And I looked, and behold, a pale horse! And its rider's name was Death, and

Hades followed him. And they were given authority . . . to kill with sword

and with famine and with pestilence and by wild beasts of the earth. Rev. 6:8

They were alive moments ago.

"I told you to use the GPS. Why'd you buy a Lexus if you aren't going to use the gadgets?" The old woman chides her even older husband.

"The map program takes too long. Besides, the boy's graduation isn't until tomorrow."

"I know, but we're not even in Phoenix. We should have been there an hour ago. Admit it. We're lost."

"Okay. I'll pull over and set the GPS. Will that make you happy?" The man was tired from the long drive. Even breaking the drive into two days from Oakland to the Arizona city was more than he should have undertaken at seventy. His wife had suggested they spend a few days in Los Angeles, maybe even visit Disneyland, but the old man had insisted. She had been right. I should have skipped poker with the boys this time.

"Now we're lost, exhausted, and you finally agree with me. That doesn't help much." She was younger by a decade and had offered to help with the driving. The old man was always stubborn and refused to give up the wheel. "This neighborhood looks pretty sketchy. I don't think we should stop here?"

"We'll be fine. Besides, there's no one around."

A minute later, absorbed in entering the address in the GPS, it's difficult for the old man with his arthritic hands and new trifocals. Hearing a banging on his side window, and without thinking, he hits the down switch.

"Hey, old brother, whatcha doing?" Standing next to the car door is a skinny kid, fifteen or sixteen. It's hard to see his face. He's wearing a dark hoodie with the front cinched down. His hands are jammed deep into the pockets.

 "I'm checking my map. We'll be going."

"I don't think so," the kid says as his right hand appears. He's holding a small pistol, barely visible in his large hand.

"He's got a gun," screams the woman.

"That's right, Bro. You and the sister get out and walk away."

The man may be in his seventies, but he's not about to let a teenage punk rob him. Reaching to put the car in gear, he says, "No."

The old man doesn't hear the shot or feel the twenty-five-caliber bullet that passes through his skull and into his brain. The small lead slug comes to rest against the right side of his skull, ending his life. His wife screams as another teenager opens the passenger door and drags her out of the car. Drawing her head back exposes her neck. She sees the Ka-Bar. The blade, dull and heavy, is meant for work, not slicing throats. As the boy saws her neck open, cutting the carotid arteries, blood gurgles until she is dead.

"Don't get blood on the seat,"

"That's why I pulled her out. What about the old dude?"

"He didn't bleed much."

* * *

Now that they have killed the old couple, they aren't sure whether to run or take the Lexus. Their problem worsens when three men emerge from Ernesto's Pool Hall.

"What're you doing?" demands Jerome. "Geronimo" Dixon. The easily recognized president of the 4-Aces. Even at fifty, he is an imposing figure towering over the men behind him. The man stands six feet five and carries three-hundred pounds—no fat—packed on a muscular frame.

The frightened shooter's answer is a whisper, almost apologetic. "We jacked them for the Lexus. The old man gave us shit. We had to off him and the old lady."

"Who the hell gave you permission to jack a car in 4-Aces territory?"

"No one, we didn't. . ."

"Shut up and gimme the piece. What else you got?"

The boy hands over the small pistol and the other gives up the K-Bar, "All we got."

Geronimo turns to one of the men standing behind him. "Get DeShawn."

Within minutes, DeShawn "The Knife" Galloway is at his side—Geronimo motions for the young killers to stand behind the Lexus. Out of earshot, he hands their weapons to Galloway. "This's going to bring a load of shit our way. Make the idiots disappear."

"Forever?"

"Forever." The tone of Geronimo's voice leaves no doubt.

"The old couple?"

"I ought to. If they weren't innocent civilians, I would." Geronimo lets out a sigh. "Leave them.

"Don't nobody touch da bodies, nothing. No DNA to tie the Aces to this shit."

Galloway calls the other men over and tells the first, "You drive. We gotta clean this up." To the second, "Put the fools in my Escalade. You ride with me."

Showing false bravado, the shooter speaks up. "Why?" Stepping close to Galloway, he looks down at the much older and shorter man and repeats, "Why?" adding, "I ain't no fool, old man."

Galloway raises his head and gazes into the face of the shooter. His expression is as lifeless as his eyes. The shooter does his best to maintain a defiant pose and succeeds for perhaps three seconds. His body begins to shake. The shivers betray the boy's fear; without another word, he walks to the Escalade and death.