The job was simple: recover a satchel of stolen money lost in a sloppy drug scuffle. He knew only three things about the target he was hunting: her name, her home address, and that she was clever enough to vanish with the two million dollars without a trace.

Her trailer looked like she'd left in a hurry, clothes thrown all about. By the door, phone bills caught his eye; he tucked them into his shirt pocket. He sifted further through the mess, finding her Texas Handgun License among a pile of papers. The license photo showed a woman more gentle-looking than his usual marks, but he knew better than to be deceived by softness.

Chigurh made his way to the trailer park office nearby. His question was simple. "Where does she work?" The woman shook her head, said she couldn't give out that kind of information. Like a man trying to pass an unseen persuasion check with zero charisma, he repeated the question in the same flat tone. Her voice sharpened, but her answer held. He begrudgingly left without a word.

From the phone bills he pocketed, two places stood out—Odessa, Del Rio. He hit up a nearby pay-phone and dialed the Del Rio number first. Silence. Then, Odessa. "I'm looking for her," he started, his voice flat. "I tried to reach her in Sanderson but I don't believe she's there anymore." There was silence before the agent said: I don't know where she's at. Who is this? Chigurh hung up without a word. Del Rio it was, then.

The receiver connected to a transponder hidden in the satchel of money worked like a Geiger counter, beeping faster as he drew closer to the signal. It led him to a nondescript motel on the outskirts of Del Rio.

The motel room was unexpectedly occupied by some cartel boys waiting to ambush her. Chigurh dealt with them efficiently. The room was left as a bloodbath, but no cash in sight. He noticed drag marks in the dust inside the air duct—she had stashed the money in there alright, but took it before the cartel could.

Undeterred, Chigurh continued his pursuit to Eagle Pass. The hotel lobby was quiet, save for the beeps of his receiver growing quicker. There at the reception stood his target, keys to her room in hand and some luggage by her side. Chigurh approached, his silenced shotgun wrapped loosely in newspaper. To any onlooker, it might've looked like some odd, long package—maybe a rolled poster or something fragile.

"Hello," he said flatly with an imperceptible smirk. The receiver in his pocket beeped rapidly in her presence. It was a moment of silent communication—he could see the gears turning in her mind as she registered who he must be; the man who'd been hunting her. "Let's go to your room. We have a lot to discuss."