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Chapter Fourteen

Crossbow prominently propped on his shoulder, Richard practically strutted across to his car. The sun was waning, but there was plenty of light. And heat. It prickled like fiery needles on the back of his neck. He could almost feel the blisters forming.

He endured it.

He took his time putting the crossbow into the back seat, apparently having a bit of trouble getting it through the door. Once done, he gave in to a luxuriant stretch, the mechanics of which allowed anyone watching to get a damn good look at him. He took his hat off and ran a hand through his brush of blond hair to clinch things.

Even if Alejandro's men were half asleep, they couldn't help but notice and identify him. Alejandro himself would be livid that his target had survived yet again.

Richard got in the rental, started it, and pulled out, heading for the near-direct exit to I-30. He'd put his windows down to keep the interior from heating up too much. They were still down as he drove sedately past a Cadillac parked close to the corner of a side street. He did not look over.

That was the hard part, the truly dangerous part. If they got impatient, or stupid, they could nail him here.

He held his breath, and he did not look.

Then he was past them. Safe for the moment. But would they take the bait?

When he turned onto the access road that led to the highway, he saw the brown Caddie distant in his rearview mirror.

He smiled and hit a newly programmed-in speed dial on his cell phone. "I got mine hooked," he said when Keyes answered. "What about you?"

"I'm still in the neighborhood, heading south. They're behind me, but not too close."

"Can you lose them?"

"In this area? No problemo." He rang off.

Richard's job was to buy Keyes time. Not a difficult thing at all when he reached the downtown overpass. Yet another traffic problem had turned the freeway into a single-lane parking lot. He didn't mind this delay, though; it served a good purpose. Besides, the sun was down.

Once through the one-lane road-rage test zone, he phoned Keyes again. "How's it going?"

"I lost them. Where are you?"

"Just passed an exit for a Beach Street. Does that make sense?" There were no beaches anywhere near this city so far as he knew.

"I'm a couple miles ahead of you coming up on the 820 intersection. I'm going to take that north. You stay on I-30 east until Loop 12; you're a tourist, they won't expect you to know the shortcuts. That'll buy me more than a half-hour extra in case of delays at my end."

"You sure your car will get you there in time?" He recalled that model of Escort as being underpowered and remarkably fraught with troubles.

"You know what that guy in Star Wars did to his space ship?"

"Yes . . ."

"Well, I had about the same thing done to this little crate. It's a lot better than it should be. I'll get there in time."

Richard took him at his word and thought it a pity that they didn't have some sort of laser-type blaster guns to use on this expedition. Ah, well, give the inventors time. The evolution of weaponry he'd witnessed over the centuries was quite extraordinary. Perhaps in five or ten years the actual technology would far surpass film imagination. Not available to him now, but how satisfying it would be to cut Alejandro in half the long way with a sword of white-hot burning light . . .

No. It wouldn't be all that satisfying.

That death was too bloody quick for him.

Richard made it easy on his shadow, holding to a steady speed, not passing anyone unless they were really slow. The Cadillac's lights were consistently in his mirrors, not too far back, but neither too close. He was grateful for that. It meant they'd decided not to shoot the hell out of his car while on the road. A drive-by at these speeds would probably be effective, but he'd survived two hit attempts; they would want to make sure the third time was the charm.

This was the long way to north Dallas and thence to Addison, so he felt safe edging up to seventy when traffic permitted. Keyes would still have his time window, and Richard would not appear to be in the least aware of the tail. While he couldn't assume the thugs to be stupid enough to utterly fall for the ruse, he only needed to keep them guessing about it.

He hoped the men also had cell phones—they probably did—allowing them contact with the second car. Ideally, they would link up at some point, their common goal being to turn Richard into tomorrow's headline.

Eventually he reached the point where the Loop intersected with LBJ and took the eastbound lane. They would know he was headed for New Karnak now. He had to slow once more along this corridor, but expected that, changing lanes a few times just to make the shadows work to keep up. He was positively grinning on his final exit. There were now two big Caddies trailing him.

New Karnak was very much in sight, its glass walls shimmering with reflections of the full moon. He sailed right past the great pyramid, heading north, wishing he could hear the commentary this was doubtless causing behind him. Was he aware of the tail, or just looking for dinner on restaurant row?

But he passed that area too, speeding up as traffic suddenly eased. The first Caddie allowed him to lengthen his lead. Good, they'd figured it out.

The traffic and street lights thinned then stopped; he was now in the undeveloped areas, the memory of his initial trip here coming sharply back to him, along with myriad regrets. He should have done a better job of hiding them. He should have told Stephanie to leave the moment her emergency e-mail had come through. He should have cut all contact with her, leaving no trace for Alejandro to pick up.

He should have killed the bastard to start with.

Richard had considered it, but it would have stirred things up too much back then. He'd not been prominent at all during the legal wranglings, but he had been present. If Alejandro had suddenly died, his underlings would have known where to place the blame and create murderous complications for all. At the time it seemed simpler to just hurry Stephanie and the family out of the line of fire. That had worked. For a while.

He hoped that the missing Luis had phoned Bourland by now and gotten some good news for a change. I should call him as well. But not just yet.

He sailed by the spot where he'd encountered the delicious Officer Henebry, and marveled that he'd driven so far in such a benumbed state. His dreams had been wretchedly vivid; it was amazing that he and Michael had made it home in one piece.

Phone. He answered.

"I found the place," said Keyes. "If I got the directions right."

"You took the fourth turn after the stop sign?"

"Yeah, and this road looks like Verdun on a bad morning—oh, there . . . okay. Yeah, I'm at the right place; the cops strung some crime scene tape right across the drive. It's not visible from the main road."

"Just as well, keeps the curious from looking in."

"You just better damn-well hope the Federales didn't leave a watchdog hanging around."

"Not likely, but if so, I'll deal with it."

"I'm pulling off now to hide the car. How far out are you?"

"About ten minutes."

"Cutting it fine, but I'll manage."

"I appreciate this, Mr. Keyes."

"Hey, I'm in this for my own self-preservation."

Rather too enthusiastically, Richard thought, disconnecting. For a man who never dirtied his own backyard, he showed remarkably little demur against going on a deadly snipe hunt for Alejandro.

Keyes had the equipment for it. As they waited for the sun to set, he'd pulled an amazing collection of combat gear from his hall closet. He had cammo fatigues in green, gray, and solid black, boots, matte black body armor, hand-to-hand weapons . . . Richard hadn't seen such stuff since he'd taken a tour of an SAS training facility.

"If you're worried about the DEA, why do you have all this?" he'd asked.

Keyes smirked as he shook out the black fatigues and started changing. "All of it is completely legal. I got it from military surplus stores and catalogues."

"But why have it if you don't operate in the States?"

"To keep in practice. This is my paintball gear."

"Paintball?" Richard noticed that the green cammos, though clean, had the remains of pink paint stains here and there.

"Yeah, great game. I always win."

No doubt. 

Richard counted off the turnings, taking the fourth. He knew the area, but was starting to nerve up and wanted no mistakes at this point. He put his high beams on, less for his benefit than for Keyes and the ones following.

There were signs of traffic activity left along the drive. Tree branches had broken off where tall trucks had bulled through. Pale dust thrown up by dozens of official vehicles now coated the foliage and dead grass. He came up on the police line ribbon. It was snapped, the two ends lying listless over the baked ground where Keyes had earlier passed. Richard's car would get the blame for that.

He hoped.

His departure from the tract house, closely followed by Keyes . . . they would wonder. They would wonder if some devil's deal had been struck between two men who should have been dead. They would wonder where Keyes had gotten himself to, and now they might consider the possibility of a trap.

For Richard to come out here at such an hour would strike Alejandro as odd, but he'd also see it as an opportunity. Richard's hope was that Alejandro would weigh the odds of facing at most two isolated men armed with only handguns, against ten. If Keyes was right about the MP-5s, Alejandro might feel very confident indeed, even if one of his foes was known to be an expert assassin.

But would he risk going in himself?

Phone again. "Yes?"

"I saw you go by, but they're hanging back," said Keyes, who was now on watch at the entry road.

"How far?"

"They're stalled at the turnoff. Corporate meeting. Looks like the memo is under discussion. I can't see past the window glare or I could try popping Trujillo. I don't know which car he's in. Damn, if I just had a launcher and two grenades I could take them all out."

"Give them a minute. Don't let them spot you."

"Huh. Fat chance of that. Damn city boys don't have a clue." His confidence was reassuring.

Richard kept on, topping the slight rise, dipping down again, the horrific wreckage now in view, stark in the moonlight. Absurdly, it looked smaller than he remembered. When he'd been struggling in the midst of the disaster, it had loomed impossibly large to him. Where had the horses gotten to? Probably rounded up and taken away by some livestock control service. He'd have to check on that. He couldn't allow Stephanie's beloved animals to be sold off or destroyed.

"Mission control, I think we have a go," Keyes announced, suddenly cheerful.

"They're coming in?"

"Looks it . . . yes, both of them. I'm on my way. Time to open a can of whump-ass and have ourselves a party."

Parking prominently in front of the ruins of the house, Richard quickly stripped off his blue uniform shirt. Beneath, he wore a lightweight black knit pullover, long sleeved, loose for Keyes, who had loaned it, almost too tight on Richard. His gray pants were gaudy in comparison, but would have to serve. He planned to keep his head down. Most of the time.

He left the car, the Glock in one pocket, spare clips in the other, the revolver in his belt.

The stink of burned wood was yet heavy in the air. Richard went to the debris, found a charcoaled stick and smeared the black powder over his face and hands. The full moon would make enough light to be useful to the hunters; he wanted to break up his profile.

Speaking of breaking up . . .

He located a sizable piece of wood thrown from the house, a section of charred log almost four feet long, as big around as a telephone pole. The weight was nothing to him, only a little unwieldy. He was more interested in mass than grace, though, and tucked it under one arm like an overgrown football, then looked for some likely cover.

He heard them coming. Saw the nimbus of their headlights.

He dropped flat by the fence next to the barn. Debris was all around him; he was just another unidentifiable lump. Their focus would be on his car. He'd left the lights on, aimed at the ruin as though he'd come here to scavenge for clues the police had missed. Crime scene tape ringed the area.

Before the first car topped the rise, the driver cut its lights and coasted the rest of the way, coming in slowly. The second car did the same.

When the first was within thirty feet of him, Richard surged up and charged right at it, holding the log like a latter-day battering ram. He could move preternaturally fast when necessary.

The driver had no time to react. He also likely never knew what hit him when Richard slammed the log directly into the windshield. It struck with terrible force, shattering the glass, breaking the wheel, smashing the driver's head to bloody pulp and taking out the man immediately behind him.

Richard didn't pause to look back, but flashed toward the second vehicle, which was just beginning to brake. The driver's side window was up. No matter. Richard put his fist through it. That hurt, but he hit the man inside so hard on his temple as to cave in the bone and snap his neck. Richard grabbed the steering wheel and ripped it from its column.

Someone fired shots, but missed wildly, the bullets tearing into the roof, not Richard . . . who was gone.

He darted behind the second Caddie—which rolled on to collide into the first—dropping to cover in the mesquite brush a mere ten yards away. Both vehicles were disabled, cutting off retreat, and the odds were now seven to two.

He phoned Keyes with the news.

"The hell you say," he whispered, approving. "Were those your shots?"

"No. Knee-jerk reaction. He missed. I'm clear for the moment."

"A three-round burst. I think I was right on the MP-5s. They're gonna burn ammo trying to find you now—they can afford to. See if you can spot how many and who's got what."

But Richard had to duck as men erupted from the cars, firing recklessly into the brush. They were cursing, screaming at each other, disorganized. The ghastly nature of his attack had had its effect on their morale, all of it in his favor, providing he avoided getting hit.

They seemed to run out of ammunition at the same time, having quickly burned through their thirty-round magazines. Richard, flat on his belly, picked his shot and dropped one, then rolled like hell to his right. His Glock had no flash suppressor. Sure enough, one of them had a round left. The bullet cracked into the spot where he'd been, kicking up earth and gravel. On all fours he backed away a few yards, then rose slightly for a look.

A tinny voice in the cell phone asked if he was all right.

"Four down, six left. Three have heavy power. I'm a bit busy, can I call you back?" Without waiting for an answer, he shut it off.

Of the six remaining thugs, two were still in the cars, the rest were starting to scatter out, yelling at each other and randomly shooting into the night. One of them was having trouble reloading his gun. He couldn't get the long magazine to lock in.

His bad luck. Richard took him out, rising up briefly, sighting down his arm like a duelist, then dropping to roll away.

That got the rest started again. They swung in his direction, throwing three-round bursts as fast as they could work the triggers, their aim random and wild. He made friends with the earth once more, deciding that the fabric of his shirt was entirely too thick, as it kept him much too far above the ground. He winced and grunted—something suddenly burning sharp over the back of one calf, something else scorched his shoulder blade, gouging flesh. They were getting close. . . .

Then from the second car he heard Alejandro screaming over the shots, calling for them to cease. He cursed them and told them to come back. They did—when they ran out of bullets.

Richard sagged, then checked his leg. Just a long scratch. His shoulder was about the same. He owed Keyes a new shirt.

Right. Three gunmen left, Alejandro and another man in a wrecked car, not daring to get out, unable to move.

One more gun fell. There was no sound of a shot, though. Keyes had gone to work, it seemed. This had a predictable effect on the others. They'd reloaded, firing in Richard's direction since that was the last place a threat had come from, but he'd rolled again. He reached the pump house.

Keyes must have opted for a silencer. It would throw off his accuracy, but if he got in close enough, that wouldn't matter.

Another man dropped with a gasp and sigh. One left standing, two in the car.

Alejandro was shouting again.

Shouting Richard's name.

Shouting Michael's name.

Shouting an utter impossibility.

"I have the boy!" he bellowed. "You stop or I'll blow his head off!"

The last man stared nervously about to see if this would work. It was Nick Anton, looking grim and afraid.

"Come out in the open or Michael dies," Alejandro continued. "This I promise. Come out or he dies!"

"Boss . . ." began Anton.

"Shutup!"

Ten seconds went by; no one moved.

"You think I don't have him?"

Richard prayed he did not. To no avail. Alejandro thrust the child from the car. Anton grabbed him up, holding him to his massive chest with one hand, his MP-5 in the other, braced on his hip and pointing outward.

"Come out, Dun!" Alejandro ordered. "You and your friend come out now!" Alejandro lurched from the cover of the car, the muzzle of his pistol against Michael's head. The boy was awake, face expressionless to the nightmare around him.

Richard groaned. Please Goddess, not again. Don't take him again. 

"Now! I'm counting to five! One, two . . ."

No choice. "All right! I'm over here! Don't shoot!"

Futile hope. Of course he would shoot. Any time he wanted. He owned Richard.

As soon as he rose from cover, Anton's gun swung his way.

"Drop your gun, come forward," Alejandro ordered.

He obeyed, furiously hoping Keyes would be smart about things and hold back.

"That's it, come forward, you son of a bitch."

He was full in the first car's headlights. One corner of the car had plowed into the back of his rental, the motor in gear and still running, a hideous mess behind the broken wheel. He could smell the fresh blood.

Alejandro glared at Richard. "How many lives you got anyway, you fucker? Bomb don't get you, knife don't get you, goddamn fancy bow-and-goddamn-arrow don't get you—how you gonna do with a bullet?"

He made no answer, his gaze on Michael. "Go ahead and finish it, Trujillo, but let the boy go."

"I'll finish it, but he ain't gonna go."

"He's a child, he can't hurt you. He's your family. Your own blood."

"Hah! He's a son of a bitch and bastard, no blood of ours!"

This did not come from Alejandro . . . it was from Luis, who emerged from the back of the second car.

Richard stared. Forgot how to breathe.

"You think I never knew?" Luis demanded, voice shrill. "You ever think that?"

The world lurched. Somehow Richard stayed on his feet. "What?"

"You goddamn bastard! I knew! I knew!"

A portion of the veil tore away. Not nearly enough. Behind the rest . . . Richard did not want to go there.

Luis stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Alejandro. They looked much alike, their unity of face and stance tearing away more veil.

"You worked with him," said Richard. "You worked with each other."

"He's just getting it." Alejandro laughed once. "We always did. When the bust came, we decided Luis should play the poor victim of his big bad brother."

"You arranged the betrayal?"

"It worked good. All the stuff he gave the cops knocked out a lotta my competition and kept him outta jail. It worked real good. I make some noise so they think I'm hurting. Meantime, I'm cleaning up."

"Luis? Your own family . . . ?" No, that wasn't possible. Could not be.

Luis broke away, coming toward him, face mottled, ugly. "Not mine, you bastard! Yours! They were always yours!" He swung hard, fist cracking against Richard's face.

He felt nothing. His heart banged painfully. No . . . it's too grotesque. 

"You were fucking that bitch behind my back every chance you got, the two of you passing off the bastards as mine. How stupid did you think I could be? Richard the big protector, the big, generous guardian angel, goddamn fucking Uncle Richard . . ."

Invective poured from Luis. He had years of it stored up. Bitter, vicious, obscene in its force, monstrous in its concept.

This can't be. "No." He shook his head. "Oh, God, no . . ."

Luis, the patient, kind, family man, loving husband, Luis the murdering butcher. In his mind Richard saw once more through Michael's eyes, saw the truth the boy had blocked out. The man who had cut them all down and then turned his gun on . . .

Adios to you too, you little bastard. 

Not just profanity, but a statement of fact. As Luis mistakenly perceived it.

"No."

"Oh, yeah. Time to finally pay, big man. Had to wait to set it up—"

"You were the one who called me down here, not Stephanie."

"Yeah, I got the place all ready for you. You go in, find them, see what you made for yourself, then boom!"

Only Richard had survived. He'd been the target all along. He shut his eyes.

"How's it feel? You hate me? Hate yourself more—you made it happen. It's all on your head!" Luis gut-punched him until Richard fell to his knees.

"You fool," he whispered. "There's no hell low enough for you."

"You'll be the one in hell, burning with that lying bitch."

"She loved you! Don't you get it?"

"Loved me? She fucked you, and passed off those—"

"Your children! Your daughters, your son! Not mine!"

"Goddamn liar—both of you lying for years. Who do they look like? They don't look like me, and never did, so don't lie anymore! You lie again and I'll blow the little shit's head off, you hear me?" He was screaming, shrieking down at Richard, hitting, kicking, frenzied.

Richard lay on his side, tasting dust. He felt no physical pain. Only loss, boundless, abominable loss . . .

Luis stood over him, chest heaving, insanity in his staring eyes. He backed off a step, then another, until he was next to Alejandro again. "Gonna finish it now. Nick—gimme that knife of yours."

"What for?"

"What you think?"

"We got no time for that; Keyes is out there still. Tell him, Mr. Trujillo. He's got a bead on us all right now, I know it. Only thing keeping him shut is this kid. He's crazy about those damn cats, so this kid will hold him off. It's our only way out."

Alejandro nodded, looking into the darkness. He still held the gun to Michael's head. "Mr. Keyes? We know you are there. This is not a matter to do with you. If you just leave, we will let the matter that is between us drop. I will match your last earnings with me and put half again as much on top as a bonus if you just walk away."

Silence.

Richard slowly pushed himself up, listening for a sign.

It came when Keyes called from somewhere to the side. "Double it, Trujillo! Double it and you leave me the hell alone forever."

"Deal! Want to shake on it?"

Keyes barked a short laugh. "The money's in my account Monday or I will be the last man you see on Tuesday. Got that?"

"Understood."

"Then I'm outta here and good riddance."

They all heard footsteps crackling in the dry brush, the snap of twigs. Then nothing.

Richard straightened, focusing on the trio by the car. He could reach Alejandro from here, but never be in time. An instant—less—and he'd pull the trigger.

"Don't," said Richard. "Please, Trujillo, let the boy go. I spoke the truth. He's your nephew."

"You would say anything to save him."

"You can always kill him later. Kill me now, but wait on the boy. Get a blood test done. You'll see. You want to take that chance?"

Alejandro looked hard at him, a tiny shade of doubt in his face.

"If there is the least possibility he is of your blood, give him that chance. For God's sake, don't make a mistake on this."

Luis had found a knife, taken from one of the dead. He stood behind and to the side of Alejandro. "I'll show you the mistake—his." He started to raise it to the boy.

Anton scowled. "Hey now, lay off. It's just a kid."

"You want some too?"

"Luis! Wait! Just a minute." Alejandro kept the gun in place. "We gotta think about this."

"Okay, fine, you think. I'm gonna kill this fucker." He started toward Richard.

Alejandro had no objections. "That I wanna see. You hold still for him," he told Richard. "You don't fight him, and I might not shoot the boy."

Richard thought he heard a soft cough almost directly behind him. He thought he felt something zing past.

At the same time Alejandro's head rocked back half an inch. He dropped straight down. It was instantaneous and almost soundless, only the collapse itself making noise.

Anton stared. Richard followed his gaze. The back of Alejandro's neck was exploded open, an unmistakable exit wound.

Anton's jaw sagged in astonishment and alarm; he glanced up at Richard, accusing. Then the big man collapsed as well, abruptly, in silence, as though by magic. His arms went slack, dropping both the gun and the child, and down he went, Michael beneath him. The back of Anton's neck . . .

Luis. The last one standing. His attention was on Richard, but he'd heard enough to make him turn and see and realize he was alone.

Michael galvanized to sudden life. Though still blank of face, he was squirming desperately to crawl free of Anton's dead weight. Luis closed on him, knife in hand.

Richard was up, rushing to get to them.

Luis grasped Michael's golden hair, pulling the boy's head back to cut his throat.

"Daddy!" The boy's voice was thin with fear. "Daddy—don't hurt them . . ."

"Adios to you too, you little—"

Richard tackled him from behind; the two of them went rolling. Luis bellowed, fighting madly, without plan, just striking out. One of his strikes connected, cutting into Richard's side. He grunted and hit back, catching the edge of a jaw. That slowed things. Richard made a second swing, more solid, and tipped it in his favor for good. Luis was out cold.

Pushing the body away, Richard took the knife for his own. He shook with rage, wanted to scream himself, rail at the useless, blind stupidity of the man, but most of all he wanted to rip him wide open.

For that he needed no knife . . . his bare hands would do . . .

"Daddy," Michael was sobbing now. "Daddy . . . don't."

He looked at the child's tear-and-dirt smeared face. Hesitating before those crystal blue eyes.

"Don't . . ."

His heart cracked. He's seen one parent die. I'll be damned if that happens again. Doubly damned if I'm the one who does the killing. 

He crawled over, stretched forth his near hand to take Michael's . . . and this time reached him.

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Framed

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Chapter Fourteen

Crossbow prominently propped on his shoulder, Richard practically strutted across to his car. The sun was waning, but there was plenty of light. And heat. It prickled like fiery needles on the back of his neck. He could almost feel the blisters forming.

He endured it.

He took his time putting the crossbow into the back seat, apparently having a bit of trouble getting it through the door. Once done, he gave in to a luxuriant stretch, the mechanics of which allowed anyone watching to get a damn good look at him. He took his hat off and ran a hand through his brush of blond hair to clinch things.

Even if Alejandro's men were half asleep, they couldn't help but notice and identify him. Alejandro himself would be livid that his target had survived yet again.

Richard got in the rental, started it, and pulled out, heading for the near-direct exit to I-30. He'd put his windows down to keep the interior from heating up too much. They were still down as he drove sedately past a Cadillac parked close to the corner of a side street. He did not look over.

That was the hard part, the truly dangerous part. If they got impatient, or stupid, they could nail him here.

He held his breath, and he did not look.

Then he was past them. Safe for the moment. But would they take the bait?

When he turned onto the access road that led to the highway, he saw the brown Caddie distant in his rearview mirror.

He smiled and hit a newly programmed-in speed dial on his cell phone. "I got mine hooked," he said when Keyes answered. "What about you?"

"I'm still in the neighborhood, heading south. They're behind me, but not too close."

"Can you lose them?"

"In this area? No problemo." He rang off.

Richard's job was to buy Keyes time. Not a difficult thing at all when he reached the downtown overpass. Yet another traffic problem had turned the freeway into a single-lane parking lot. He didn't mind this delay, though; it served a good purpose. Besides, the sun was down.

Once through the one-lane road-rage test zone, he phoned Keyes again. "How's it going?"

"I lost them. Where are you?"

"Just passed an exit for a Beach Street. Does that make sense?" There were no beaches anywhere near this city so far as he knew.

"I'm a couple miles ahead of you coming up on the 820 intersection. I'm going to take that north. You stay on I-30 east until Loop 12; you're a tourist, they won't expect you to know the shortcuts. That'll buy me more than a half-hour extra in case of delays at my end."

"You sure your car will get you there in time?" He recalled that model of Escort as being underpowered and remarkably fraught with troubles.

"You know what that guy in Star Wars did to his space ship?"

"Yes . . ."

"Well, I had about the same thing done to this little crate. It's a lot better than it should be. I'll get there in time."

Richard took him at his word and thought it a pity that they didn't have some sort of laser-type blaster guns to use on this expedition. Ah, well, give the inventors time. The evolution of weaponry he'd witnessed over the centuries was quite extraordinary. Perhaps in five or ten years the actual technology would far surpass film imagination. Not available to him now, but how satisfying it would be to cut Alejandro in half the long way with a sword of white-hot burning light . . .

No. It wouldn't be all that satisfying.

That death was too bloody quick for him.

Richard made it easy on his shadow, holding to a steady speed, not passing anyone unless they were really slow. The Cadillac's lights were consistently in his mirrors, not too far back, but neither too close. He was grateful for that. It meant they'd decided not to shoot the hell out of his car while on the road. A drive-by at these speeds would probably be effective, but he'd survived two hit attempts; they would want to make sure the third time was the charm.

This was the long way to north Dallas and thence to Addison, so he felt safe edging up to seventy when traffic permitted. Keyes would still have his time window, and Richard would not appear to be in the least aware of the tail. While he couldn't assume the thugs to be stupid enough to utterly fall for the ruse, he only needed to keep them guessing about it.

He hoped the men also had cell phones—they probably did—allowing them contact with the second car. Ideally, they would link up at some point, their common goal being to turn Richard into tomorrow's headline.

Eventually he reached the point where the Loop intersected with LBJ and took the eastbound lane. They would know he was headed for New Karnak now. He had to slow once more along this corridor, but expected that, changing lanes a few times just to make the shadows work to keep up. He was positively grinning on his final exit. There were now two big Caddies trailing him.

New Karnak was very much in sight, its glass walls shimmering with reflections of the full moon. He sailed right past the great pyramid, heading north, wishing he could hear the commentary this was doubtless causing behind him. Was he aware of the tail, or just looking for dinner on restaurant row?

But he passed that area too, speeding up as traffic suddenly eased. The first Caddie allowed him to lengthen his lead. Good, they'd figured it out.

The traffic and street lights thinned then stopped; he was now in the undeveloped areas, the memory of his initial trip here coming sharply back to him, along with myriad regrets. He should have done a better job of hiding them. He should have told Stephanie to leave the moment her emergency e-mail had come through. He should have cut all contact with her, leaving no trace for Alejandro to pick up.

He should have killed the bastard to start with.

Richard had considered it, but it would have stirred things up too much back then. He'd not been prominent at all during the legal wranglings, but he had been present. If Alejandro had suddenly died, his underlings would have known where to place the blame and create murderous complications for all. At the time it seemed simpler to just hurry Stephanie and the family out of the line of fire. That had worked. For a while.

He hoped that the missing Luis had phoned Bourland by now and gotten some good news for a change. I should call him as well. But not just yet.

He sailed by the spot where he'd encountered the delicious Officer Henebry, and marveled that he'd driven so far in such a benumbed state. His dreams had been wretchedly vivid; it was amazing that he and Michael had made it home in one piece.

Phone. He answered.

"I found the place," said Keyes. "If I got the directions right."

"You took the fourth turn after the stop sign?"

"Yeah, and this road looks like Verdun on a bad morning—oh, there . . . okay. Yeah, I'm at the right place; the cops strung some crime scene tape right across the drive. It's not visible from the main road."

"Just as well, keeps the curious from looking in."

"You just better damn-well hope the Federales didn't leave a watchdog hanging around."

"Not likely, but if so, I'll deal with it."

"I'm pulling off now to hide the car. How far out are you?"

"About ten minutes."

"Cutting it fine, but I'll manage."

"I appreciate this, Mr. Keyes."

"Hey, I'm in this for my own self-preservation."

Rather too enthusiastically, Richard thought, disconnecting. For a man who never dirtied his own backyard, he showed remarkably little demur against going on a deadly snipe hunt for Alejandro.

Keyes had the equipment for it. As they waited for the sun to set, he'd pulled an amazing collection of combat gear from his hall closet. He had cammo fatigues in green, gray, and solid black, boots, matte black body armor, hand-to-hand weapons . . . Richard hadn't seen such stuff since he'd taken a tour of an SAS training facility.

"If you're worried about the DEA, why do you have all this?" he'd asked.

Keyes smirked as he shook out the black fatigues and started changing. "All of it is completely legal. I got it from military surplus stores and catalogues."

"But why have it if you don't operate in the States?"

"To keep in practice. This is my paintball gear."

"Paintball?" Richard noticed that the green cammos, though clean, had the remains of pink paint stains here and there.

"Yeah, great game. I always win."

No doubt. 

Richard counted off the turnings, taking the fourth. He knew the area, but was starting to nerve up and wanted no mistakes at this point. He put his high beams on, less for his benefit than for Keyes and the ones following.

There were signs of traffic activity left along the drive. Tree branches had broken off where tall trucks had bulled through. Pale dust thrown up by dozens of official vehicles now coated the foliage and dead grass. He came up on the police line ribbon. It was snapped, the two ends lying listless over the baked ground where Keyes had earlier passed. Richard's car would get the blame for that.

He hoped.

His departure from the tract house, closely followed by Keyes . . . they would wonder. They would wonder if some devil's deal had been struck between two men who should have been dead. They would wonder where Keyes had gotten himself to, and now they might consider the possibility of a trap.

For Richard to come out here at such an hour would strike Alejandro as odd, but he'd also see it as an opportunity. Richard's hope was that Alejandro would weigh the odds of facing at most two isolated men armed with only handguns, against ten. If Keyes was right about the MP-5s, Alejandro might feel very confident indeed, even if one of his foes was known to be an expert assassin.

But would he risk going in himself?

Phone again. "Yes?"

"I saw you go by, but they're hanging back," said Keyes, who was now on watch at the entry road.

"How far?"

"They're stalled at the turnoff. Corporate meeting. Looks like the memo is under discussion. I can't see past the window glare or I could try popping Trujillo. I don't know which car he's in. Damn, if I just had a launcher and two grenades I could take them all out."

"Give them a minute. Don't let them spot you."

"Huh. Fat chance of that. Damn city boys don't have a clue." His confidence was reassuring.

Richard kept on, topping the slight rise, dipping down again, the horrific wreckage now in view, stark in the moonlight. Absurdly, it looked smaller than he remembered. When he'd been struggling in the midst of the disaster, it had loomed impossibly large to him. Where had the horses gotten to? Probably rounded up and taken away by some livestock control service. He'd have to check on that. He couldn't allow Stephanie's beloved animals to be sold off or destroyed.

"Mission control, I think we have a go," Keyes announced, suddenly cheerful.

"They're coming in?"

"Looks it . . . yes, both of them. I'm on my way. Time to open a can of whump-ass and have ourselves a party."

Parking prominently in front of the ruins of the house, Richard quickly stripped off his blue uniform shirt. Beneath, he wore a lightweight black knit pullover, long sleeved, loose for Keyes, who had loaned it, almost too tight on Richard. His gray pants were gaudy in comparison, but would have to serve. He planned to keep his head down. Most of the time.

He left the car, the Glock in one pocket, spare clips in the other, the revolver in his belt.

The stink of burned wood was yet heavy in the air. Richard went to the debris, found a charcoaled stick and smeared the black powder over his face and hands. The full moon would make enough light to be useful to the hunters; he wanted to break up his profile.

Speaking of breaking up . . .

He located a sizable piece of wood thrown from the house, a section of charred log almost four feet long, as big around as a telephone pole. The weight was nothing to him, only a little unwieldy. He was more interested in mass than grace, though, and tucked it under one arm like an overgrown football, then looked for some likely cover.

He heard them coming. Saw the nimbus of their headlights.

He dropped flat by the fence next to the barn. Debris was all around him; he was just another unidentifiable lump. Their focus would be on his car. He'd left the lights on, aimed at the ruin as though he'd come here to scavenge for clues the police had missed. Crime scene tape ringed the area.

Before the first car topped the rise, the driver cut its lights and coasted the rest of the way, coming in slowly. The second car did the same.

When the first was within thirty feet of him, Richard surged up and charged right at it, holding the log like a latter-day battering ram. He could move preternaturally fast when necessary.

The driver had no time to react. He also likely never knew what hit him when Richard slammed the log directly into the windshield. It struck with terrible force, shattering the glass, breaking the wheel, smashing the driver's head to bloody pulp and taking out the man immediately behind him.

Richard didn't pause to look back, but flashed toward the second vehicle, which was just beginning to brake. The driver's side window was up. No matter. Richard put his fist through it. That hurt, but he hit the man inside so hard on his temple as to cave in the bone and snap his neck. Richard grabbed the steering wheel and ripped it from its column.

Someone fired shots, but missed wildly, the bullets tearing into the roof, not Richard . . . who was gone.

He darted behind the second Caddie—which rolled on to collide into the first—dropping to cover in the mesquite brush a mere ten yards away. Both vehicles were disabled, cutting off retreat, and the odds were now seven to two.

He phoned Keyes with the news.

"The hell you say," he whispered, approving. "Were those your shots?"

"No. Knee-jerk reaction. He missed. I'm clear for the moment."

"A three-round burst. I think I was right on the MP-5s. They're gonna burn ammo trying to find you now—they can afford to. See if you can spot how many and who's got what."

But Richard had to duck as men erupted from the cars, firing recklessly into the brush. They were cursing, screaming at each other, disorganized. The ghastly nature of his attack had had its effect on their morale, all of it in his favor, providing he avoided getting hit.

They seemed to run out of ammunition at the same time, having quickly burned through their thirty-round magazines. Richard, flat on his belly, picked his shot and dropped one, then rolled like hell to his right. His Glock had no flash suppressor. Sure enough, one of them had a round left. The bullet cracked into the spot where he'd been, kicking up earth and gravel. On all fours he backed away a few yards, then rose slightly for a look.

A tinny voice in the cell phone asked if he was all right.

"Four down, six left. Three have heavy power. I'm a bit busy, can I call you back?" Without waiting for an answer, he shut it off.

Of the six remaining thugs, two were still in the cars, the rest were starting to scatter out, yelling at each other and randomly shooting into the night. One of them was having trouble reloading his gun. He couldn't get the long magazine to lock in.

His bad luck. Richard took him out, rising up briefly, sighting down his arm like a duelist, then dropping to roll away.

That got the rest started again. They swung in his direction, throwing three-round bursts as fast as they could work the triggers, their aim random and wild. He made friends with the earth once more, deciding that the fabric of his shirt was entirely too thick, as it kept him much too far above the ground. He winced and grunted—something suddenly burning sharp over the back of one calf, something else scorched his shoulder blade, gouging flesh. They were getting close. . . .

Then from the second car he heard Alejandro screaming over the shots, calling for them to cease. He cursed them and told them to come back. They did—when they ran out of bullets.

Richard sagged, then checked his leg. Just a long scratch. His shoulder was about the same. He owed Keyes a new shirt.

Right. Three gunmen left, Alejandro and another man in a wrecked car, not daring to get out, unable to move.

One more gun fell. There was no sound of a shot, though. Keyes had gone to work, it seemed. This had a predictable effect on the others. They'd reloaded, firing in Richard's direction since that was the last place a threat had come from, but he'd rolled again. He reached the pump house.

Keyes must have opted for a silencer. It would throw off his accuracy, but if he got in close enough, that wouldn't matter.

Another man dropped with a gasp and sigh. One left standing, two in the car.

Alejandro was shouting again.

Shouting Richard's name.

Shouting Michael's name.

Shouting an utter impossibility.

"I have the boy!" he bellowed. "You stop or I'll blow his head off!"

The last man stared nervously about to see if this would work. It was Nick Anton, looking grim and afraid.

"Come out in the open or Michael dies," Alejandro continued. "This I promise. Come out or he dies!"

"Boss . . ." began Anton.

"Shutup!"

Ten seconds went by; no one moved.

"You think I don't have him?"

Richard prayed he did not. To no avail. Alejandro thrust the child from the car. Anton grabbed him up, holding him to his massive chest with one hand, his MP-5 in the other, braced on his hip and pointing outward.

"Come out, Dun!" Alejandro ordered. "You and your friend come out now!" Alejandro lurched from the cover of the car, the muzzle of his pistol against Michael's head. The boy was awake, face expressionless to the nightmare around him.

Richard groaned. Please Goddess, not again. Don't take him again. 

"Now! I'm counting to five! One, two . . ."

No choice. "All right! I'm over here! Don't shoot!"

Futile hope. Of course he would shoot. Any time he wanted. He owned Richard.

As soon as he rose from cover, Anton's gun swung his way.

"Drop your gun, come forward," Alejandro ordered.

He obeyed, furiously hoping Keyes would be smart about things and hold back.

"That's it, come forward, you son of a bitch."

He was full in the first car's headlights. One corner of the car had plowed into the back of his rental, the motor in gear and still running, a hideous mess behind the broken wheel. He could smell the fresh blood.

Alejandro glared at Richard. "How many lives you got anyway, you fucker? Bomb don't get you, knife don't get you, goddamn fancy bow-and-goddamn-arrow don't get you—how you gonna do with a bullet?"

He made no answer, his gaze on Michael. "Go ahead and finish it, Trujillo, but let the boy go."

"I'll finish it, but he ain't gonna go."

"He's a child, he can't hurt you. He's your family. Your own blood."

"Hah! He's a son of a bitch and bastard, no blood of ours!"

This did not come from Alejandro . . . it was from Luis, who emerged from the back of the second car.

Richard stared. Forgot how to breathe.

"You think I never knew?" Luis demanded, voice shrill. "You ever think that?"

The world lurched. Somehow Richard stayed on his feet. "What?"

"You goddamn bastard! I knew! I knew!"

A portion of the veil tore away. Not nearly enough. Behind the rest . . . Richard did not want to go there.

Luis stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Alejandro. They looked much alike, their unity of face and stance tearing away more veil.

"You worked with him," said Richard. "You worked with each other."

"He's just getting it." Alejandro laughed once. "We always did. When the bust came, we decided Luis should play the poor victim of his big bad brother."

"You arranged the betrayal?"

"It worked good. All the stuff he gave the cops knocked out a lotta my competition and kept him outta jail. It worked real good. I make some noise so they think I'm hurting. Meantime, I'm cleaning up."

"Luis? Your own family . . . ?" No, that wasn't possible. Could not be.

Luis broke away, coming toward him, face mottled, ugly. "Not mine, you bastard! Yours! They were always yours!" He swung hard, fist cracking against Richard's face.

He felt nothing. His heart banged painfully. No . . . it's too grotesque. 

"You were fucking that bitch behind my back every chance you got, the two of you passing off the bastards as mine. How stupid did you think I could be? Richard the big protector, the big, generous guardian angel, goddamn fucking Uncle Richard . . ."

Invective poured from Luis. He had years of it stored up. Bitter, vicious, obscene in its force, monstrous in its concept.

This can't be. "No." He shook his head. "Oh, God, no . . ."

Luis, the patient, kind, family man, loving husband, Luis the murdering butcher. In his mind Richard saw once more through Michael's eyes, saw the truth the boy had blocked out. The man who had cut them all down and then turned his gun on . . .

Adios to you too, you little bastard. 

Not just profanity, but a statement of fact. As Luis mistakenly perceived it.

"No."

"Oh, yeah. Time to finally pay, big man. Had to wait to set it up—"

"You were the one who called me down here, not Stephanie."

"Yeah, I got the place all ready for you. You go in, find them, see what you made for yourself, then boom!"

Only Richard had survived. He'd been the target all along. He shut his eyes.

"How's it feel? You hate me? Hate yourself more—you made it happen. It's all on your head!" Luis gut-punched him until Richard fell to his knees.

"You fool," he whispered. "There's no hell low enough for you."

"You'll be the one in hell, burning with that lying bitch."

"She loved you! Don't you get it?"

"Loved me? She fucked you, and passed off those—"

"Your children! Your daughters, your son! Not mine!"

"Goddamn liar—both of you lying for years. Who do they look like? They don't look like me, and never did, so don't lie anymore! You lie again and I'll blow the little shit's head off, you hear me?" He was screaming, shrieking down at Richard, hitting, kicking, frenzied.

Richard lay on his side, tasting dust. He felt no physical pain. Only loss, boundless, abominable loss . . .

Luis stood over him, chest heaving, insanity in his staring eyes. He backed off a step, then another, until he was next to Alejandro again. "Gonna finish it now. Nick—gimme that knife of yours."

"What for?"

"What you think?"

"We got no time for that; Keyes is out there still. Tell him, Mr. Trujillo. He's got a bead on us all right now, I know it. Only thing keeping him shut is this kid. He's crazy about those damn cats, so this kid will hold him off. It's our only way out."

Alejandro nodded, looking into the darkness. He still held the gun to Michael's head. "Mr. Keyes? We know you are there. This is not a matter to do with you. If you just leave, we will let the matter that is between us drop. I will match your last earnings with me and put half again as much on top as a bonus if you just walk away."

Silence.

Richard slowly pushed himself up, listening for a sign.

It came when Keyes called from somewhere to the side. "Double it, Trujillo! Double it and you leave me the hell alone forever."

"Deal! Want to shake on it?"

Keyes barked a short laugh. "The money's in my account Monday or I will be the last man you see on Tuesday. Got that?"

"Understood."

"Then I'm outta here and good riddance."

They all heard footsteps crackling in the dry brush, the snap of twigs. Then nothing.

Richard straightened, focusing on the trio by the car. He could reach Alejandro from here, but never be in time. An instant—less—and he'd pull the trigger.

"Don't," said Richard. "Please, Trujillo, let the boy go. I spoke the truth. He's your nephew."

"You would say anything to save him."

"You can always kill him later. Kill me now, but wait on the boy. Get a blood test done. You'll see. You want to take that chance?"

Alejandro looked hard at him, a tiny shade of doubt in his face.

"If there is the least possibility he is of your blood, give him that chance. For God's sake, don't make a mistake on this."

Luis had found a knife, taken from one of the dead. He stood behind and to the side of Alejandro. "I'll show you the mistake—his." He started to raise it to the boy.

Anton scowled. "Hey now, lay off. It's just a kid."

"You want some too?"

"Luis! Wait! Just a minute." Alejandro kept the gun in place. "We gotta think about this."

"Okay, fine, you think. I'm gonna kill this fucker." He started toward Richard.

Alejandro had no objections. "That I wanna see. You hold still for him," he told Richard. "You don't fight him, and I might not shoot the boy."

Richard thought he heard a soft cough almost directly behind him. He thought he felt something zing past.

At the same time Alejandro's head rocked back half an inch. He dropped straight down. It was instantaneous and almost soundless, only the collapse itself making noise.

Anton stared. Richard followed his gaze. The back of Alejandro's neck was exploded open, an unmistakable exit wound.

Anton's jaw sagged in astonishment and alarm; he glanced up at Richard, accusing. Then the big man collapsed as well, abruptly, in silence, as though by magic. His arms went slack, dropping both the gun and the child, and down he went, Michael beneath him. The back of Anton's neck . . .

Luis. The last one standing. His attention was on Richard, but he'd heard enough to make him turn and see and realize he was alone.

Michael galvanized to sudden life. Though still blank of face, he was squirming desperately to crawl free of Anton's dead weight. Luis closed on him, knife in hand.

Richard was up, rushing to get to them.

Luis grasped Michael's golden hair, pulling the boy's head back to cut his throat.

"Daddy!" The boy's voice was thin with fear. "Daddy—don't hurt them . . ."

"Adios to you too, you little—"

Richard tackled him from behind; the two of them went rolling. Luis bellowed, fighting madly, without plan, just striking out. One of his strikes connected, cutting into Richard's side. He grunted and hit back, catching the edge of a jaw. That slowed things. Richard made a second swing, more solid, and tipped it in his favor for good. Luis was out cold.

Pushing the body away, Richard took the knife for his own. He shook with rage, wanted to scream himself, rail at the useless, blind stupidity of the man, but most of all he wanted to rip him wide open.

For that he needed no knife . . . his bare hands would do . . .

"Daddy," Michael was sobbing now. "Daddy . . . don't."

He looked at the child's tear-and-dirt smeared face. Hesitating before those crystal blue eyes.

"Don't . . ."

His heart cracked. He's seen one parent die. I'll be damned if that happens again. Doubly damned if I'm the one who does the killing. 

He crawled over, stretched forth his near hand to take Michael's . . . and this time reached him.

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