets to hell he will learn that there were other silencers in this jungle."