Prologue

It was midmorning when Pedro Carr pulled his crimson Cadillac off Florida's Interstate 27 and eased to a stop at the far end of a shopping center parking lot. The center serviced both the sparse population of Andytown and motorists on their way to Route 75, known affectionately as Alligator Alley for the long-bellied reptiles that inhabited that stretch of the Everglades. All three occupants of the Cadillac could see dark, swollen clouds scudding slowly inland from the Atlantic like doomed cattle driven on by nimbus thunderheads that rose above the lower formation in the shape of cotton cowboys wearing sombreros.

"Going to rain." Pedro Carr's voice had a thick Jamaican accent, a lingering vestige of his troubled childhood in Kingston. He got out of the Cadillac and slammed the door, then flipped a defiant middle finger at the changing sky. "Sheee-it, every time I wash this tub is de same thing, mon. No fucking justice."

Carr was a tall man with streaks of gray in the caterpillar-length dreadlocks that swarmed about his head. He wore chinos and a sleeveless, sun-bleached Bob Marley T-shirt. Despite the Rastafarian trappings, Carr had no real interest in that ascetic cult's religious beliefs. His tastes in worship dealt more with pleasures of the flesh and the cerebral buzz of ganja or some other potent substance. He was less interested in the Rasta message of reggae music than in the infectious pounding beat, which continued to blare over the Cadillac's speakers as he scanned the parking lot, oblivious to the two nervous youths still sitting in the back seat.

He lowered his sunglasses to leer at a passing convertible filled with giggling coeds wearing tank tops and reeking of Coppertone, bound for the spring mating rituals in Fort Lauderdale. Billy Joel crooned over their car stereo as they eyed Pedro.

"Ohh, what a stud!" one of the girls cooed, pointing at the Jamaican's considerable physique. Pedro's daily Nautilus workouts had sculpted his two hundred pounds into muscle-mag dimensions.

"You know it, mama," Carr assured her, patting his groin. "I got a Popsicle that'll take care of all of you without melting."

"Oh, right, I'm sure," another coed taunted. "Big talker."

Their car idled a dozen yards away from Pedro. He grinned, revealing a glint of gold in his smile. "I got business, bitch, or I'd drill you for oil till you cry for your daddy." He stopped smiling and took a step toward the convertible, taking all the girls in with a murderous gaze. "So get your candy asses to de beach and play with de college boys."

The driver floored her accelerator and the convertible lurched away from Carr. Once they were safely clear of him, the girls resumed their jeers, but Pedro had already lost interest in the game. An old Chevy station wagon had pulled into the lot and was making its way toward him.

Carr backtracked to the Cadillac and opened one of the rear doors, gesturing for the two youths to get out. They were both copper-skinned and of average height, but Mi-guel was far stockier and more muscular than the other teen, whose name was Tony. Their dark T-shirts were soiled and their trousers wrinkled. Although neither of them could have been any more than eighteen, the look of uneasiness in their eyes said they had already witnessed a lifetime of hard luck and pain. All in all, they had the hardened demeanor of those who are particularly dangerous because they have nothing to lose. Instead of Kingston, however, they'd taken their knocks in the slums of Cuba's capital city, and their move to Miami's Little Havana during the mass exodus of the early eighties had failed to bring them a better life. If anything, being branded marielitos after the Cuban port from which they had sailed had only made their existence more miserable. Decried as undesirable scum Castro had shrewdly unleashed upon the United States, they had been forced to endure the indignities of the tent camps and the squalor of the ghetto, both of which fueled their anger and bitterness. However, aside from acts of petty crime, neither youth had found a proper outlet for his frustration or a means of raising his standard of living.

But with Carr's help, that would change, starting today.

The Chevy stopped alongside the Cadillac and a squat, fat-bellied Cuban in denim coveralls opened the door and eased out from behind the wheel, trading high-fives with Pedro.

"What 'tis, Kingstone."

Pedro ran a finger across the hood of the Chevy, which came away with a layer of grime. "Where you get this piece of shit, Orlando?"

"Hey, don't be bad-mouthing my wheels, Kingstone." There was no gold in Orlando's smile, no native accent in his voice. "It'll do the job better than that pimpmobile of yours and you know it. This piece of shit gots V-8 under the hood, my man. You think you can handle it?"

Carr waved the two youths into the station wagon, then took the keys from the older Cuban after giving him an envelope filled with currency. "Get my tub under cover before de rain, mon."

"You got it." Orlando glanced back at the two youths. "No fuckups, kiddie boys, dig?"

Neither of the teenagers responded verbally, but both nodded their heads solemnly. Maybe Carr was taking them on the outing, but if things worked out, it would be Orlando's Little Havana gang that they joined, and there was no time like the present for showing a little deference to their future leader.

"No fuckups," Tony promised.

"Good, good." Orlando thumped his palm on the roof of the station wagon and turned to Carr. "You can let it rain on my wheels, Kingstone, okay?"

Carr grinned some more gold, got into the wagon and drove off. Instead of Alligator Alley, he got onto U.S. 27, a two-lane black ribbon linking Andytown to Lake Okee-chobee forty miles to the north. Hardly a scenic route, the thoroughfare made its way past relentless expanses of tall, hearty grass. The storm rolled overhead and began drumming the car roof with a steady, persistent rain that punctuated the grim silence of the three men. They stared at the rivulets of dirty water streaking down the front windshield. Carr switched on the wipers, which dragged awkwardly across the glass, making high-pitched shrieking sounds in a steady, monotonous rhythm.

There was little traffic on the highway, for there were no cities between Andytown and Okeelanta, a small village a few miles south of Lake Okeechobee. An occasional egret flew by in a white blur, seeking out nourishment from the North New River Canal, which ran parallel to the highway but was hidden from view by the tall grass and intermittent rows of palmetto trees.

As the miles dragged by, the rain increased, backed by booms of thunder and shafts of lightning dragging electric fingers across the fields. Before long they were into sugarcane country, and the two youths marveled at their first glimpse of controlled fires routinely set to burn off the cane's extraneous growth and ready it for harvesting. Across the horizon there were dark funnels of smoke rising like anemic tornadoes from at least half a dozen such fires. Although mechanical harvesters were now responsible for much of the follow-up work in the fields, some of the more cost-conscious outfits still relied on manual labor provided by impoverished migrant workers, who were paid meager piecework wages for pitting themselves against the merciless cane from dawn until dusk.

One such operation was Lovecriss Enterprises, which owned a massive parcel of cane land a few miles south of the old Shawano Plantation. Carr slowed down as he drove past the entrance to the main field station, where nearly two dozen Haitian migrant workers milled about a parking lot that was fast becoming a sea of mud. They were carrying rain-soaked signs denouncing unfair working conditions, and on several of the placards were calls for the creation of a union.

"The bean pole with de slicker, mon," Carr murmured over his shoulder. "Alex Cepeda. He is the one."

The Cubans had no difficulty picking out the strike's organizer, a gaunt, middle-aged man sheathed in a gleaming yellow rain jacket, pacing in the rain and shouting encouragement to the others. However, as the deluge continued to tall around them, the demonstrators began to lose their zeal, and some of them had already taken refuge in vehicles every bit as road-worn as Orlando's station wagon.

Pedro drove past the entrance and a further hundred yards down the highway before pulling off onto a gravel-covered service road. He stopped the station wagon as soon as it had slipped behind a shield of tall grass and palmetto trees. Showers continued to pelt the vehicle, but Pedro handed a pair of binoculars to Tony and told the youth to climb up on the roof and keep an eye on Ce-peda.

Without complaining, the lean Cuban followed orders, hoisting himself atop the station wagon and raising the field glasses as he focused on the parking lot where most demonstrators were finally yielding to the elements. A slow procession of junk cars rolled out of the lot and headed north toward the migrant settlements near Lake Okeechobee. Strong as the rains were, they failed to douse all the blazes in the cane fields, and off in the distance Tony saw smoke funnels still rising up to challenge the clouds.

He thought briefly of his father, a withered, hunchbacked man living in Cuba, eking out a miserable subsistence on land owned by one of the government-owned sugar companies. Pathetic fool, Tony thought. All that bullshit about the nobility of an honest day's work.

The memories of those days brought bile to his throat, and as the rain stung his bare arms, he eyed the labor organizer in the yellow slicker and saw the embodiment of all he hated, all he felt was responsible for his poverty. Cepeda was just like Tony's old man, more interested in playing the saint than grabbing for the best of what life had to offer. Well, screw him and his righteous halo. Tony had no patience for that good-goody shit, just as he was fed up with the meager returns of his petty one-man crimes of the past. From now on, he was looking out for number one, and God help any goddamn fool who got in his way on this new quest for the kind of life he wanted.

By now, the worst of the fast-moving storm had already passed, but the thunder and lightning was still too close for comfort as far as Tony was concerned. He'd always heard that inside a car was the safest place to be when it was lightning, but he had his doubts that the same held true for standing on its roof. Not that he was about to show his concern. He was being tested, and every action over the next few hours would be a measure of his worthiness to join Orlando's Ligardos, the strongest street gang in Little Havana. The rain gave him chills and a peal of thunder made his entire body shake, but he continued his vigil, taking care to lean to one side behind the branches of a palmetto that kept him from the view of anyone passing by on the highway.

When he saw Cepeda exchange a few final words with the refinery's security force, then slip into a late-model Ford Escort, Tony hurriedly crawled down and rejoined his comrades.

"He's leaving," the Cuban reported, wringing the rain from his T-shirt and pants. "A red Ford."

"Good job, mon." Carr wheeled the station wagon around so that it was facing the highway, then inched forward to a point from which they could watch vehicles leave the demonstration site. The plan had been for Pedro to follow Alex until he was alone, but because the other laborers had already driven off, there was no other traffic when the red Escort pulled out onto the highway. It could go down without a chase.

"Show time," Carr announced, shifting gears and glancing at his accomplices in the rearview mirror. "Let's do it."

As Cepeda was about to pass the service road, Pedro gunned the Chevy forward, clipping the Escort's front end. Neither car was traveling fast enough for the collision to cause any injury other than to the flimsy bodywork of the autos, but Cepeda was clearly stunned. He remained behind the wheel and turned off his ignition, glancing toward the man who had run into him.

Pedro stayed inside the Chevy, but Tony and Miguel rushed out of the back seat and quickly converged upon the labor leader. From under his T-shirt Tony removed a Detonics Mark VI, and as he circled around the front of the Escort, he aimed the pistol at Alex and gestured for him to get out of the car. Miguel had already opened the passenger's door, and used the point of a two-foot-long machete to further encourage the older man. As Cepeda reluctantly complied, Miguel slid across the front seat and took over the wheel, backing the Escort off the highway and into the niche on the service road where the ambush-ers had first parked while spying on the demonstration.

"Who are you?" Cepeda demanded as Tony buried the Detonics in his ribs and shoved him toward the station wagon. "What's the meaning of this?"

"Shut up," Tony told the man.

"You won't get away with this!"

Tony shoved the captive into the back seat of the station wagon, then slid in beside him, keeping the bore of his weapon nestled against the yellow plastic of Alex's slicker. Miguel hurried back and got into the front seat.

There was no fear on the migrant organizer's tired face, only indignation and anger. He glared at Pedro and demanded, "Are you working for Lovecriss? I want an explanation!"

"We going for a ride, mon," Carr told him. "Relax. Enjoy the scenery."

They started down the service road, passing the abandoned Escort. Fifty yards in, their way was blocked by a locked gate with a sign warning that the property beyond belonged to Lovecriss Enterprises and that trespassers would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

Cepeda crossed his arms defiantly. "If you know what's good for you, you'll let me go. Right now."

Tony pressed his pistol deeper into Alex's ribs and used his other hand to put a tight clench on the thin man's neck. "You know what's good for you, you shuts your big mouth."

Pedro looked to Miguel. "Orlando says you're good with locks."

Miguel nodded, reaching into his pocket for a small locksmith's tool. As he got out of the car, Carr cautioned him, "An easy touch, mon. Make it look like we had a key."

"Piece of cake."

As the Cuban went to unlock the gate, Carr shifted his gaze to Alex, who was rubbing his throat where Tony had choked him. "Mr. Lovecriss don't like de way you stir up de workers, mon. You making everybody very unhappy. Is not a good thing."

"If you work for Lovecriss, why didn't he give you a key?" Cepeda questioned.

"We don't work for him," Carr admitted. "We just Good Samaritans. Helping de neighborhood, you know?"

Cepeda began to shout about his civil rights, but Carr leaned across the seat and gagged him with a sweat-stained bandanna. The laborer was reduced to making muffled, incoherent sounds. When he tried to lash out at his captors, Tony pistol-whipped him until he was unconscious, bleeding on his coat from a split lip and broken nose.

Miguel held the gate open until Carr had driven through, then closed it and climbed onto the hood, crouching above the engine like an overgrown hood ornament. The rain had stopped and from his vantage point he could see over the tops of the sugarcane that grew all the way to the edge of the fences that flanked either side of the roadway. After they'd driven another mile into the green sea, Miguel motioned for Pedro to stop the station wagon.

Off to their right, the nearest cane fire gave off a thick billow of black smoke. Miguel jumped down from the hood and helped Tony drag Cepeda out of the car. Pedro took a machete and a two-gallon can of gasoline from the back of the vehicle and led the others to a break in the fence that allowed access to the fields. Wielding the machete with effortless strength, Carr hacked a path through the cane, all the while keeping an eye on both the cloud of smoke and the way the cane tops bent in the wind. Behind him, Miguel and Tony hauled the inert labor leader, straining under his weight.

"Here's a good place," Pedro finally said after they'd been trudging through the cane for several minutes. They could smell the faintly sweet smoke now and hear the crackling of its fire, which had been undeterred by the brief rain and was still devouring the leaves of the sugarcane.

They set Cepeda down amid the cane, then stripped him of his slicker and bound his wrists and ankles. Carr doused his clothes with gasoline, then sprinkled some of the fuel into the man's eyes to help bring him back to consciousness.

"Wake up, Alex," Pedro whispered calmly. "Is time for your nightmare."

The gas stung Alex's eyes and he fought off the burning sensation with tears. Blood had already begun to dry on his face from the blows to his mouth and nose. He tried to cling to his dignity, but he knew that his death was at hand and some of his tears were shed for the family of seven that he would leave behind.

"You like to set an example for your people, eh, mon?" Carr glanced away from Alex and winked at the two Cubans. "Now he gets to be a real example."

The fire was less than thirty yards away now, and the westward breeze blew smoke into the men's faces. Can-emptied the last of the gasoline over Cepeda and smiled down at the man. "When they find you tomorrow, maybe your people are not so fond of this union talk no more."

Pedro and the Cubans turned their backs on the writhing Haitian and followed the pathway through the Cane until they returned to the service road. By then the fire had already swept across the clearing where Alex had been placed. Flames engulfed the man, licking at the gasoline, burning through the bandanna seconds before taking his life. The Haitian had just enough time to give off one pain-racked scream, and it carried across the fields.

"Bye-bye, Senor Cepeda." Carr started up the Chevy and drowned out the dying man's cry. He turned to the two teenagers, looking for any signs of remorse or queas-iness. Finding none, he offered another golden smile. "Let's get us something to eat___"

The crack of the bat sounded like gunfire, rousing adrenaline in Gadgets Schwarz's power-packed body. He leaned instinctively to his left, eyes on the white ball that skimmed across the grass toward him. When it reached the reddish soil of the base paths, the ball picked up speed and sought escape to the outfield.

No such luck.

Diving headlong across the infield, Schwarz extended his left arm as far as possible, feeling the ball slap into the webbing of his glove a split second before he hit the ground. Tumbling with the deft precision of an acrobat, Gadgets avoided injury and came up in throwing position, firing a quick toss to first base that arrived just before the batter reached the bag.

"Yerrrrout!" A balding empire with the girth of St. Nick jerked a thumb upward and torqued his body to give the gesture more emphasis. In his other hand was a palm-size manual calculator, and he pressed a button to reset all the gauges to zero. The inning was over. No runs, no hits, no men left on base.

"Nice web work," the gray-haired shortstop told Gadgets as the two men jogged off the field.

"Thanks."

"Maybe you could give me a few pointers after the game, eh?"

"That would be the day." Gadgets laughed as they joined the other players in the dugout. Schwarz knew full well that the shortstop had won more Gold Gloves during his eighteen-year career than anyone who ever played the position. Of course, Ollie Valdez's career had ended some six years ago and he was already in the Hall of Fame, so his present-day fielding prowess might no longer be what it once was. But then, Schwarz himself was getting up there, and his baseball prime had been nearly twenty years ago, when as a college senior he'd made second base man on a second-team All-Conference. Since then, he'd spent most of his summers lobbing grenades instead of baseballs and getting his hits with far more potent weapons than those manufactured by Louisville Slugger or Hillerich and Bradley. He'd fought for higher stakes than a divisional championship or World Series ring, and for far less money than today's overpaid major leaguers. From the quagmires of Vietnam to various hellholes throughout the States and abroad, Gadgets had put his life on the line under more dire circumstances than he cared to remember. And more often than not, he went into his battles backed by a far smaller lineup than those that took the field at ballparks throughout the nation.

Be that as it may, when it came to moments of out-and-out excitement, the feeling Gadgets had as he took a seat in the dugout that lazy afternoon in West Palm Beach easily matched the fervor of any combat experience. For Hermann Schwarz was, at heart, still very much the red-blooded American boy whose youth was spent worshiping the heroes of the diamond, following their exploits in the media, collecting their likenesses on baseball cards and rotting his teeth with pink slabs of sugar-laden gum in the process. And more than twenty of those boyhood idols were now at the ballpark with him, taking part in a week-end "dream camp" Schwarz had finally been accepted for after being on a waiting list for the past three years.

Out on the mound was Lefty Podell, architect of three career no-hitters and longtime pride of the New York Yankees during the later years of their American League dynasty. Sure, there was a little excess paunch at his waistline, but as he took his warm-up throws, the effortless grace and surefire control was still there. Schwarz felt certain that Lefty could still hold his own with some of the pitchers currently plying their trade in the big leagues.

Podell was throwing to Bo Wiseman—the Detroit Tiger legend behind the plate—whose cheeks were still padded with trademark chaws of chewing tobacco. All in all, half the team out on the field was composed of former stars, while the other fielders, like Schwarz, were diehard fans eager to indulge themselves in a few days of rapturous fantasy.

The diamond was in better shape than most of the players, showing little sign of the previous day's rain, and out in the stands a few hundred spectators sat basking in the warm glow of the late-afternoon sun, enjoying the leisurely pace of the game and glimpses of the old-timers. Cameras snapped with regularity, and autograph hounds crowded lower railings near the playing field, hoping to get valuable signatures for their collections.

The leadoff batter was a lanky computer programmer from Michigan who managed to get a piece of a Podell change-up and drop it into shallow left field for a clean single. As former Dodger Doug Bendix stepped up to the plate, Schwarz grabbed a bat and made his way to the on-deck circle. He watched Bendix with unabashed admiration. Of all the retired players on hand for the three-day camp, there was none held in higher esteem by Gadgets than the great Doug Bendix.

When Gadgets was growing up only a short drive from L.A.'s Chavez Ravine, he had spent many a day watching the construction of Dodger Stadium, and when the Dodgers finally began playing there in 1962, Schwarz attended games at every opportunity. He invariably bought seats along the third baseline, the closer to the field the better, so that he could marvel at the way Bendix held down the hot corner. The only other player who came close to matching Doug's all-around talents as a third base man at the time was Baltimore's Brooks Robinson. In his dreams Schwarz foresaw a day when he would inherit their status as the best man at that position.

Of course, things hadn't turned out that way. Gadgets had trouble with the long throws across the diamond and had switched to second base, and although he earned a few accolades and the compliments of a couple of scouts while lettering in collegiate baseball, he knew that major league curveballs would prove his undoing. After serving his stint in Vietnam he had pretty much foresaken any plans of a career as a ball player. But none of that had diminished his adulation of Bendix.

Now in his mid-fifties, the ex-Dodger was a stocky presence at the plate, with large forearms and thick, powerful wrists that had been the secret of his bat control. Even now, as Lefty Podell served up a respectable reproduction of his former fastball, Bendix was able to wait until the last second before bringing his bat into motion. In a swift blur he drilled an opposite-field line drive that came within inches of decapitating Wyatt Jenkins, the grizzled old man who had been a longtime Dodger nemesis while managing the San Francisco Giants.

"I'm on your side now, Bendix!" Jenkins howled from the coaching box. "Aim that sucker somewhere else!"

"Sorry," Bendix called out from the plate as he picked up his fallen bat. His tanned, leathery face was drawn into a sincerely apologetic expression. There was no trace of the patented, good-natured impish Bendix grin that had graced so many covers of sports magazines in the sixties. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Gadgets Schwarz realized that he hadn't seen any display of his idol's humor over the two days he'd been at the camp. If anything, the third base man had been acting strangely somber, especially today.

As he dug back in the batter's box, Bendix's steely-gray eyes drifted momentarily away from the field and into the stands. For a moment a look of troubled surprise washed across his features, and before he could bring his concentration back to bear on the ball game, a second fastball whipped past him and popped loudly in Bo Wiseman's mitt.

"Steeeerike twooooo!" the umpire bellowed.

In the on-deck circle, Schwarz took a lazy swing with a bat weighted halfway down the barrel by a cast-iron doughnut. He watched with increasing concern as Bendix stepped out of the box and looked back into the stands, giving his head a slight shake. Schwarz glanced over his shoulder, trying to spot the object of Doug's attention. There were several dozen people crammed into that section of bleachers, and none of them were acting in a way that called attention to themselves.

Lefty Podell came back at Bendix with a slow, lazy curve that ducked easily under the batter's awkward, lunging swing. The ball bounced out of Wiseman's glove, but the catcher quickly pounced on it and tagged Bendix out, then hurled a devastatingly accurate throw to the first base man, nabbing the base runner before he was able to scramble back to the bag.

"Out!"

Wyatt Jenkins reassured the disheartened Michigander as he left the field, slapping dirt off his uniform. Schwarz went to the plate but paused outside the batter's box. He watched Bendix take his bat back to the dugout, then wander along the sidelines, where he patiently signed several programs and souvenir baseballs for young children while continuing to look up into the stands.

"Batter up!" the plate umpire told Schwarz.

Schwarz nodded and fell into his stance. Discounting friendly softball games, Schwarz hadn't swung a bat for almost fifteen years before he arrived at the ballpark the day before. A couple hours of batting practice had helped him regain some of his confidence, and as he prepared to face Podell, Gadgets forgot all about Bendix and devoted his full concentration to making sure he wouldn't make a fool of himself. He took Lefty's first pitch, a fastball straight down the middle.

"SteeeerikeOne!"

Schwarz let out a deep breath and looked down the third baseline. Another of the "campers" was playing even with the bag, bent over in a crouch, pounding his fist into his mitt and spitting into the dirt as he waited for the next pitch. He was chattering out of the side of his mouth in a high, strident voice. "Hey, badda badda. Gotta lame bat, gotta lame bat. Mow 'im down, Lefty. Hey hey hey!"

As Podell wound up and began his delivery, Schwarz suddenly squared around to bunt. The change-up came in slightly high and inside, but Gadgets was still able to slap it neatly onto the grass just inside the third baseline. Bursting out of the batter's box, he sprinted madly toward first, grinning to himself at the image of the startled third base man gawking stupidly at the slow roller headed his way. By the time the throw reached first,

Schwarz was already well past the bag, overrunning into foul territory. The umpire flashed the safe sign.

As he trotted back to the bag, Schwarz saw the third base man studiously avoiding his gaze. On the mound, however, Lefty Podell was smirking and shaking his head.

"Wise guy," he chided Schwarz. "You were supposed to swing for the fences on that one."

"If I had, I'd be up there with two strikes," Schwarz countered with a grin of his own.

Leon Phipps, better known for his ongoing role in beer commercials than for his exploits on the field, took his place in the batter's box and loosened the top few buttons of his uniform to leave more room for his barrel chest.

"Okay, Phipps, drive the kid home!" Wyatt Jenkins shouted from the coaching box.

Phipps fouled the first pitch into the bleachers behind the visitors' dugout. As a new ball was put into play, Schwarz noticed Doug Bendix talking with a tall, dark-skinned man in the stands. The stranger had short dreadlocks and was wearing a reggae T-shirt. Sunlight glanced off the gold he was wearing inside his mouth and around his neck. Arms crossed in front of his chest, the man in the stands seemed calm and unperturbed, whereas Bendix was visibly upset, even more than earlier. Several yards away from the two men, a woman in cotton shorts and a halter top was snapping photographs of the game from the sidelines. She wore some kind of laminated name tag on her belt. While Schwarz watched, she nonchalantly swung her camera around and took a quick shot of Bendix and the stranger.

For a man who prided himself on having both his feet planted firmly on land, Gadgets Schwarz possessed a sixth sense, that nether state of mind wherein lie intuition, pre-monition and other quirks of perception. If it weren't for his technological and mechanical prowess, he might have been tagged with a nickname playing off his paranormal tendencies. Psychic Schwarz. Damn, it sounded almost as bad as his real name, Hermann. Bad enough he had to endure wisecracks from his Able Team cohorts about a supposedly secret romance with Shirley Maclaine.

As he watched the two men and the woman along the sidelines, Schwarz had the feeling that there was far more going on than what met the eye. In addition to Bendix's atypical behavior, there was also something about the way the woman conducted herself that suggested she was more than just a photographer. She'd been at the ballpark the previous day as well, along with half a dozen other photographers, but for the most part she'd always kept to herself, and the shots she took always seemed to vary from what the others were taking. And the man in the stands was an entity all to himself, triggering countless cerebral alarms with his aura of brute strength lurking beneath a calm facade.

"Get yer mind on the game or yer gonna get yourself picked off, bub!"

Wyatt Jenkins's gritty voice chased away Schwarz's musings and brought him back to the game at hand. He took a slight leadoff, then bounded back to the bag when Podell threw to first. Safe. The first base man threw the ball back and Schwarz eased back off the bag again. This time Podell didn't bother with him. He threw a fastball to Leon Phipps and the fat man struck it squarely with the meat of his bat.

"Go!" Jenkins howled at Schwarz. "All the way home!"

The ball found a gap between left and center field and rolled all the way to the fence before recently retired Isiah Katt got to it. By then Schwarz was rounding third base and being waved home. He charged down the line, to where Bo Wiseman guarded the plate like a human wall, armored with shin guards, face mask and a chest protector as he waited for Katt's throw. Schwarz's combat instincts told him that the best way past the catcher would be to let loose a hellfire display of monkey kung fu, but somehow he didn't think martial arts were an acceptable weapon on the base paths. Instead he relied on a conventional slide, coming in feetfirst with all his strength and taking Wiseman's legs out from under him. Both men stirred up a cloud of dust around the plate, but it turned out to be all in vain because Podell had cut off Katt's throw and rifled the ball to second base in time to catch Leon Phipps before he could waddle in for a stand-up double.

Schwarz helped Wiseman to his feet, then headed back to the dugout, hobbling slightly from a bruised shin.

"Nice slide, bub," Jenkins told him. "Why don't you sit the rest out and slap some ice on that leg so it don't swell?"

As the ex-manager sent another camper out to finish the game at second, Schwarz followed orders and sat down long enough for the trainer to wrap a cold pack around his shin. He wasn't about to stay put, though. As his team took the field, he noticed a different player at third base, and Doug Bendix was nowhere to be seen in the dugout. The stranger in the stands was gone, too.

"Hey, Where's Bendix?" Schwarz asked the trainer.

"Had to leave," the trainer said, finishing with the gauze bandage and securing the end in place with a clip. "Some kinda family emergency. He'll be back tomorrow, though, I'm sure."

"Any idea what kind of emergency?"

The trainer was a beefy, red-faced man with an ill-fitting toupee. He grunted as he stood up and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a trainer, not a baby-sitter." He pointed at the cold pack clinging to Schwarz's shin. "Keep that sucker on twenty minutes, then get yourself some aspirin and you'll be good as new by morning. Nice bunt, by the way."

As the game resumed out on the field, Schwarz continued to worry about Bendix. If the man had indeed left for a family emergency, he suspected it wasn't the normal, accidental kind of trauma. Gadgets could feel in his bones that his childhood hero was in some kind of trouble. Serious trouble. But what kind? And with whom?

The woman photographer was down the first baseline, sitting on a rolled-up tarpaulin as she changed lenses on her camera. Ignoring Jenkins's advice, Schwarz left the dugout to join her.

She was in her early thirties, with close-cropped blond hair and hazel eyes. Light freckles played across her pale face. The laminated identification card on her belt said her name was Sandy Meisner.

"Excuse me," Schwarz said to her, "but I was wondering if I could ask a favor?"

Sandy snapped the lens into place and smiled up at Gadgets. It was a smile that stirred yet another of the man's senses, and he was thankful for the slight sunburn he'd gotten because it masked his embarrassment over the force of his instant attraction to the woman.

"Who do you want your picture taken with?" she asked as she stood up, ignoring Schwarz's extended hand.

"No, it's not that," Schwarz said. "I'm interested in getting a copy of a shot you already took."

"Of who?"

"Of Doug Bendix talking to a man in the stands."

The woman took a closer look at Schwarz, an enigmatic expression on her face. "Why?" she asked casually.

"Just curious."

"Bullshit." Her profanity startled Schwarz.

"Honest," he insisted.

Sandy eyed Schwarz for a long moment, then stretched her smile into a sly smirk. "I still don't believe you," she told him, "but I'll tell you what. How about if you take me out to dinner after the game and see if you can't convince me—"

"What?"

"You heard me," Sandy replied.

"But…"

"Oh, am I being too forward?" the woman asked. "This is the eighties, isn't it? You look like somebody who's been awake during the past decade. But maybe I'm wrong—"

"No, it's not that."

"You have other plans?"

"No."

"Then let's do dinner." Sandy smiled disarmingly. "See if you can bribe that picture off me."

Schwarz was taken aback by the woman's aggressive self-assurance. But he was also intrigued. And aroused. Here was someone to be reckoned with. "All right," he said. "You're on."

"Good."

I sure as hell hope so, Schwarz thought to himself.

Approaching its centennial, Palm Beach was still a tribute to the vision of its founder, rail baron and Rockefeller cohort Henry Flagler, whose turn-of-the-century mansion now served as a museum on Coconut Row. Like that resplendent mansion, the long split of land smacked of wealth and Mediterranean splendor, boasting sprawling estates with scenic views of both the Atlantic Ocean and the Lake Worth stretch of Florida's blue-ribbon In-tracoastal Waterway. High walls cordoned off the lushly landscaped properties from view of passersby on coastal Ocean Boulevard, but most of the homes were at least two stories high and anyone could view portions of the upper stories with their shrouds of bougainvillea and wisteria, their balconies and bay windows, and their lead-crystal windows tinted sufficiently to keep the sun's rays from fading priceless paintings hanging on the inside walls. Many of Florida's movers and shakers made their homes in Palm Beach, as did numerous other power brokers and out-of-state celebrities who craved a winter retreat from their less clement base of operations.

At night, these self-envisioned beautiful people could often be found at gatherings hosted by some well-to-do neighbor eager to maintain a position of influence in the cloistered community. Would-be Gatsbys pulled out all the stops when it came to entertaining, and under the warm glow of moonlight the relatively small peninsula pulsed healthily and wealthily with the notion that it was indeed the most vital organ in the state's, if not the entire nation's body.

Ah, yes, the rich are different.

Tonight, as dusk gave way to that tranquil moon glow, the party to be at was being thrown at the estate of J.B. Roberts. It was primarily a political gathering, intended to raise funds for gubernatorial candidate Nancy Groves, a charismatic hard-line Miami district attorney hoping to unseat incumbent Ron L. Gerard. It was a black-tie affair, with plenty of glitter on the ladies. Waiters floated through the crowd, carrying trays weighted with champagne in crystal goblets and beluga caviar heaped on tiny crackers. There was plenty of business at the bars inside the main hall and out on the back terrace, which afforded a view of both Fisherman and Everglades Islands. Strategically placed bug zappers popped each time a moth or mosquito ventured into their luminescent blue light.

Among those Groves supporters admiring the graceful ease with which the lady attorney made her rounds on the terrace was a tall, middle-aged man in a tailored tuxedo. He was inconspicuous in appearance, save for a slight outward turn of his upper ears and an unnaturally wide mouth that seemed to stretch even wider whenever he split his face with a cryptic smile. As if pressed to find a resemblance, some people thought of a character in the old Our Gang films and called him Alfalfa, although never to his face because, despite his tendency to grin, Joseph Janks did not possess a sense of humor. German born, Janks still spoke with his native accent and was also the embodiment of Teutonic reserve. He saved his passion for his business and his music, and in all other matters always appeared to be in a state of constant preoccupation.

Even now, as he watched Groves trade quips with a local society editor, Janks's smiling countenance had the rigidity of a mask, behind which his mind was decidedly elsewhere.

"If you'll take a close look at the quote under the Statue of Liberty," Nancy was saying, "you'll notice that there's mention of taking in the poor, the hungry and the huddled masses yearning to be free. It doesn't say anything about drug peddlers, shiftless opportunists or discarded criminals.

"Strong words, Ms Groves," the reporter cooed, raising an eyebrow between sips of Dom Perignon.

"And they'll be backed up by strong action once I'm in the governor's mansion," Groves asserted. She was short and thin, dressed modestly in a blue pastel suit with white trim. Though a year shy of fifty, she looked a dozen years younger and played it for all it was worth.

"Ah, Mr. Janks," she said, spotting the Miami businessman and excusing herself to join him. "So good to see you, as always."

"Likewise," Janks replied, bowing slightly as he took her extended hand. He knew from experience not to kiss it. One firm pump, like two equals. "A pleasure to see Palm Beach is behind you."

Groves smirked slightly and glanced over her shoulder at the milling throng. Lowering her voice, she whispered, "Well, we both know that half of them are here peddling their own programs instead of mine, but at least they paid into my campaign for the privilege, eh?"

"True, true."

"Speaking of which, I want to thank you personally for the check my people received from you. Quite generous, Joseph."

"The legal limit, that's all." A brief glimmer sparked in the man's narrow eyes. "Of course, that amount will be matched by some of my shadow corporations during the home stretch."

Groves put a finger to her crimson lips. "Please, Mr. Janks. Not another word. I still am the D.A., after all."

"Of course."

"By the way, how's that new condominium complex coming along?"

"Funny you should ask," Janks told her. "The planning commission just gave it the green light. A pleasant surprise, I must say."

In fact, neither of them was really surprised at all. Earlier in the week Groves had secured the cooperation of the commissioner who held the swing vote on the project by going lenient on the man's nephew, who'd been charged with the possession of a controlled substance. The nephew's arrest, in turn, had come about through a tip-off the police had received from a Janks-paid flunky who'd followed the youth for two weeks trying to catch him with the goods. Miami Police Chief James Brewster's political support for Nancy Groves and personal friendship with Joseph Janks completed the web that the planning commissioner had become so neatly ensnared in. It was a common case of political maneuvering, not unlike a hundred others taking place on a daily basis throughout this and every other nation on the globe.

Before Groves and Janks could pursue their conversation any further, they were joined by another man, half a head shorter than Janks and perhaps twenty years younger. His pale complexion contrasted sharply with Janks's weathered golf tan, and his large brown eyes sparked with anger. He ignored the district attorney and bored his gaze into Janks.

"I want to talk to you," he said harshly. "Alone."

"Very well." Janks sighed calmly and handled introductions. "Ms Groves, this is Kyle Lovecriss. Kyle, Nancy Groves."

"Hello." Lovecriss nodded at the woman while gesturing at Janks with his thumb. "I got an idea next time I see you I'll be serving up this bastard's head on a platter."

Groves smiled indulgently. "Well, perhaps I should speak to my nutritionist first. In the meantime, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen…"

Lovecriss waited until the woman was beyond earshot, then motioned down the terrace steps to a nearby garden area. "Down there," he commanded.

"Ah, stop to smell the roses, is that it?" Janks said, spending his weekly ration of wit.

Lovecriss led the way without responding. They went down the marble staircase and walked past a row of camellias and a trellis fragrant with night jasmine. After trading nods with a small group of conversing guests, the men sought out an unoccupied area flanked by tall hedges that blocked their view of the terrace.

"Tell me about Alex Cepeda," Lovecriss hissed at Janks once they were alone.

"Beg pardon?"

"Don't lie to me! You were behind it!"

"Behind what?" Janks frowned slightly and at the same time narrowed his face by pursing his lips. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"He was killed at my fields yesterday," Lovecriss explained. "Tied up and left to burn in a cane fire. The coroner needed dental charts to identify him. I just found out an hour ago, when the police came by to question me."

"How terrible," Janks reflected, stroking his angular chin. "But I don't see why you think I could have had anything to do with—"

"You want my land and you think this is one way of getting it!" Lovecriss raised his voice, then caught himself and lowered it again. "Well, it won't work."

"I realize you're upset, Mr. Lovecriss, but you're making some rather serious accusations. Quite slanderous, in fact."

"There's no slander in the truth, Janks!" Lovecriss jabbed his forefinger against the other man's sternum, almost pushing him off balance. "I've told the police to watch you, and their men will link you up with this, mark my word!"

"Get your finger off my tuxedo, Mr. Lovecriss," Janks advised. "And bother someone else with your hallucinations while you're at it. They tell me there are a number of qualified psychiatrists in West Palm Beach___"

Livid, Lovecriss jerked his hand back and closed his fingers into a fist. But, before he could use it someone restrained him from behind.

"Is not de boxing ring, mon," Pedro Carr informed Lovecriss, towering above him by nearly a foot. The Jamaican filled out a chocolate-colored tuxedo with satin trim and matching cummerbund. He let go of the shorter man and took a step back, giving Janks only a slight glance.

Lovecriss sized up Carr and reined in his temper. Without another word, he shot a fierce glare at Janks, then stormed off past the hedges. Carr stayed behind.

"Mr. Lovecriss is a little hot under the collar," Janks observed, brushing the front of his shirt where he'd been touched.

"We cool him off soon," Pedro promised.

As they started back toward the gathering, Janks caught Carr by the elbow, turning the big man to face him. "You have the Cubans ready?"

Carr smiled gold. "S/", mon."

"And the girl?"

"Her, too. Come see."

Clearing the garden, the men came back in view of the terrace. They could see Lovecriss seeking refuge at the outdoor bar. Carr drew Janks's attention to the other side of the wide opening, where a dark-haired woman caterer diligently restocked an hors d'oeuvres table.

Pedro whispered in Janks's ear, "She's from the Teaser. A pro, mon…"

Kyle Lovecriss soothed his nerves with a steady intake of alcohol, alternating between champagne and gold rum on the rocks. As the evening progressed, he was able to,push the murder of Alex Cepeda to the back of his mind. Both Janks and Pedro Carr had left the affair shortly after the confrontation, and their absence further helped to return Lovecriss's blood pressure to its normal level. He brushed elbows with several acquaintances, discussed polo strategy with fellow enthusiasts and placed a few friendly wagers on the upcoming baseball season, drawing big odds on the Braves, who did their spring training across the lake at West Palm Beach's Municipal Stadium.

Although he returned to the bar for refills of his rum drink, Lovecriss got his champagne from the hired help making the rounds with their goblet-laden trays. Whenever he was ready for another bit of bubbly, the same caterer appeared before him. She was a young woman with dark hair and a ready smile. Her dark, glittering eyes always held his gaze with a look of sultry hunger. Lovecriss openly admired her full, voluptuous body beneath its formal, black-and-white caterer's outfit and her copper skin which reminded him of an island beauty immortalized on canvas in the paintings of Gaugin. He had several of those high-priced artworks in his home, and his sexual appetite was always best sated by women who embodied that exotic beauty. By his fifth drink, the sugar baron knew he had to have her. As fate would have it, she even provided him with the first cue when she appeared with another tray of drinks, catching him alone near a stone railing that bordered the veranda.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself, sir." There was only a slight accent to her voice, and Lovecriss placed her from somewhere in the Caribbean. And that smile.

"A night like this, why not, hmm?" He took some champagne without taking his eyes off the woman. "What's your name?"

"Conchita."

"Lovely name. Tell me, Conchita, what are your plans for later on?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. It's a nice job. I'll probably keep it for a few years, then—"

"I meant tonight," Lovecriss interrupted. "When do you get off?"

"Whenever I can," she said with a smirk.

"From work, I mean." Lovecriss could feel his pulse quickening. Christ, what a vixen this one was.

Conchita sighed and fell silent a moment as another patron veered over to help himself to one of the half-filled goblets on her tray. When they were alone again, she told Lovecriss, "I'll be here late, until everyone's left."

"That could be hours."

She nodded, then added, "I do get a break, though."

"When?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I think you know," Lovecriss told her with a grin.

Conchita hesitated a moment and the smile receded from her face. Thinking through the haze of rum and champagne, Lovecriss wondered for a moment if he'd misjudged her. But then she smiled again and eyed him directly. "I'll find you as soon as I finish serving this tray. I know the perfect place for us to go-"

"Where?"

She started to walk off, teasing him, "It will be a surprise. Do you like surprises?"

He nodded. "Very much."

"Good."

Lovecriss found it difficult to restrain his enthusiasm as he watched the woman sashay away from him. Oh, what marvelous hips and long, firm legs. He fantasized himself lying on his back, her riding him with her skirt pulled up past her thighs, breasts swaying against her blouse as he fingered the buttons, seeking access to those twin mounds of soft delight. He could hardly wait.

Sipping his champagne, he spotted Nancy Groves and promptly shifted mental gears, deciding to tend to the Cepeda matter while he had a tailor-made opportunity. He strolled casually toward the district attorney, waiting until she had finished talking with another supporter before wandering into her line of vision.

"I owe you an apology," he said once he was sure she recognized him. "I'm afraid I was a little upset over another matter when we met."

"No offense taken," Groves assured him. "Mr. Lovecriss, is that right?"

"Yes."

"I assume you were upset about that murder at your canefield yesterday."

"Ah, yes, I'm afraid so." Lovecriss wanted Groves's help in linking the murder with Joseph Janks, but wasn't sure how to go about it. He suddenly and silently cursed himself for having sought her out in his inebriated condition. Shit, Kyle, what were you thinking? He blundered on, "I know you're based out of Miami and won't have anything to do with the investigation, but I was wondering if you knew the D.A. up here."

"Yes, I know Mr. Willis, but strictly on a professional basis. Why do you ask?"

"Well, it seems Willis is barking up the wrong tree on this whole thing," Lovecriss asserted. "He's under the impression that because Cepeda was leading the picket line at my fields that I'm the one who had him killed. But he's wrong, of course. I'm being framed."

"My guess is that he's questioning everyone associated with the circumstances, not just you," the candidate told Lovecriss. "Willis has a good reputation. Once he gets all the facts, I'm sure he'll draw the right conclusions. You shouldn't worry. Really."

Lovecriss wanted to discuss his theory about Janks, but he realized that she was being more patronizing than supportive of his situation, and he was wary that she knew he was operating on half a dozen drinks. Over Groves's shoulder, he could see Conchita waiting for him, holding a clutch purse.

"You're probably right," he told Groves. "Justice will win out in the end, eh? Well, look, I don't want to take up any more of your time. Best of luck on your campaign. It was a pleasure meeting you."

They shook hands and Lovecriss hurried over to join Conchita, exhaling with relief, convinced he'd managed to salvage the encounter. So much for business. Now it was time for pleasure.

"Come with me," Conchita told him, starting down the steps. She'd slipped a light coat on over her caterer's outfit, and the two of them were able to work their way past people on the grounds without being interrupted. Love-criss walked at the woman's side but made no effort to touch her, wary of drawing attention by exhibiting his attraction to her prematurely. Still, in the slight breeze he could smell a faint trace of the woman's perfume, and the delicate fragrance tantalized him.

They circled the main house and passed between a five-car garage and a two-story guest cottage. Conchita motioned for Lovecriss to follow her off the large horseshoe-shaped driveway and over to a small doorway in the long, tall brick wall that separated the estate from Ocean Boulevard. The door was made of thick iron and bronze, bearing a greenish patina from the play of the elements. It was also locked.

"I have a key," Conchita said, reaching into her purse.

"How'd you manage that?"

"I 'borrowed' it."

As she stepped into the recessed area and fit the key into the lock, Lovecriss joined her in the darkness, kissing her neck as he reached around her. The perfume behind her ears drove him wild with desire and his hands reached up to caress her chest. "I want you," he murmured huskily into her ear.

"Not here," she whispered, gently pulling herself away from him, taking care to gently brush one hand across the bulge in his loins. "It will be even better across the street."

"What?"

She smiled coquettishly and stepped aside so that Lovecriss could open the door. They passed through the doorway and found themselves nearly on the shoulder of Ocean Boulevard. Traffic snaked past them, and when there was a sufficient gap between cars, they hurried across the two-lane road toward another long, unbroken wall. This one barred public access to private beachfronts belonging to the homeowners on the other side of the street.

"You have a key for this, too?" Lovecriss exclaimed as Conchita hovered near the second gateway.

"I'm noisy when I make love," she told him as she sprang the second lock. "Here only the ocean will hear us."

Closing the gate behind them, the would-be lovers started down a flagstone path leading to a modest-sized redwood pagoda that rested on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic. Some thirty yards away, low waves broke and washed across the beach, scattering small birds on the sand. The moon's reflection rippled on the water, illuminating a number of small boats moored to a weathered dock that reached out into the ocean.

"Nice, yes?"

"Very."

Conchita took a few steps away from Lovecriss, her high heels pounding on the floor planks of the pagoda. When she turned back to him, she was already taking off her overcoat. Suspecting that she was going to strip for him in the moonlight, Lovecriss stayed where he was, intently watching her every move.

"How much time to do you have?" he asked her.

"More than you, my love," she told him.

"What do you mean?"

By way of reply, there was a sudden stirring behind Lovecriss. Before he could react, Pedro Carr loomed into view from the other side of the pagoda railing and slipped a thin, lethal garrote around his neck. At the same moment, Tony and Miguel appeared as if from nowhere and held Lovecriss's arms at his sides so that he couldn't reach for the cord. All three men wore thin cotton gloves. As Conchita watched with calm curiosity, Carr leaned into Lovecriss and jerked on the garrote with so much force that his victim was nearly pulled off his feet. He struggled briefly as the air was choked out of him, then went limp in Carr's arms.

The three assassins let go of Lovecriss and he crumpled to the floor of the pagoda. Moments later, there were footsteps on the wooden staircase and Joseph Janks joined the others. He glanced down at Lovecriss's body, then nodded with approval.

"Well done. I hardly heard a thing."

"That was the idea, mon." Carr removed the garrote from Lovecriss's neck and slipped it in his pants pocket. From inside his coat he removed a handgun, which was wrapped in a silk handkerchief. It was a Llama medium-frame autopistol, a small Spanish import packed with nine rounds of 9 mm parabellum. Carr had acquired the weapon on the black market as part of a drug transaction several months ago and had kept it for just such an occasion as this. Exposing the blue metal barrel and smooth walnut of the stocks, Carr carefully slipped the gun into the dead man's right hand so that it picked up telltale fingerprints. Then he rewrapped the pistol and placed it back inside his coat as he stood up, before signaling to Miguel and Tony.

The two Cubans positioned themselves at either end of the victim, then picked Lovecriss up and carried him from the pagoda down a sandy path to the beach, where they deposited the body into one of the motorboats. Miguel climbed in and started the engine while Tony waded alongside the craft in shallow water, dragging up the anchor and then guiding the boat away from the others until it was facing out to sea.

Back at the pagoda, Janks removed several hundred dollars from a money clip and handed them to Conchita. "You had best return to work before you're missed."

Conchita slipped the money inside her bra, then quietly left the pagoda, retracing her steps to the mansion. Janks and Carr waited until they saw the small launch plying its way out into the Atlantic, then followed the path back to the gateway.

"So far, so good," Janks said. "The Cubans will follow through on their end?"

Before leaving the beach site, Carr glanced back one final time at the retreating boat. He nodded grimly. "Yeah, they'll do it. Now let's go and do our thing."

The scrimmage game at Municipal Stadium lasted until sundown, and by the time Gadgets had showered, shaved and changed into street clothes, night had fallen on West Palm Beach. Gadgets drove over to pick up Sandy Meis-ner at the Palmetto, the same place where many of the participants in the baseball camp were staying. The hotel was a four-story complex dating back to the early twenties, still boasting some of its original Art Deco touches. An extensive renovation had been undertaken a few years ago, with great care given to preserving the architectural flavor of that period, and as he walked across the lobby to the registration desk, Schwarz had to concede that it had been a successful venture. He felt as if he'd stepped through time into a romantic setting straight out of a Hemingway novel. A ceiling fan stirred up the air around him as he leaned against the desk and waited for an emaciated male clerk to quit scribbling in the logbook and get off the phone.

"Yes, sir, may I help you?" The clerk was in his late teens, face ravaged by acne that hadn't diminished any of his haughty sense of self-importance. He spoke in a patronizing voice that jumped an occasional octave due to the belated influence of puberty.

"Could you ring Sandy Meisner for me?" Schwarz glanced at a business card she'd scribbled on the back of. "She's in room 217."

"Yes, I know." The clerk squinted through his hornrimmed glasses. "Are you Mr. Schwarz?"

When Gadgets nodded, the youth spun around and reached into a wooden mail slot for an envelope with Schwarz's name on it. There was a message from Sandy, saying she had a last-second errand to take care of and that she would be a few minutes late for their dinner date. She suggested that Gadgets wait for her in the bar or else leave a message if he preferred to cancel their dinner date.

"If she comes looking for me, I'll be in there," Schwarz told the clerk, gesturing through an adjacent doorway at the bar area of the hotel's restaurant.

"Oh."

Schwarz slid a five dollar bill across the counter. "Thanks."

The clerk nonchalantly slipped the money into his pocket. He smiled for the first time, revealing a mouthful of braces. "Sure thing, mister."

At the bar, Schwarz ordered a drink and took it over to a table where some of the other participants in the baseball camp were getting acquainted and discussing their day at the ballpark. Joining the group, he made himself at home, talking freely about his supposed career as an electronics repairman. He certainly had enough background in that area to present a convincing front. No way was he going to admit to his real profession as a member of Able Team, the three-man commando unit whose politically sensitive assignments invariably had their origin in direct orders from the White House. True, the exploits he'd undertaken as a government gunslinger would have made for better conversation than discussions about power circuitry and the reliability of modern appliances, but such was the nature of his job. Secrecy and discretion were paramount for Gadgets Schwarz, because his stake in the nation's security depended upon it.

Twenty-five tedious minutes passed, with Schwarz keeping one eye on the doorway while he kept up his end of the conversation. He finished his drink and excused himself from the table when he saw Doug Bendix trudge in and take a seat at the bar.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

Bendix glanced over at Schwarz with a faint glimmer of recognition. "Sorry, but I don't feel much like company."

Schwarz refrained from sitting down but he didn't leave. "I wore your number every chance I got when I played ball as a kid," he told Bendix. "If you need any kind of a favor—"

"You want to do me a favor, leave me alone, okay?" Bendix closed his hand around a shot glass filled with bourbon and drained the amber fluid in one swallow, then let out a sigh and turned back to Schwarz. "Look, I'm sorry, but I just had a rough day. Give me a good night's sleep and maybe we can have a chat over breakfast tomorrow, all right?"

"That's okay," Schwarz said, trying to hide his disappointment. "Just remember, the offer stands___"

Bendix smiled wearily. "If I thought you could help, I might take you up on that. Thanks, anyway."

"Yeah, sure." Schwarz started off.

Bendix called after him, "By the way, nice bunt this afternoon."

Schwarz grinned back at his boyhood idol, once again feeling his face flush. Leaving the bar, he saw Sandy crossing the lobby. She'd changed out of her shorts and halter top into a lightweight summer dress that matched the color of her eyes and complimented her willowy figure. A strand of small pearls clung loosely around her neck. Schwarz intercepted her at the registration desk.

"I'm so sorry," she apologized. "It's just that I had this—"

"No problem," Schwarz interrupted. "Still have an appetite?"

"I'm starving!" She led Schwarz away from the desk and lowered her voice. "I hate to say it, but the food here sucks. If you're game, I know a place on the water that has the best oysters and conch fritters on the coast."

"You're on."

As legend had it, at one point during the otherwise undistinguished history of Hypoluxo, Florida, a postal carrier working his route along the oceanfront took off his shoes so he wouldn't get sand in them while making rounds on the beach. Apparently someone snapped his picture and the wire services picked it up on a slow news day. A legend was born. Almost overnight, the barefoot carrier achieved celebrity status, nationwide, becoming a symbol for a small Florida town desperately seeking recognition. Now you couldn't go anywhere in Hypoluxo without seeing some reference to its favorite son. There were images of the barefoot mailman on the front of the local bank, on billboards at either end of town and, of course, at the local post office. And off a side road fronting the Intracoastal Waterway, there was even the Barefoot Mailman Inn, which claimed to be the first place in all of Hypoluxo where a shoeless delivery of mail had taken place. Somehow, so glorious a distinction had failed to rouse the interest of either tourists or the editors of travel magazines, and these days business was slow at the inn. It was, in fact, little more than a dilapidated three-room cottage surrounded by six even smaller cabins, which were forever hidden in the shade of untrimmed cypress trees. Between the lodging facilities and the un-paved parking lot was a fishing pond filled with brackish water and a few sluggish bream that were only half as big as the numerous bullfrogs that thrived off the bugs and mosquitoes that used the overgrown puddle for a breeding ground.

A few beams of moonlight probed through the cypress as Pedro Carr turned off the road and walked across the parking lot to the cabin where a yellow bug lamp flickered above the front steps. There were only three cars in the lot and no one else about. Carr blew smoke from a cigarette to ward off those mosquitoes not deterred by swipes of his hand. When he reached the cabin, Carr took one last drag, then flicked the cigarette against the nearest window. It thudded against the glass, scattering a few sparks before falling to the dirt.

Several seconds later, the front door of the cabin opened and out stepped Wes Quale, a burly, pipe-smoking man wearing a pair of bulky trousers held up by red suspenders that stood out against the white, rolling fat of his belly. The few remaining strands of his thinning hair had been dyed some dark shade that seemed to change colors when the light caught it at different angles, the way rainbows sometime appear on oil slicks.

"Whatcha say, Pedro," the big man drawled around his pipe. His dialect was white trash indigenous to no particular region. "You brung the money or what?"

"Yeah, I brung it, mon." Carr mimicked the fat man. "You just gots to earn it."

"Okay, so we drop the swamp talk." The man on the steps took the pipe from his mouth and banged it against his open palm knocking out a charred wad of tobacco. He started pinching in a fresh batch taken from a bag he pulled out of his trousers pocket. "I'm ready whenever you are."

"Good." Carr checked his watch. "He'll be here in two minutes. Better get to your car."

"How about you grease my palm with some monetary persuasion first?" From a backwoods drawl, Quale's voice had suddenly taken on the effete lilt of a Noel Coward dandy.

Pedro peeled a think stack of twenties from his wallet and gave the cash to the other man, who quickly counted it and shook his head. "So sorry to disappoint you, good sir," Quale said sniffing, "but I was instructed in arithmetic since I saw you last."

"You get the other half once you done your bit," Pedro told him.

Quale thought it over as he placed the twenties in his tobacco pouch. "An acceptable proposition," he finally decided.

The two men started back for the parking lot. Wes cleared his throat and spit into the fish pond on the way. "This is more enthralling than my last audition for the dinner theater, Pedro."

"Well, this time you already got de part, mon," Pedro reminded him. "Just don't blow your lines."

A car was coming down the road toward them, its headlights blinking through the foliage. Quale got into his ramshackle Ford Pinto and slipped the key into the ignition. He didn't try to start the engine, however. Instead, he glanced in the rearview mirror and watched Pedro disappear from view behind one of the cypress trees. Crazy Pedro, always with the weird ideas. This one took the cake. Since meeting Carr at a strip bar down the road in Boynton Beach two years ago, Wes Quale had undertaken a handful of short-terra assignments that invariably required his acting talents and kept him in enough cash to live a Spartan existence at the Barefoot Mailman Inn. In his spare-time, which was most of his time, he was secretly working on a one-act play about his father's escapades as a rumrunner during Prohibition. Tonight was yet another command performance. A couple hours of acting to pay the rent for three months. Not a bad deal at all.

The headlights belonged to a light gray Jaguar that rolled into the parking lot, looking as out of place as a Palm Beach socialite dropping in at the Salvation Army. The luxury car's lights and engines died simultaneously, and there was a short lull before Joseph Janks stepped out of the vehicle and began to walk across the parking lot toward the main cottage. Pedro Carr stepped clear of the cypress and blocked Janks's way, holding the Llama pistol in his gloved hand. He slowly raised the weapon, aiming carefully at Janks's left shoulder.

"Well, hurry it up," Janks told him. "Get this over with."

"Got to make sure I don't hurt you too bad, mon." Satisfied that he was on target, Pedro coughed loudly to get Quales' attention.

Wes was already in action, jolting out of his Pinto and rushing toward the other two men. He shouted at the top of his lungs, "What the fuck are you doing?"

Car pulled the trigger and Janks spun sharply to one side as a 9 mm parabellum slug burrowed into his shoulder. He could feel blood begin to soak through his suit as he slumped to the ground, cursing the burning sensation. If this was supposed to be a flesh wound, he sure as hell didn't want to find out what the real thing felt like.

For good measure, Pedro fired two more errant shots in quick succession, then dropped the gun in the dirt. He grinned at Quale, who was rushing toward him, then turned and ran from the parking lot, heading up the road to a tavern near Dixie Highway where he'd parked his Cadillac. He reached the bar undetected and went inside moments before the first siren howl of an arriving police cruiser cut through the night. Taking a seat at the bar, he ordered a shot of tequila. He'd have a few minutes to savor it before he had to move on to his next rendezvous.

"Ooh, he plugged you a good one, didn't he?" Wes Quale said as he looked at the blood bubbling up from Joseph Janks's bullet wound. Janks was lying in the parking lot with the other man hunched over him.

"He certainly did." Janks grimaced. The pain was intense and he felt light-headed, as if his sudden sweat was draining consciousness from his brain. Off in the distance he could hear the sirens. Closing his eyes, he whispered, "Now do your part and make it good."

"I always make it good." Quale sniffed. He rose to his feet as a short, prune-skinned woman waddled out of the main cabin, clutching a ratty housecoat around her scrawny frame.

"I jess called the po-lice, like you axed," she said, mincing her words through wobbly dentures. Glancing down at Janks, she clucked her tongue and added, "Called an amb'lance, too. He dead yet?"

Quale shook his head and started talking corn pone again. "Nope, Mrs. Newell. I believe his guardian angel musta been lookin' after him."

"What happened?" the woman wanted to know. "This is gonna hurt bizness! I'm tellin' ya!"

"Maybe not," Quale said. "This is prob'ly the most excitin' damn thing to happen around these parts since the mailman took off his shoes. If'n yer lucky, this guy'll die right here and you kin say you saw it happen. Change the name o' this place to the Ambush Inn and clean up!"

"You think so?"

"Yes'm. Most def'nitely so."

As Quale waved his arms to draw the attention of the arriving police, Mrs. Newell hovered above Janks, scratching her ear thoughtfully. She nudged the man slightly with her toe, and when Janks groaned and opened his eyes, she frowned and kicked him a little harder.

Officers piled out of both sides of the patrol car, guns in hand. Quale held his hands out at his side to show he wasn't armed.

"You can put those away, officers. He's already gone."

"Who's already gone?" one of the cops demanded.

Quale gave the officers a quick description, not of Pedro Carr but of Kyle Lovecriss, adding, "I was just gettin' ready to start up my car when I heard 'em carryin' on behind me. Must not of seen me. This guy here kept callin' the other guy Lovey Kiss or somethin', so I don't know if they were queer or what."

A paramedic van squealed onto the scene and pulled to a stop next to Joseph Janks before stilling its siren. By now a small crowd was materializing around the periphery of the parking lot to investigate the commotion.

Mrs. Newell eyed the mob hungrily. "Anybody need a room?"

One of the paramedics quickly sized up Janks's wound and tried to staunch the flow of blood while the other slapped an oxygen mask over the injured man's face.

While the older of the two policemen backtracked to the squad car and put out an all-points bulletin for the sup-posed assailant, his partner quickly surveyed the parking lot and walked over to the fallen pistol.

"I snuck up on the guy and tried to tackle him, but he got loose and ran off," Quale declared. "He musta dropped that."

The cop pulled out a handkerchief and carefully wrapped the Llama automatic in it. Several yards away, Joseph Janks was being loaded onto a stretcher by the paramedics. He summoned enough strength to get the officer's attention, then muttered Lovecriss's name through his mask before pretending to black out.

"Hey, Pete!" the cop shouted to his partner, "Wasn't that Cepeda murder tied up with some guy named Love-criss?"

The other cop nodded. "Yeah, he owns the field where they found the body."

"I thought so," the first cop mumbled, staring at the wrapped gun in his hand. "I think we're onto something here…"

Janks overheard the officer and had a hard time keeping up his facade. His shoulder continued to throb, but he ignored the pain. Most likely the wound would heal completely in due time. A small price to pay, all things considered. The ruse was playing out perfectly. As far as the cops were concerned, it was going to look like Kyle Love-criss not only killed Cepeda, but also tried to off Janks before taking flight to elude capture. And no matter how big a dragnet the law might cast, they weren't going to get their man this time. Provided the Cubans hadn't fucked up, Lovecriss was history.

The swells were calm enough for the small motor-boat to hold its own on the open sea. Miguel killed the engine and let the craft float as he moved forward to help Tony. The other Cuban had managed to layer almost the entire bottom of the boat with a thick strip of plastic sheeting. The body of Kyle Lovecriss was sprawled between the seats, his lifeless eyes looking up at the moon.

Both Tony and Miguel scanned the horizon in all directions. The coastline gleamed to the west, but the only other lights were from ships miles away from their isolated vessel. Overhead, a DC-10 banked to one side, circling around from its takeoff at West Palm Beach International and headed inland.

In their native Spanish, the two men exchanged a few words, steeling their nerve for their next initiation test. Then they fell quiet. The boat was silent except for the splashing of waves against the gunwales. Miguel held up a corner of the plastic sheeting while Tony pulled out a heavy, reinforced box that vaguely resembled a portable ice chest. He unsnapped the latches and carefully pried open the lid, revealing a six-inch deep residue of a foul-smelling white substance.

Miguel lowered the plastic back into place, then leaned back near the motor, where he grabbed a machete and a slab of wood two inches thick. After setting the wood on top of one of the plank seats of the motorboat, he pulled the long blade from its canvas sheath. Tony, meanwhile, picked up Lovecriss's right arm and laid it out across the slab. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable sound of the machete biting through flesh and bone. Thunk. When it was over, he looked and saw the severed hand sliding down the plastic into the bottom of the boat. It left a trail of blood. He quickly picked up the hand by its thumb and dropped it into the chest. The white substance, a combination of quicklime and acid, quickly began to eat away at the skin. Al-though he felt slightly nauseous, Tony couldn't take his eyes off the spectacle.

Miguel's eyes sparkled with intensity and he felt as if the rawest and most elemental power was surging through his forearms. He felt strong, invincible. He jerked Lovecriss around in the boat, placing his other hand on the chopping block and severing it as well.

Before Tony could dispose of the second hand, the Cubans were startled by a flapping sound behind them. They turned to see a brown pelican landing on the boat's prow, beating its wings as it eyed the boatman. Tony shouted at the bird, but Miguel hissed for him to be quiet. "zQu4 pasa?" Tony asked.

Miguel snickered to himself as he grabbed Lovecriss's hand and held it aloft for the pelican to see. Bobbing its head with the instincts of a beggar on a fisherman's pier, the pelican waddled a few steps closer and opened its bill in anticipation. Miguel tossed the bleeding hand and the pelican caught it in its fleshy pouch, then bobbed its head again, trying to reposition the meal for swallowing. Miguel laughed at the bird's efforts, seeing the contours of the hand bulging against the soft pouch lining. Tony's nausea got the better of him and he leaned over the opened chest, vomiting into the quicklime.

As the pelican retreated to the prow and waited for further handouts, Miguel chided his associate about his weak stomach and gripped the machete with both hands. Taking a mighty swipe, he brought the blade down full force against Lovecriss's neck, separating his head from his shoulders. Blood and ravaged tissue spilled from the opened gash. Miguel grabbed the head by a strand of hair and pitched it into the chest, laughing all the while.

Tony slammed down the lid and refastened the latches, taking deep breaths and lighting a cigarette to counter the sour taste in his mouth. With Miguel's help, they folded the thick plastic around what was left of Kyle Lovecriss, wrapping him securely so that no blood leaked onto the boat. Then they carefully wound a length of heavy-gauge chain around the body, knotting the loose end around both the chest of quicklime and a hefty anchor, which was a five-gallon plastic jug filled with concrete.

It took both men considerable effort to heave Lovecriss overboard without capsizing the craft, but once the corpse hit the water, it sank effortlessly. If it was ever found, there would be no identifying marks left, as the quicklime and acid would have effectively destroyed Lovecriss's entire head and his right hand. When Miguel started the motor, the pelican flew away to digest the only other means of identification. After getting his bearings, Miguel turned the boat around and headed southeast, searching the horizon for the signal lights of a larger, forty-five-foot cabin cruiser that was carrying a very important passenger the Cubans were to sneak back into Florida. Once that was done, he and Tony would at long last be admitted into the Little Havana Ligardos. As far as Miguel was concerned, it was about time___

Diggers was a wharf-style restaurant overlooking Boyn-ton Beach's share of the Intracoastal Waterway. The blare of a rock band reached beyond the indoor confines of the dance floor and echoed across the patio dining area outside. Late as it was, the restaurant was still jammed with patrons, and the aroma of seafood dishes permeated the air each time a tutu-clad waitress emerged from the kitchen with another trayload of entrees.

"Quite a hangout," Gadgets reflected as he watched the bustling activity. He and Sandy were waiting near the patio entrance along with nearly a dozen other people whose names were on a waiting list for tables. Schwarz also cast a periodic glance back at the parking lot, which was located adjacent to an offshoot of the Intracoastal that separated Diggers from another restaurant complex by a fifty-foot-wide expanse of water. Although he was trying his best to relax, his nerves were on edge, triggered by his sixth sense.

"You watch, it'll be worth the drive and the wait," Sandy promised. "How about if we get a drink at the bar for starters?"

"Fine," Schwarz said, "but I've already had my ration for the night. Training regulations, you know."

"Oh, right." Sandy laughed.

Before they could head inside, however, the hostess called out, "Schwarz, party of two!"

Gadgets got the hostess's attention and they were led to an empty table at the edge of the patio, near a lodgepole railing where several pelicans roosted. Half of them were real, the others carved. The tables were lit by faintly scented candles, and overhead strings of lamps dangled from Campari umbrellas. Sandy ordered a whiskey sour and Schwarz requested iced tea. As the waitress handed them menus and ventured off to another table, Sandy asked Gadgets, "Okay, so much for niceties. How about if you tell me why you really want that photo you asked me about earlier?"

"Collectors' item," Schwarz lied after a moment's hesitation. "That guy Bendix was talking to was the last guy to pitch to him in the majors. Vince Xavier. Only big-league pitcher whose last name began with X."

"Try again."

"Hmm?"

"I don't believe you," Sandy told him. "And I don't believe that story you told me on the way over here about you being a pest exterminator."

The waitress returned with their drinks and said she'd be back in a few minutes to take their orders. Schwarz squeezed his lemon wedge into the iced tea as he eyed the woman photographer. "That part was true. I do deal with pests."

"What kind of pests?"

"Oh, you know, your basic vermin."

Sandy stirred her whiskey sour with a swizzle stick, then drained half the drink in one long swallow. She licked her lips, staring past Schwarz at a stylish schooner gliding down the waterway behind him. Then she shifted her gaze to Schwarz and declared, "I know for a fact that guy in the stands wasn't this Vince Xavier you're talking about."

"Really? Then who was he?"

"I think you know," Sandy insisted. "That's why you want the photo. Look, why don't you just come clean with me?"

Schwarz smiled thinly at the woman. "What goes around comes around."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning you're holding back on me, too." Gadgets folded his menu and set it aside. "You really expect me to believe you take pictures of ball players for bubble gum cards?"

"It happens to be the truth."

Schwarz shook his head. "Most of the shots you were taking at the ballpark weren't of the players."

"Maybe, maybe not," the woman replied. "Could be I do a little free-lancing on the side, taking shots for the local papers." She offered a smile of her own. "Could be I just wanted to be mysterious enough to get your attention, hmm? Maybe I wanted to concoct some elaborate scheme to get you alone."

Gadgets shook his head. "If that was the case, you wouldn't have brought me to a place like this, and you wouldn't have had your boyfriends tag along behind us."

The woman seemed genuinely surprised. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"We were followed all the way here by two guys in a green Chevette," Schwarz told her. "They're in the bar now, doing a half-assed job of looking inconspicuous."

Sandy didn't bother glancing over her shoulder toward the bar area. "I saw about twenty guys there and I didn't know any of them. Besides, I wouldn't be caught dead with anyone who drives a Chevette, no matter what color it is."

Schwarz ignored the denial. "One of them has a red beard and the other's got blond hair and is wearing a Hawaiian print shirt. Now, are you going to level with me or should I go ask them for some answers?"

Sandy sighed. "Okay, Sherlock, since you know so much, first tell me something. Why would I have us followed after I asked you out for a cozy little dinner and maybe a good time afterward?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me," Schwarz confessed. "But if I had to make a guess, I'd say it's because I asked for that photograph. You think I know something about the guy Bendix was talking with and you want to bait me into showing my hand."

Sandy calmly finished her drink without responding. Gadgets stayed at the table, not bothering to confront the men at the bar. The waitress returned and they ordered a sample platter of oysters, clams on the half shell and conch fritters. When they were alone again, Sandy looked directly across at Schwarz. "I was hoping part of the reason you were here was because you found me attractive."

"Guilty as charged," Gadgets admitted. "But how about if we clear up this other mess first."

"Business before pleasure?"

"Exactly."

Before either of them could begin to shed light on their mysterious backgrounds, however, they were distracted by a commotion in the water behind them. A small motor-boat was rounding the bend in the wharf and heading down the channel that split off from the Intracoastal. Three men were in the craft, and one of them stood up as the boat slowed down, leaning toward a larger vessel already moored at the dock that ran adjacent to the restau-

rant patio. Using the other boat for leverage, the man started to pull his own craft up to the dock. As he was doing so, a thirty-foot coast guard launch roared onto the scene, cleaving a wake in the channel waters. A spotlight mounted on the ship's deck threw its harsh beam at the motorboat, and on either side of the fixture Gadgets could see the silhouettes of guardsmen readying automatic rifles.

"You, there in the boat! Freeze!" The command from the coast guard sounded through a hand-held bullhorn and was quickly repeated in Spanish.

Those in the smaller boat ignored the warning, however, and quickly scrambled onto the docks. One of the men, Tony, yanked out his Detonics Mark VI and fired three quick shots at the boat, clipping one of the guardsmen and knocking out the spotlight. Miguel had a similar weapon, and he fired several shots over the heads of the restaurant patrons to create a diversion while he helped the third man up a flight of stairs leading from the docks to the waiting area near the hostess station. Unarmed, the third man, whose pale face contrasted sharply with the dusky skin of the Cuban, wore a seersucker suit and carried a small, incongruous-looking knapsack and an obviously heavy attache case. Miguel had to drag him along to keep the man from lagging behind.

At the sound of the first gunshot, Sandy had leaned sharply to one side, not only to get out of the line of fire, but also to reach into her purse for a Ruger Police Service-Six, the 707 model with a four-inch barrel and .357-caliber ammunition. Ignoring Schwarz, she used the railing for cover as she darted past hysterical diners, joining the two men who had abandoned their surveillance inside the bar to give chase to Miguel and the man he was trying to smuggle ashore.

Gadgets wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but he reacted on instinct, realizing that the coast guard was wary of firing at the man on the docks for fear of hitting innocent bystanders at the restaurant. Showing no signs of being hampered by his bruised shin, Schwarz bounded up over the railing and jumped down onto the docks, landing full force on the unsuspecting gunman.

Tony's knees buckled under Gadgets's weight, and he fired a wild shot into the water as he instinctively tried to blast his way to freedom. In his native Cuba, Tony had earned a reputation as a wrestler, and when Schwarz failed to neutralize him with a pair of karate chops to the upper neck and shoulders, he used his body as a fulcrum and shifted both his and Gadgets's weight.

Feeling himself being propelled over Tony's shoulder, Schwarz readied himself for his anticipated landing against the hard planks of the dock. Instead, only his ankles banged against the wood as he flew clear of the walkway and into the water.

Tony turned away from Schwarz, trying to gauge his best avenue for escape.

"Freeze!" came a second warning from the coast guard ship, which had eased its way closer to the dock.

There was no way Tony was going to let himself be captured. He was too close to the realization of his dream. Lowering to a crouch, he pulled the trigger of his Deton-ics, putting a bullet through the brain of a guardsman on the ship's foredeck. When he turned to flee, gunfire from the ship gnawed the wood around him. The bullets found flesh, climbing up Tony's leg and laying waste to the Cuban's spine. He toppled headlong onto the steps, gashing his forehead so that still more blood seeped between the planks.

The coast guard craft idled near the docks long enough to dispatch two agents down a rope ladder to tend to the fallen Cuban. Schwarz, who had come to dinner without any firepower, dragged himself out of the water and beat the feds to Tony's corpse. He snatched up Tony's Deton-ics and told the guardsmen, "I'm going after the others!"

"Wait! Who are you?"

Schwarz didn't bother answering. He took the steps two at a time, and those on ground level gave him a wide berth as he charged past them to the parking lot. A third man had joined Sandy and her two mysterious cohorts. They were lowering their guns rather than firing at a late-model Cadillac that sped from the scene. The man in the suit was gone. Miguel lay dead in the middle of the lot, brought down by a volley of lead.

When Sandy noticed Schwarz coming forward with the Detonics, she whipped her Ruger around and took aim at his heart. "DEA," she identified herself. "Put the gun down, pal, slow and easy___"

Two men appeared through the morning mist on Virginia's Skyline Drive, running alongside each other in an easy, effortless rhythm, like coordinated parts of a smoothly running machine. Yet, despite their tandem movements, the two men bore little physical resemblance to each other.

Carl Lyons was six-two and 190 pounds of well-toned muscle. He pushed himself along on thick, sinewy legs that had served him so well a lifetime ago, when his prowess as a college linebacker made him seem destined for a notable career in the NFL. Things hadn't worked out that way, however, and the uniform he ended up wearing was that of a cop. LAPD. Dragnet country. He'd gone up against the crime element with the same tenacity with which he'd faced opposing football players, perhaps even more, given the higher stakes of those clashes off the gridiron. The Justice Department had gotten hold of him next, running him through the gauntlet of pure hell that was the turf of their Organized Crime Strike Force. And all the physical ordeals and trauma he had endured during those three stints had been only a preparation for his greatest challenge as part of the three-man pack of shit-kickers known as Able Team. His foes were now the dregs of humanity, and he more often than not met them on a field where life was cheap and the only rule was survival at any cost. Survive he had, hardening himself with each encounter. Lyons was in prime condition, even though he was well aware that nature would soon begin to penetrate his blond scalp with those first, inevitable strands of gray hair that heralded the approach of middle age.

Rosario Blancanales's hair had already turned from brown to white, even though he was no more than a few months older than Lyons. His own personal road to Able Team had been equally impressive, with early training amid the barrio gangs of East Los Angeles and San Ysi-dro, followed by years of brutal combat in the hellhole of Vietnam. Three inches shorter and fifteen pounds lighter than his running partner, Blancanales was nonetheless a formidable specimen on his own. Big-boned and yet at the same time wiry, "Politician" had a fluid stride that spoke of an ability for stealth and quiet pursuit. He had no trouble keeping pace with Lyons's naturally longer gait, and as the two men veered off the road and started down a pathway leading to Stony Man Farm, he broke into a sprint that the other man at once took as a challenge.

"Last man to the gate does inventory!" Pol taunted.

"Suit yourself, loser."

Side by side, the two men poured on reserves of stamina, coaxing one last surge of adrenaline to take them to the finish. Halfway to the heavily fortified gate, where armed sentries stood guard, Blancanales began to inch ahead. Almost simultaneously, he felt a sharp, burning twinge in his thigh. Cursing, he quickly slowed down, giving up the race in favor of pampering the sore leg. A slow-healing bullet wound was once again making its presence known, and Blancanales was angry with himself for having aggravated the injury.

Lyons refused to finish the race, pulling up short of the gateway and backtracking to his comrade, a look of concern on his face.

"You all right, Pol?"

Blancanales gritted his teeth and nodded, walking in a tight circle to keep the leg loose. "Just a warning throb, amigo. It already feels better."

"Yeah, maybe so, but I think we better can the forty-yard dashes for a while, eh?"

"Could be," Pol conceded.

They walked to the gateway, and the ache in Blanca-nales's thigh continued to subside. He figured a little time in the whirlpool and a good slap of liniment and he'd be all right.

The guard at the gate had a message when he let the men back into Stony Man Farm.

"Chief wants to see you guys, pronto. He just called."

Lyons and Blancanales exchanged glances.

"Don't look at me," Pol joked, raising his voice to mimic a whining child. "I made my bed this morning."

"So did I," Lyons played along, "and I brushed my teeth after breakfast, too."

"Gee, Wally, then maybe we're gonna get a bigger allowance. Wouldn't that be neat?"

"Aw, Beave, I dunno. I think we're gonna get stuck doin' some more chores."

Blancanales pouted as they passed through the gate and headed past the stands of hardwoods and conifers bordering the isolated, inconspicuous grounds that played as vital a role in the nation's security as either the Pentagon or CIA headquarters in nearby Langley. "You're probably right, Wally. I'll bet he's gonna want us to go after some more bullies or somethin' like that, huh?"

Lyons nodded, grinning mischievously, "Yeah, we'll have to kick us some ass, Beave!"

"Wally!" Pol whined. "You shouldn't oughta talk like that. We could get inta trouble."

"Nah," Lyons scoffed. "Eddie talks like this all the time."

"Yeah, but this isn't 'Leave it to Eddie.' It's 'Leave it to Beaver,' so cut it out, okay?"

"Okay, Beave, suit yourself."

The two men quit wisecracking as they headed down the service road leading to the heart of the Stony Man complex. The morning fog was lifting from the Blue Ridge Mountains, and the four-thousand-foot peak after which the farm had been named came into view in the distance, looking like the profile of some elder statesman pondering the problems of the day. The turboprop drone of a Cessna Corsair drew their attention to a nearby airfield, and when they veered over to investigate, they found mechanics giving the Model 425 a last-minute service check under the supervision of Stony Man's resident fly-boy, Jack Grimaldi. Grimaldi had defected from the Mob during the Mafia wars waged by Stony Man One, Mack Bolan, and in recent years he'd proved an invaluable addition to the outfit's clandestine operations, not only as an operator, but also as a field warrior who'd paid his dues in Southeast Asia years before.

"Where you off to?" Lyons asked the pilot once he and Blancanales reached the tarmac. He had to raise his voice over the Cessna's roar.

"Florida," Grimaldi shouted back. "And you guys are coming with me."

"That so?"

Grimaldi nodded and glanced at his watch. "Takeoff's in twenty minutes, so you best get cracking."

"Something up with Gadgets?" Pol asked.

"Yep. Brognola will give you the lowdown. He's waiting for you."

"So we've been told."

Lyons and Blancanales commandeered a three-wheeled service cart to gain a little time clearing the five hundred yards to the Farm's four-building complex. They found Hal Brognola on the front porch of the main house, which had been built with a deliberately deceptive exterior so that it looked like just another country estate owned by some reclusive member of the diehard Virginia gentry. Stony Man's chief of operations and liaison with the Washington bureaucracy, Brognola was older than most of the men who worked under him, and supervisory responsibilities had tacked perhaps a few more years to his appearance. He was on the phone, absently chomping on a long cigar as he scribbled notes in his own indecipherable brand of shorthand. When he saw Lyons and Blancanales, he wrapped up his call and set down the receiver, shaking his head with disbelief.

"What's with you guys that you can't take a vacation without getting yourselves in trouble?" he wondered aloud, eyes on Blancanales. "First you go off to play Hollywood big shot and end up in deep shit with the mob, and now Schwarz flies down to Florida to play a little baseball and I find out he's got his butt mixed up with some major drug investigation."

"You're kidding."

Brognola got up from the pine rocker he'd been sitting in. "Have I ever been known to kid, Blancanales?"

"Nope."

"What was that?" the chief barked, staring straight into Pol's face. "I know this isn't the Axmy, but I am your commanding officer. Now what did you say?"

"Nope…sir!" Pol corrected himself, barely able to conceal the winning grin that had long ago earned him the nickname Politician.

"Ah, you guys are hopeless," Brognola groused. "Come on, I'll fill you in while you pack."

The men's lodgings were up on the second floor, and as Lyons and Blancanales hurriedly filled overnight bags with toiletries, changes of clothes and their favorite personal weapons, Brognola briefed them about Schwarz's strange chance encounter with Sandy Meisner. Sandy had turned out to be part of an undercover team of Drug Enforcement Administration operatives following through on an extensive investigation of heroin connections along the Florida coast.

"The strongest lead they had was a tip-off there was going to be a major drop along the Intracoastal in Boyn-ton Beach last night," Brognola told them. "It involved a man whose picture was taken with Doug Bendix at the ballpark, so when Schwarz asked this Meisner woman for the photo, she thought maybe he was in on it."

Lyons laughed. "That's a good one. The only drug I ever saw Schwarz take was something to fight off Mon-tezuma's revenge that time we went after the XCTs in Honduras."

"Well, she wasn't in a position to know that," the chief explained. "Of course, once they brought Schwarz in for questioning, things got cleared up… sort of."

"What do you mean, sort of?" Pol asked.

"Well, at some point down the line it was figured out that Meisner served in the field with Cowboy back when he was with DEA. That naturally raised a few eyebrows here, and to make a long story short, you guys are going down there with Kissinger to see if a little extra push might help put a crimp on this whole heroin business. I don't need to tell you how serious it's gotten down there, even after they busted up those guys trying to reopen the French Connection."

Brognola was interrupted by the sound of a fourth man entering the room. John "Cowboy" Kissinger had replaced Andrzej Konzaki as master armorer for Stony Man Farm. He'd been brought into the organization after stints at the DEA and CIA, as well as years of experience as a free-lance weapon smith. Like Grimaldi, he was often called upon to round out Able Team's power on the battlefield, and he had the build and stamina for it. At six-two and two hundred pounds, he was the biggest man around the farm, and when he wasn't laboring over the Stony Man arsenal, trying to find ways to improve the performance of various weapons, he did what he could to stay in shape. It showed.

"I'm ready to go," he told the others.

"So are we," Lyons said, closing the snaps on his luggage. "Hell, between us and the DEA, we ought to be able to put all these punks out of business and have a little time left over to hit Fort Lauderdale and drool after some of the beach bunnies."

"I hope you're right," Brognola said. Deep down, though, the chief was concerned. Most people on the street wouldn't rank drug smugglers on the same level as terrorists and Mafia hit men when it came to brutality, but from some of the stores Kissinger had told from his days with the DEA, Brognola knew that substance abuse was a breeding ground for some of the most savage animals ever to walk on two legs. He repeated, this time under his breath, "I hope you're right."

Pedro Carr had already discarded the stolen plates he'd slapped on his Cadillac prior to his trip north the night before. Now he was tending to the last detail; it was a more drastic modification. No longer was his pride and joy crimson in color. Instead, the Cadillac now had a gleam that matched the gold fillings in his mouth, and Carr actually found himself preferring the new look. Crimson had been cool, but gold was bad. Real baaad, mon.

The car sat in the back corner of a Miami salvage yard, where hundreds of other vehicles were strewn and stacked, stripped and twisted, raw like carcasses picked half-clean by predators. There was a small, dilapidated-looking workshop half-hidden amid the piled wrecks, and the Cadillac had undergone its paint job inside a cramped, sealed chamber in the rear of the structure shortly after Carr had driven it back from Boynton Beach.

Despite its run-down appearance, the salvage operation was a lucrative one for Pedro, and it was also the one activity he ran with complete autonomy, never having to answer to Joseph Janks. Located in a decrepit neighborhood roughly equidistant between Little Havana, Little Haiti, and black-dominated Liberty City, the site proved ideal as a base for dealing with the gangs that called those three sectors their home turf. Fencing stolen cars and chopping them up for parts in the back of the lot, Carr catered to blacks, Haitians and Cubans with equal agree-ability and shrewdness, establishing an ongoing rapport that put him in a rare position of being a broker with ties to all three. It was a delicate power base, since he had to deal with each group—and individual gangs within each group—separately, so that the Cubans were unaware that Carr was chummy with the Haitians, the blacks had no knowledge of his dealings with the Cubans, and so on.

Just serving as a conduit for auto theft rings was lucrative enough a sideline to support Carr's extravagant lifestyle, but he wasn't one to limit himself in the face of increased opportunity. By linking up with Janks and serving as a middleman between the businessman and the gang members he called upon to carry out his dirty work, Carr found that he could more than double his income. There were additional risks, of course, but risks and danger had the same potency as drugs and money when it came to arousing Pedro Carr. He knew that he was walking a very fine line between the most highly-charged of lives and the most grisly and brutal of deaths, and each day he made that walk successfully he felt more euphoric.

Carr was carefully removing stray shreds of masking tape from the back windshield of the Cadillac when a man emerged from the workshop, yawning and stretching his limbs. He was still wearing his suit from the day before and there was stubble on his unshaved face. Lean and scrawny, the man had the doe-eyed look of a French bo-hemian, which he was, in a way. Though he came from Paris and lived a renegade life-style, he had little interest in the arts or any of the other trappings of those who wallowed in self-importance along the Left Bank. Jacques LeTorq's passion and specialty involved the delicate process by which morphine base is converted into heroin.

"Bonjour, mon," Carr greeted the younger man. "Sleep okay?"

LeTorq shook his head and reached behind his neck, trying to loosen a pinched nerve. "I come all the way to America to sleep on a cot?"

"That will change soon enough, my friend." Pedro toweled off tape residue from the glass and stood back to admire his Cadillac. "This is some car, yes?"

LeTorq shrugged. "If you are a pimp, yes."

Pedro's eyes narrowed. He took two steps, planting himself in front of the Frenchman, who was easily eight inches shorter. "You trying to make fun of me, mon?"

LeTorq met Carr's gaze without flinching. "Par-donez-moi," he said sarcastically. "I'm hungry. I get rude when I'm hungry."

Carr pointed to a desk just inside the workshop. "There's some breakfast in de bag."

LeTorq smiled thinly and went inside long enough to open a sack on the desk. He looked back at Pedro over his shoulder, not pleased. "Doughnuts? You want me to eat doughnuts?"

"When in America, mon…"

LeTorq crumpled the bag with the doughnuts still inside, then stepped outside and heaved it as hard as he could, scaring a pair of crows off the hood of an old rusting Datsun that looked as if it had been in a head-on collision. The bag tore as it bounded off the car's windshield and the crows circled back moments later, lured by the smell of the discarded sweets.

"I want to see the head man," LeTorq demanded.

"And I want to see Bob Marley," Carr said, "but I can't because he's not around. You know what I mean, mon?"

"No."

Carr shook his head and muttered something under his breath before telling LeTorq, "Look, Frenchmon. That shoot-out when you were brought here, it was not for a television show. People died. The police are not very happy and they would like to find your little French ass and put it in a little room with bars. We are taking care of you so this does not happen. Later you will have a chance to live like a big shot and spend your money on expensive breakfasts. But not now. Now you do what we call 'lie low.' Comprenez-vous?"

"For how long?"

Carr checked his watch. "I have a guy coming in an hour. He will take you to get new clothes and show you where you will be living and working. You will like it, okay?"

"Just an hour?" LeTorq said. "Why didn't you say so before?"

Carr laughed, "I like to see a Frenchmon go crazy. Shit, mon, you just like a cartoon___"

Joseph Janks awoke in a private room at St. Mary's Hospital in West Palm Beach, and pain from the bullet wound in his shoulder awoke with him. He buzzed for a nurse, then propped himself up in the bed and stared at the wall clock in front of him. 10:57. There was sunlight streaking through the blinds so he knew it was morning. He'd slept nearly twelve hours. He vaguely recalled nurses coming in several times during the night to check his pulse and blood pressure, but prior to that there was a blank spot of time that had begun shortly after his arrival at the hospital, when an anesthesiologist had put a gas mask over his face and told him to start counting backward from a hundred. He'd gotten to ninety-five.

The nurse was a short, stocky woman with curly reddish hair. She came in with a small plastic cup holding two pink pills.

"Good morning, sir," she said, filling a glass on the nightstand with water. "Did you want something besides your medication?"

"A newspaper, if that's possible."

"I'll see what I can do. Now take your pills."

"What are they?"

"One is for pain and the other is to prevent infection."

Janks took the pills and swallowed them with water. As the nurse inflated a Velcro-adjustable collar around his biceps to read his blood pressure, he asked her, "Did they get the bullet out?"

"Yes. The doctor will be in shortly, and he'll tell you about it." The nurse charted Janks's blood pressure. "You're doing quiet well, though. A lucky man, you are."

"I guess I am at that," Janks said. "I think I'd like some breakfast as well, if that's all right."

"It's too late for that, but I'll see about bringing you an early lunch."

"Thank you very much."

"Not at all." The nurse smiled and started out. She stopped in the doorway and glanced back. "Oh, I almost forgot. There's a woman here who would like to see you. A Mrs. Groves. She said it was urgent."

"Send her in, would you?"

The nurse nodded and headed out. Janks saw a police officer standing guard outside his room and felt a sudden rush of paranoia. Was he under arrest? Had he said something while under medication? Was Groves here to interrogate him? No, no, it's not her jurisdiction, he thought, trying to clear his head. Think straight, Janks. Get your mind off the pain. This is the time to show your strength. He sat upright in the bed and adjusted the ill-fitting hospital robe around him.

Nancy Groves entered the room, wearing a far plainer dress than the one she'd had on the night before. She closed the door behind her and hurried to a seat next to Janks's bed.

"How are you, Joseph? You look terrible."

"Hospital food." Janks laughed lightly. "I feel quite well, actually. All things considered."

"I was concerned," she told him. "I was still at the party when I heard the news. Do you really think it was Lovecriss who shot you?"

Janks nodded gravely. "I'm afraid so."

"But why?" Groves wanted to know. "Did it have something to do with what you two were arguing about?"

They were interrupted by the nurse, who came in with both a newspaper and a tray of snacks. Janks took advantage of the diversion to take a deep breath and force himself to relax. He was sure now that he wasn't under arrest. Groves wouldn't have been allowed to see him otherwise. All he had to do was nurture along the ruse that had begun when Pedro Carr had shot him with the gun bearing Lovecriss's fingerprints.

Janks, holding his gauze-wrapped shoulder, thanked the nurse and waited for her to leave the room before continuing his story. "You see, just before that whole business with the killing of Alex Cepeda, I happened to run into Lovecriss at a restaurant across the street from his office on Olive. We both go back a few years together, as you know. Fraternity brothers and all that. I offered to buy him a drink, and he started in on all these problems he was having with the migrants trying to organize at his cane fields. The man was obsessed, quite literally. He said something about wishing he had some mob connections so he could hire out some people to strong-arm this Ce-peda fellow."

"I see," Nancy murmured, taking it all in.

"Care for any of this?" Janks asked, gesturing at the plate before him, which contained a fruit salad and a turkey breast sandwich. When the woman shook her head, Janks helped himself to a bite of pineapple, then continued. "At the party, Lovecriss pulled me aside because he wanted me to swear I wouldn't mention his remarks about Cepeda. At the time I didn't even know the fellow had been killed, but that didn't matter. I told him I couldn't very well lie under oath if it were to come to that. He asked me again, and when I still refused, he threatened me and stormed off."

"Threatened you? How?"

Janks bought more time by taking a bite from his sandwich and slowly chewing it. He'd already thought through the cover story carefully, but the painkillers were making it difficult for him to remember. Finally it came to him.

"He said he had some dirt on me from our college days and would use it against me if I talked." Janks opened a can of orange juice and sipped it, then resumed. "I had no idea what he was talking about, but when I got back to my hotel room, he'd left a note for me that said I was to meet him at the Barefoot Mailman Inn by eleven o'clock or he was going to go ahead and discredit me before I had a chance to tell anyone about our discussion."

"You were a fool to go to him under those conditions," Groves told him. "You should have called in the police."

Janks smiled blandly. "Oh, fair hindsight. Of course you're right. But at the time I thought it best to deal with this matter man to man. For my stupidity I now have a hole in my shoulder to go with the one in my head."

"Thank goodness it's only that."

"Yes indeed." Janks quickly finished the sandwich, then dabbed his lips with a napkin. "Tell me, Ms Groves, have they apprehended Mr. Lovecriss yet?"

She shook her head. "No, but they checked his house and there was luggage and clothing missing, according to one of his maids. The feeling is he packed a few things and made a run for it. God only knows where he could be now."

Janks summoned forth a display of righteous indignation and pounded his hand on the armrest. "If he killed that other fellow and nearly killed me, I only hope they find him before he can strike again."

"Me, too." Groves hesitated a moment, then leaned forward in her chair, thrusting herself fully into Janks's line of vision. "You're telling me the truth about all this?"

"But of course!" Janks insisted. "I can't believe you have to ask."

"It's because of that contribution you made to my campaign, Joseph. I know that it was legal, but if you get drawn too deeply into this whole Lovecriss thing, reporters are apt to start prying. I don't need to tell you what they might turn up. It could be devastating. To all of us."

"Especially to you and your campaign." Janks stated the obvious bottom line to the woman's visit. He smiled indulgently and gave Groves a gentle, platonic pat on the shoulder. "You have nothing to worry about on my account, Nancy. I keep a clean house."

Groves sighed and rose from her chair. "I'm glad to hear that, Joseph. I should let you rest. Do take care of that shoulder, okay?"

Janks nodded. "I intend to follow my doctor's advice to the letter. And you, try not to concern yourself about imaginary scandals. Just give Gerard hell and you'll come out of this whole thing on top, trust me."

"Very well. I'll be in touch."

Groves started for the door.

"By the way, why is there a policeman outside my room?" Janks called out to her.

"To make sure Lovecriss doesn't try to finish you off," the woman told him.

"Ahh."

Alone again, Janks pushed aside his tray and reached for the paper. There were front page stories concerning both the attempt on his life and the killing of Alex Ce-peda, with healthy speculation given to a link between the two crimes and an indication that the missing Kyle Lovecriss was a prime suspect. On that front, everything was going along with Janks's plans. However, when he turned to the second page, he was momentarily disturbed to read about the shoot-out at Diggers Restaurant in Boynton Beach. The headlines told of four fatalities, and it wasn't until he skimmed through the article and learned that two coast guardsmen and two unidentified Cubans were the victims that he began to relax. He knew who the Cubans were, and the fact that they'd been killed before they could talk was good news. The fact that Carr had apparently been able to get away from the shoot-out with both Jacques LeTorq and the smuggled morphine base was even better news.

"Very good, very good," he muttered to himself, easing back in the bed and wincing slightly from the still-present pain in his shoulder. Carr had told him the injury would only bother him for a few weeks, and the surgeon who had extracted the bullet confirmed as much when he came to visit Janks a few minutes later.

"How soon can I leave?" Janks inquired.

"Tomorrow, I would imagine," the doctor told him. "But I'd advise staying in bed the rest of the week so that the tissue can have a chance to knit."

Janks chuckled. "I'm overdue for a vacation, anyway. This way I'll be sure to take it."

"That's the right attitude."

Janks was already beginning to feel drowsy again, and he eased his bed back and stared at the ceiling, thinking through the overall scheme he'd been putting into operation in recent months. The way things were rolling along, he expected to have things in full operation by fall. It would be glorious.

But first there were a few loose ends to take care of. As he reached for the sports page, Janks's thoughts immediately turned to Doug Bendix. Why was the man being so stubborn? It was not as if the offer Pedro had made him was that hard to accept. If anything, they were being too generous with him, compensating for his reputation as a Hall of Fame ball player. Perhaps the trick would be to turn the tables and use his image against him. Yes, maybe that's what the situation called for.

Shaking off his fatigue, Janks leaned away from the bed and grabbed a phone off the nightstand. Dialing for an outside line, he told the operator, "I want to make a call to Miami. To Mangrove Auto Salvage Yard."

While he waited for the arrival of his Able Team cohorts, Gadgets Schwarz sat in on a meeting held by the DEA team that had been involved in both the surveillance at Municipal Stadium and the parking lot shoot-out in Boynton Beach. There were four agents in all, including Sandy Meisner, and they were all casually dressed so as not to draw attention to themselves at their meeting place, a refreshment area near West Palm Beach's congested Municipal Pier.

The leader of the group, Max Magun, had an immense forehead that seemed even larger because of the receding hairline of long, wavy blond hair. Yes, people had recently taken to calling him "Headroom." His soft features and small, pink lips rounded out his strange appearance, which seemed part effeminate, part pallid surf bum, with a little extraterrestrial thrown in. The unmistakable authority of his position came through in his voice, a deep, stentorian rumble that phrased words the way folks talked in his native Georgia.

"Well, I think we're all in agreement that it was Le-Torq who they smuggled in," he said. "I got a good look back at that parking lot when he was getting into the Caddy and there's no mistaking him."

Schwarz cleared his throat. "I know I'm going to be driving you all crazy with a lot of questions, but bear with me."

"You want to know who Jacques LeTorq is," guessed Hap Freedman, a sandy-haired, broad-shouldered agent with an easygoing smile.

"Affirmative."

Schwarz was handed a photocopy of a prison mug shot, showing a clean-shaven LeTorq staring out at the world with a look of smug superiority. Gadgets recognized the lean face and doe eyes. They belonged to the man in the suit who'd gotten off the motorboat just before the arrival of the coast guard the night before.

"Jacques LeTorq is, by and large, a complete screwup," Magun explained. "In and out of juvenile homes and prison most of his life, flunked out of every academy that didn't boot him out first for disciplinary problems. The joke is that he was born prematurely because his mother got tired of him goofing off in the womb.

"The thing is, though, you give him the right equipment and a supply of morphine base and he'll turn out the purest, most potent heroin any junkie's ever shot up his arm."

Sandy took over, telling Schwarz, "Usually all heroin that comes into this country gets 'cooked' overseas first, then smuggled in. No real reason that we can figure, except that you're dealing with lighter loads once the base is cooked."

"Almost two to one, as I remember," Schwarz said. "I know that part. So if this LeTorq's been smuggled in, it must mean somebody wants to get into processing here, right?"

The fourth agent was William Victish, who took full advantage of his undercover position, sporting his long red hair in a ponytail that drooped to his mid-shoulders and was complemented by an equally imposing full beard. He looked as if he would have been more at home in Haight-Ashbury in the sixties. He also looked as if he'd be on the other side of the fence as far as drugs were concerned, which was why he usually played the front man in any of the DEA sting operations instigated by the four-man team. "We figure it's got something to do with quality control," he reasoned. "You know how everything from baking soda to strychnine gets mixed into most heroin that hits the streets. Somebody peddling to discriminating tastes would stand to earn top dollar by guaranteeing the best horse money can buy. LeTorq's the cook with the recipe to do it."

"And he's out here somewhere," Schwarz concluded.

"Right." Magun passed Schwarz another series of photocopies. "And we haven't been able to pinpoint the kingpin behind this ring, but we've gained a lot of ground in pinning down the middlemen and the soldiers. From the looks of it, we think we're dealing with a new syndicate that uses gang members for its soldati. They probably strike some kind of deal with the gang leaders, maybe giving some skim off the top in exchange for favors and handling distribution of the heroin or whatever other dirty work needs to be done."

Schwarz quickly flipped through the mug shots, stopping when he came to a photo of Pedro Carr.

"Who's he?" he asked.

"We don't have a name yet, but he's the highest man up we've been able to spot," Sandy said. "In the mob he'd be a caporegime. He's Jamaican, we know that much. Operates all along the coast between Vero Beach and Key Biscayne, but seems to spend most of his time in Miami. Can shake a tail like you can't believe. Every time we try to follow him he just melts into the scenery."

Schwarz thought again about the meeting between Carr and Doug Bendix the previous afternoon. He couldn't believe that Bendix was implicated in such a nefarious operation. Shit, it was bad enough that the sports heroes of today were always falling off their pedestals. Did it have to start happening to those who'd stood the test of time?

Schwarz fell silent and half listened as the group moved into a discussion of future strategy. His attention was partly distracted by thoughts of Bendix, but he also found himself thinking of Sandy, who sat across the table from him. Their gazes kept locking, and in her eyes was that same strange, alluring spark he'd noticed the first time he'd seen her. Their mutual acquaintance with John Kissinger had served as a pretext for a short discussion prior to the meeting, and as the group broke up to get back to the mission at hand, Sandy lingered behind with Schwarz.

"How about if I buy you brunch?" she offered. "My way of saying mea culpa."

"Mea culpa? What's that, Latin?"

Sandy nodded. '"My fault.' I still can't believe I almost shot you."

"You wouldn't have been the first." Schwarz got up from the table. "I've been used for target practice so many times my scars have scars."

"I still want to make it up to you." From the look in her eyes, Schwarz sensed she wanted more than that. So did he.

"Okay," he told her. "You're on."

"You're awfully quick to forgive," Sandy told Gadgets fifteen minutes later. "If I were in your shoes, I'd probably want a little more groveling."

Schwarz laughed lightly, "Well, if it makes you feel any better, the idea did occur to me." He added a dash of cream to what had to be one of the worst cups of coffee he'd ever been served. They were at a greasy spoon located across the street from the hotel where Sandy was staying. "But then I figured that anybody who served time in the field with John Kissinger has a reason for overreacting."

Sandy buttered her last piece of toast and nibbled at it thoughtfully. It was clear to Schwarz that mention of Kissinger had stirred up memories for the woman.

"So what was he like back then?" he asked.

Sandy sat back in her seat and began fondling a salt shaker, working off nervous energy. "He was impossible," she finally began. "The first time I met him was about five years ago… no, it has to be six. We were part of a twelve-man team working on a sting with some guys who were major PCP suppliers in D.C. After nearly five months of busting our asses, we'd finally made some major breakthroughs and had things lined up for the big bust.

"Everything was supposed to go down at dawn, but John and I were on stakeout the night before, making sure the natives weren't getting too restless, if you know what I mean.

"Anyway, about two in the morning, we see this rental truck pull up to the warehouse these guys were working out of, and they start loading everything up. Stash, equipment, weapons, you name it. Obviously there'd been a leak somewhere and this was a last-minute getaway.

"Well, I start putting a call in for more backup, but Cowboy figures there's not enough time, and he decides to take matters into his own hands. Literally. Before I can try to talk some sense into him, he's busting out of cover and running for the truck with this buttless Ithaca 37 he's modified so that it'll handle twelve shots of twelve-gauge. One shot through the radiator and that truck isn't going anywhere.

"It's pitch-dark out and Cowboy starts using some of his old football moves between shots so he's got the people inside thinking they've got half the damn Army ready to nail their butts. I finally got my act together and started to put in a few shots of my own.

"With all the racket we were making, six squad cars full of D.C. cops arrived on the scene in half the time it would have taken our people to sweep in. To make a long story short, we netted all the principals, not counting the five men Cowboy dropped with the shotgun.

"Once the other guys on the task force found out Kissinger had upstaged them and pulled off the bust by his lonesome, there was screaming from one end of the city to the other. He looked at them, real innocentlike, and did this Reagan impersonation, saying, 'Uh, uh, well, guys, just because one guy scores the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl doesn't mean the whole team won't get their rings.'"

Schwarz broke out laughing so loud he drew stares from the other diners. He quieted down, but almost choked on his coffee trying to keep from breaking out again.

"He never told you guys that one?" Sandy said.

"Nope," Schwarz told her. "Just like he never said anything about you. Say, were you and he…you know, an item?"

It was Sandy's turn to laugh. "Him and me? Get serious!"

"Why not?"

Sandy shrugged. "What can I say? He was a nice guy to visit, but I wouldn't want to live with him."

"Why not?"

"What are you, his agent?"

Schwarz shrank back from the accusation, simultaneously appalled and impressed by the woman's biting wit. Although he was the least prone to womanizing of anyone on Able Team, he'd done enough dating over the years to know his feelings, and when it came to Sandy Meisner, the attraction was overpowering. He knew only too well that all his questions about Kissinger were, at the heart, prompted by jealousy, and he was relieved that Sandy didn't harbor any attachment to the Stony Man weapon smith, especially since he was on his way down to Florida.

"Look, Sandy, I'm not much on games," he blurted out, "so excuse me if I'm coming on too strong, but I was thinking maybe we should take things from the top. Start fresh."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Sandy replied, smiling coyly. "I thought we were having a good time as it was. Besides, I was hoping you'd be more than fresh."

"Fresh? I've barely even smiled at you."

Sandy chuckled. She reached over and ran a long, glistening fingernail across the back of Schwarz's hand.

"Do you want to sleep with me?" she asked him.

Schwarz blushed, glancing at the other tables, sure that everyone in the diner was listening to their conversation. This was unbelievable. He'd never met a woman who was so up-front. This is what I get for being blunt, he thought to himself. But what the hell. Go with the flow. Or, to follow the Able Team creed, just nut up and do it. Stay hard. All that good stuff. "Well, sleeping doesn't exactly cover it," he said with a mischievous grin.

Sandy laughed. "Oh, of course not. You had something else in mind. Weapons testing, no doubt."

"Something like that," Schwarz admitted.

"Single shot?"

"Not necessarily."

"Ooh. Quick on the trigger?"

"Only when I want to be."

"Side discharge?"

"What?"

She winked at Schwarz. "Just kidding. Though I must say, Hermann, I like this proposition. I have an hour right now. How about you?"

"An hour it is, but please don't call me Hermann. No one calls me Hermann."

"What do they call you?"

"Gadgets."

For the better part of an hour, Schwarz and Sandy made frenetic love in her hotel room. Between them they ran the gamut, being playful, adventurous, slow one moment and fierce the next, in each case anticipating each other's needs and desires. Schwarz couldn't remember ever being party to such synchronization of two bodies. It was as if they both had a sixth sense that had locked into the same wavelength, allowing them to indulge in their most private passions without risking the awkward embarrassment of incompatibility. They worked up a sweat, and when the lovemaking was over they lay side by side on the disheveled double bed, drying off in the room's balmy warmth and listening to the soft jazz playing over the FM radio that was built into the television set.

"Mmm, that was as good as I thought it would be," Sandy purred, running her fingers idly through Gadgets's short brown hair. "I like the way your mustache tickles."

"I like the way you do a lot of things," Schwarz admitted.

"Well, that settles it. Let's get married, whaddya say?"

Schwarz sat upright in bed and stared at Sandy with horror. Only then did he see the teasing smirk on her face. "You…"

"Made you look, you dirty crook," Sandy taunted, prodding Schwarz in the chest with her forefinger. "I can't believe you thought I was serious. Honestly, Mr. Schwarz."

Schwarz shrugged. "What can I say? Superman has his green kryptonite. For me it's marriage proposals. Take the starch right out of me." Leaning over to plant a kiss on Sandy's lips, Gadgets whispered, "Our hour's almost up."

"Drat!" Sandy bounded out of bed and started throwing on her clothes. "I've got a lead on a possible gang connection I need to check out. Want to come along?"

"I would, but I've got to head out to the airport to meet the guys."

"Ah, that's right. Well, I tell you, if the whole bunch of you are half as crazed as John Kissinger, you might be just what we need to hit these horse peddlers where it hurts."

"I hope so," Schwarz said, slipping on his shorts and climbing into his slacks.

"What about your baseball camp?" Sandy asked him. "You aren't going to kiss off the rest of the weekend as far as that goes, are you?"

Schwarz stabbed his arms into his shirt and buttoned it on his way to the door. "Thanks for reminding me. There's something I want to take care of here before I leave." On his way out the door, he blew Sandy a quick kiss. "Thanks for the hour___"

"I hope next time we won't need a timer."

"Ditto."

At the end of the hallway, Gadgets bounded down a set of stairs to the next floor. He dwelt a few seconds on his romp with Sandy, then stopped in front of another suite. He pounded on the door with steady persistence. There was finally an answer as Doug Bendix jerked the door open from inside.

"You again," the ex-ball player said with obvious displeasure. He started to close the door, but Schwarz pushed it open and stepped inside.

"Doug, we need to talk."

Palm Beach International Airport was just down the road from Municipal Stadium, and Bendix wasn't supposed to show up at the baseball camp for another hour and a half, so Schwarz was able to convince the ball player to come with him to pick up the other men from Stony Man. As it turned out, inclement weather to the north had planes stacked overhead in holding patterns, delaying nearly every arrival and takeoff in the area. It gave Schwarz and Bendix a chance to talk over coffee at the airport cafeteria.

"Yeah, okay, okay, I know the guy, all right?" Doug finally conceded when Schwarz pressed him regarding the photo Sandy had taken of him talking with Pedro Carr.

"In what context?"

"What do you mean?" Bendix snapped.

"I want to help you, damn it!" Schwarz said. "I wasn't lying last night when I told you all that stuff about rooting for you when I was a kid. Please, Doug…"

Bendix stared morosely into his coffee cup. "People like you shouldn't go around putting us on pedestals and thinking we wear halos instead of ball caps. We're just average Joes like the rest of you. We make mistakes___"

"Mistakes can be corrected," Schwarz said.

Bendix nodded slowly and stared past Gadgets a moment, watching a 747 taxi from the airstrip to the ter-minal. Then he sighed and leveled his gaze at Schwarz as he tapped the photo of Pedro Carr. "I owe this guy money," he mumbled with obvious shame. "A lot of money."

Schwarz frowned. It wasn't the answer he'd expected. "Loan shark?"

"You heard me." Bendix pried open a blister packet of honey and added it to his coffee. "You gotta remember that in my day ball players didn't make the kind of money they rake in now. Nothing close to it. Back then, if a guy made six figures he had to be racking up some pretty phenomenal numbers. Now, some rookies make that much."

"Still, I remember reading how you made all these investments while you were playing," Schwarz said. "Couple of restaurants down here, a condo project, a sugar refinery, right?"

Bendix looked at Schwarz with amazement. "Hell, you really did follow me, didn't you?"

"I've been trying to tell you that all along."

"Right." The ball player sipped some coffee and shifted in his seat. "Well, all I've got left is the refinery, and it's not doing that great a business, believe me."

"Still…you put in twenty-one years in the majors. What about your pension?"

A red flood crept up Bendix's neck and flowed out from around his temples. He seemed about to explode when a middle-aged woman came over to their table, nervously clutching her plane tickets.

"Excuse me, but aren't you Doug Bendix?"

Bendix looked at the woman and immediately forced back his anger as he offered her a polite smile. "Yes, ma'am. You have quite a memory."

"My son had posters of you all over his walls when he was growing up," the woman said. "I'm flying to visit him and, well, I can't believe this coincidence. He'd be thrilled to death if…"

"I'd be happy to," Bendix said, reaching out for the folder the woman's plane tickets were in. He took a pen from his shirt pocket. "What would you like me to write?"

The woman thought a second, then said, "How about, 'I'm glad you agree' and then sign it."

"Agree with what?" Bendix asked.

"My son threw a fit when you weren't elected to the Hall of Fame the first two years you were eligible. You were very diplomatic about it, but he thought you were probably boiling inside about being slighted."

Bendix laughed and started writing on the folder, "Lady, I'll be glad to go along with that. Here you go."

Schwarz watched as the woman beamed at Bendix's autograph, then thanked him and hurried off to show it to her husband. Bendix turned back and the good cheer began to fade from his face almost immediately.

"Let me tell you about pensions," he said. "When they bartered on terms for increased payments, the negotiators came up with an arbitrary date for deciding who got how much. Those who retired after that date got the cream, the rest got the crap. I hung up my spikes a year too soon, it turns out. I get a pension that pays enough to cover my utilities if I don't spend too much time in the shower or run the air conditioner in the afternoon."

"I'm sorry," Schwarz said. "But still, people usually don't go to loan sharks to cover their living expenses."

"Right," Bendix shot back. "Usually it's gambling debts, isn't it?"

Gadgets was stunned again. "You… ?"

"That's right," Bendix said. "There's jai alai up on 45th Street and we passed the kennel club coming here. I'm sure you know how it goes. You start out playing a little and winning a little; next thing you know you're placing bets every day and losing more often. I quit, but not soon enough. Not by a long shot."

"How much?"

The anger in Bendix's face turned to shame. He barely whispered the damage. "Figuring interest, it's about half a mil."

Schwarz felt his heart tug as he looked at Bendix. He wasn't sure whose dream had shattered more, his or the ball player's. And yet, in a way Schwarz was comforted that Bendix's involvement with the Jamaican was tied to gambling instead of drugs. Or was there a connection?

"What was this guy talking to you about yesterday?" he asked Bendix. "He demanding a pay-up?"

"Basically," Doug admitted. "He wants control of my refinery."

"Or else…"

"Yeah, or else." Bendix finished his coffee and Schwarz couldn't help but notice the slight shaking of his hand as he set the cup back on its saucer. "You seem to know all about these things, so I don't have to tell you what I'm up against. I lose that refinery, I got nothing."

A high-pitched beep began sounding at Schwarz's waist. He quickly reached down and flicked a switch to turn the sound off, then pulled a palm-size communicator to his mouth. The device was another of the sophisticated inventions sprung from the mind of Stony Man's resident technological wizard, Aaron Kurtzman. More than a pager, the communicator also had transmission capabilities that put the Able Team commando in direct touch with pilot Jack Grimaldi.

'"lo, Gadgets. We're out at the south hanger."

"Coming," Schwarz told the fly-boy. He clipped the communicator back on his belt and got up from the table. Bendix followed suit. "When's your next contact with them?" Gadgets asked the ball player as they left the cafeteria.

"This afternoon. He said he's sending a few guys by the stadium for an answer on the refinery," Bendix said.

"What do you plan on telling them?"

"Hell, I don't know. Doesn't seem like I have much choice."

On their way down the swollen corridor leading to the airstrip, Schwarz told Bendix, "Maybe you do, Doug. You see, these friends of mine that we're going to pick up, well, let's just say they know how to play a different kind of hardball."

Situated just off the same stretch of Interstate 27 that Carr had driven the afternoon of Alex Cepeda's murder, Saw Grass Mobile Home Park was a run-down five-acre swatch of land carved out of the Everglades. Less than two dozen trailer homes of various sizes were squeezed into a haphazard circular formation on small, parched lots. They were modern-day covered wagons, hoping to fend off the attack of anyone or anything capable of getting to them through the razor-edged grass that surrounded the clearing on three sides. The fourth side faced an access road that also ran along a drainage canal and past a dilapidated bait shop that stood on stilts over the water and whose owner offered trips on airboats as well as tin cans filled with crawlers and other fishing lures.

Pedro Carr drove his now-gold-colored Cadillac past the bait shop and veered off onto the twin ruts of bare earth that formed the roadway through the trailer park.

A few bikers swilling beer in front of a rusting Airstream eyed the vehicle and hollered a series of catcalls at the two men inside the Caddy.

"Who's this, the fucking slumlord come to git the rent?"

"Park yer car, mister?"

"Hey, nigger, whatcha doin' with the white bread?"

Jacques LeTorq was infuriated by the taunts and rolled down his window to return a few well-chosen Parisian curses.

"Easy, Frenchmon," Pedro said, using his power controls to roll the window back up. "Let them talk big. Sticks and stones, yes?"

Looking around at the shabby units and the equally slipshod cars parked next to them, LeTorq complained, "This place is no better than your junkyard!"

"You are starting to get on my nerves, mon," Carr droned. "Look, you cook up de first goodies here and if it's good stuff, de lap of luxury is all yours, okay? Until then, no more bitching."

"Merdef" Jacques muttered under his breath. Shit! What a rude roller coaster he'd been on the past month. Three weeks ago he had been working his wonders with morphine base in a mountain chalet in the Italian Alps. Work a few hours, then time for fun. Two, three girls at a time in the loft, all to himself. Then the bust, and time in a dark cell, wondering if he was going to be given a stiff sentence as the magistrate's way of showing off. Instead, he'd been released under mysterious circumstances he still didn't understand. A man drove him from the police station, shook a tail, then took him out to the country, telling him only that there was a price to be paid for his freedom. That price involved a trip to the United States, where he would put his peculiar talent at the disposal of his unknown benefactor. Last night he'd nearly been shot while being smuggled ashore, and now, after spending twelve hours in an auto graveyard, here he was shuttled off to some hellhole in the middle of nowhere. No chalet, no girls in a loft with a view. He'd be lucky to end up in a mobile home with air-conditioning. Merde merde. Double shit.

They finally came to a faded thirty-foot trailer in the back of the property, and Carr pulled around behind it, squeezing the Cadillac into a narrow space between the trailer and a cyclone fence bending inward under the onslaught of saw grass. Parked in front of the Cadillac was the same Chevy station wagon in which Alex Cepeda had been driven to his death.

As Carr and LeTorq were getting out of the Cadillac, Orlando, dressed in a pair of coveralls, opened the back door of the trailer and climbed down the steps.

"Heeey, Kingstone!" The Cuban looked past Carr and LeTorq, as if expecting someone else to emerge from the Cadillac. "Where's Tony and Miguel, eh?"

"You know where they are, mon," Carr said. "De Feds saved you the trouble of tending to them."

Orlando grinned. "Oh, right." He shifted his gaze to LeTorq and extended a hand, saying, "Hey, Jackie, what 'tis? I've had some of your stuff, man. Nice buzz."

LeTorq warily shook Orlando's hand, saying nothing but thinking to himself that this could not be the boss.

"You have the things he asked for?" Carr asked Orlando.

Orlando nodded and led the other two men to the Chevy. He raised the back hood and pulled a tarp off a pair of large footlockers, then swung open the two lids, revealing a stock of chemist supplies. Beakers, tubing, burners, electrodes, drying lights, plastic trays, jars of chemicals—everything needed to transform the thick brown goop of morphine base into a fine white heroin powder.

"Tres bien," LeTorq murmured as he looked over the equipment, feeling a lift in his spirits for the first time since entering the States. With this stuff he could do some serious cooking.

"Anything missing… besides the morphine?" Orlando asked.

LeTorq asked, "Is there room inside to set it all up? And tables?"

Orlando nodded. "Check, check."

"Then I can do it," the Frenchman said.

"All right!" Orlando said. "Man, I just love French cooking!"

Two more Cubans came out of the trailer and helped LeTorq bring the chemical equipment inside. Pedro backtracked to the Cadillac to get the supply of morphine base out of the trunk. As he gave it to Orlando, he said, "You make sure to keep an eye on this, mon."

"Me and my boys will do the job, Kingstone, don't worry."

"Good." Pedro got back into his Cadillac and started the ignition. "I'll be in touch."

"Where you off to?" Orlando asked.

"I have other business."

"Need any help?"

Pedro shook his head and backed out onto the dirt pathway, then headed back toward the side road. A ten-year-old Honda Civic was parked near the bait shop. Sitting inside it were four menacing-looking youths. Carr recognized them. They were from Little Haiti, up here to return a small favor. Carr pulled alongside their vehicle and rolled down his window, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a news clipping with a photo of Doug Bendix.

Schwarz and Bendix were at the ballpark, suited up right on schedule with the other stars and novices. New teams had been chosen for today's scrimmage, and Schwarz found himself out in the field while Bendix remained in the dugout, ready to bat cleanup for the opponents.

It was a cloudless afternoon, and the stands were already half-filled, with more spectators arriving by the minute. From his post in the press box behind home plate, Carl Lyons used high-powered binoculars to monitor the crowd, looking for faces to match those depicted on the various mug shots spread out on the table before him. He'd been briefed as to what sort of element he was dealing with, and under his summer-weight sport jacket he was packing his favorite weapon, a Colt Python revolver loaded with 158-grain hollowpoint slugs and equipped with a magnaported 152 mm barrel and speedloader in case he were to get caught in a shoot-out. And given the nature of the last-minute mission Gadgets had dropped on the other men from Stoney Man, that seemed to be a distinct possibility.

Pol Blancanales was performing a similar function down along the first base bleachers, but his photos were smaller, secreted away inside a souvenir program. Under his jacket was a modified Colt .45, built around the classic M-1911 A-l design that had become a mainstay in so many arsenals over the past sixty years. It had been successfully tinkered with by both Andrzej Konzaki and Cowboy Kissinger and now included such refinements as Parkerized black finish, blunt suppressor, fold-down lever, enlarged trigger guard and phosphorus sights. Far more than frivolous bells and whistles, the added features helped make a good weapon great.

John Kissinger and Jack Grimaldi were outside the stadium, lounging near the entrance gates to monitor the crowd as it poured in through the turnstiles. They took particular note of a group of at least three men, especially if they were young or wearing more clothes than the eighty-degree weather called for. Whenever such a group was spotted, either Kissinger or Grimaldi would break away from his post and follow the group to the stands, making sure that Blancanales and Lyons were aware of the group before returning to the entrances. By game time, they'd spotted and trailed only three such suspicious clusters into the ballpark, and in each case the men being watched merely took their seats and carried on the same as any of the other spectators.

A first inning rally brought Doug Bendix to the plate with runners on second and third. He'd deliberately avoided looking into the stands, not wishing to blow Able Team's cover with a betraying gesture. Besides, he had already arranged to communicate his answer regarding Carr's solution to his gambling debts without having to make direct contact with the loan shark or any of his people. If he were to take the first pitch, it would mean that he had decided to give up the refinery and would have the necessary papers drawn up by the end of the week.

The player on the mound was one of the campers, a bland, weasel-faced man with a mustache that looked more like dirt on his upper lip. He had a loose pitching motion, using up most of his energy before he let go of the ball. Bendix saw the pitch float in. Even if he'd decided to give up his refinery it would have been difficult to pass up so tempting an offering. Whipping his thirty-eight-inch bat around with effortless grace, Doug slammed the ball to deep center field. Nick Hill, once the deadliest glove in both leagues, wasn't able to catch up with the ball and it skidded to the fence.

As two runs came home, Bendix rounded first and dug in for second. Schwarz was already at the bag, waiting for Hill's throw. As the ball came in, he caught it and whipped his glove around for the tag, but Bendix was already in with a stand-up double.

"Nice poke," Schwarz said. "I think they have your answer. Now let's have your leg act up___"

Bendix nodded and motioned to the infield umpire for time out. When he got the signal, he stepped off the base, walking with a slight limp. When he reached the outfield grass, he bent over and started rubbing the area behind his left thigh. A trainer hustled out along with Wyatt Jenkins, but Bendix waved them off, claiming he'd just pulled his hamstring. The trainer helped Bendix off the field while Jenkins called out one of the novices to pinch-run.

Lyons hurried down from the press box, making his way to the dugout just as Bendix was telling Jenkins he wanted to run over to the hospital to have his leg checked.

"I can take you, cuz," Lyons volunteered, leaning out over the railing next to the dugout.

"Well, I'll be…" Bendix feigned surprise. He told Jenkins and the trainer, "Guys, this is my cousin, Carl. He lives just up the road from here."

Lyons played along with the charade while Bendix gathered his things and was given a pair of wooden crutches by the trainer. Using the extra support, Bendix hobbled from the dugout and joined Lyons in the stands. They were stopped several times by autograph hounds, all of them children, and neither Lyons nor Blancanales, who was seated only a few dozen yards away, saw any suspicious movements elsewhere in the crowd.

"Seen anyone?" Bendix asked Lyons as they circled behind the stadium and headed for the gateways.

"Not that we recognize," Lyons said. "But from what I gather, these people might have whole gangs to choose flunkies from, so we still might be in for some action."

"I might as well have flipped them the finger by hitting that double," Bendix said, glancing nervously around him. "I hate to say it, but I'm starting to have my doubts about this."

After passing through the gates, the two men made their way toward the adjacent parking lot. "You're more valuable to them alive than you are dead, so don't worry," Lyons assured Bendix.

"Yeah," Bendix said. "If I'm lucky, they might break just my kneecaps and elbows."

"If you were by your lonesome that might be what would happen," Lyons admitted. "But don't forget you've got backup. Just play along with them like we planned, okay? We try to get them to take the two of us along to see the big man and let my partners follow."

"With Schwarz stuck playing, that's just three guys, right? Hell, they might have ten."

"I'd rate those odds about even," Lyons cracked, leading Bendix into the sea of parked automobiles. Schwarz's rental Taurus was parked in the back corner of the lot. Halfway to the vehicle, Lyons noted movement to his left and tracked it with his peripheral vision. "Okay, Dougie, this could be it."

Two Haitians on foot moved out from behind a parked van and started walking nonchalantly toward Lyons and Bendix. They were smoking cigarettes and talking to each other. From the other direction, the Honda Civic rolled into view with two men inside. By the time they reached the Taurus, Lyons and Bendix found themselves caught between the foot men and the Haitians in the Honda.

"iQuepasa, amigos?" Lyons asked the intruders.

"You," the tallest of the Haitians said, pointing at Bendix and then gesturing toward the Honda. His shirt was unbuttoned to reveal the butt of an Uzi carbine that bulged inside his pants. "Get in. We take you for a ride."

"I already have a ride, thanks," Bendix said. "This is a good friend of mine. From the refinery."

This news gave the Haitians pause. They had their orders, but they also knew that this whole thing had to do with some refinery, so they weren't sure how they should deal with Lyons.

"I handle the books," Lyons bluffed. "Your boss wants to talk business, he talks to me."

Another Haitian had climbed out of the Civic brandishing an Uzi. Lyons made no move for his Colt. For several seconds there was a standoff. The tall man went over to the Honda and reached inside for a radio microphone, thumbing the side switch before passing along word to Pedro Carr, who was parked several blocks away. The two men exchanged a few words in Spanish, then the Haitian handed the mike back to the driver and included Lyons in his sweeping arm motion toward the car.

"You both come," he commanded.

"Smart man," Lyons said. Things were going according to plan.

As Lyons and Bendix were about to get into the Civic, Haitians suddenly converged on them from all sides, and began frisking the two men. At the same time as one of them discovered Lyons's Colt Python, a stadium security guard sputtered up in a three-wheel vehicle.

"Hey!" he shouted. "What the hell's going on here!"

The Haitian closest to the security cart yanked out his Uzi and emptied half his twenty-five-shot magazine, shattering the windshield and perforating the guard before he could relay an alarm.

"Shit!" Lyons cursed, snapping into action. An elbow to the Adam's apple immobilized the Haitian who was about to disarm him, and the Able Team warrior jerked out his Python to pump .357 persuasion at the other gang members.

Bendix shoved away one crutch and used the other as a makeshift bat, swinging into the tall gang leader with so much force the man's ribs broke on impact as he doubled over in pain, the wind knocked from his lungs.

The man behind the wheel of the Honda floored the accelerator, spinning tires in mad flight away from the fire zone as he took a few shots back at Lyons and Bendix. Lyons dropped into a two-handed firing stance and squeezed off his last five shots, managing to put a few holes in the Honda, but none severe enough to prevent the driver from making his getaway.

Bendix, meanwhile, staggered back against the Taurus, clutching at his side. "Sumbitch!" he groaned. "They got me!" Blood soaked through his uniform and through his fingers. Moments later, John Kissinger and Jack Grimaldi rushed up, Colt .45s at the ready.

"You're too late," Lyons said, gesturing at the fallen Haitians around him. "The only one alive got away."

The man behind the wheel of the Honda Civic was Juan Vuleier, and as driver in many gang activities back in Miami's Little Haiti, he was conditioned to fast getaways. So was the Civic, which had a souped-up power plant under the front hood and a number of other modifications in the suspension and transmission that made it far more than a lightweight import.

As he screeched toward the parking lot exit, Juan steered with one hand and used the other to grab his Uzi carbine, which had fallen to the floor of the Honda. He put it to use as he sped toward the exit, which two other security guards were doing their best to barricade. They struck firing poses and shouted for Juan to stop, but he gunned them down with blasts from the Uzi, and then sent them spinning like broken dolls after impact with the Civic's front end.

Swinging out onto Congress Avenue, the Haitian's first instinct was to get to Pedro Carr and bail out of the Honda. But when he reached the designated rendezvous point at a convenience store on nearby Okeechobee Boulevard, Carr and his gold Cadillac were nowhere to be seen. Juan tried to raise Carr on the radio. No response.

"jPuta!" He slammed his fist on the dashboard and started racing down Military Trail, a two-lane road running between Florida's Turnpike and the Dixie Highway, parallel to both. He could hear sirens in the distance, and as he continued a southbound course, he veered off onto side streets, weaving through the thin traffic and barely avoiding several collisions in his flight.

He had hoped to somehow steal his way back to Miami, but he quickly realized that with the general alarm sounded he'd be lucky to make it to the Broward County line before he was overtaken.

Unless he changed cars.

When he took Clint Moore Road west to Range Line, Juan slowed down, scanning the modest homes set back off the road. Up ahead, someone was backing out of his driveway in an old green Dart Swinger. Juan tugged sharply on his steering wheel, driving off the road and across the front yard. He cut in front of the Dodge and skidded to a halt under a well-concealed carport adjacent to the home.

As he expected, the driver of the Dart hesitated in the driveway behind him, trying to figure out what was going on. Juan took advantage of the delay and scrambled out of the Honda, tucking the Uzi behind him as he approached the Dodge.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" a heavy, jowl-faced man demanded, rolling down his window and leaning his head out of the Dart.

"Chuddup," Juan demanded in poor English, pressing the shortened barrel of the carbine against the fat man's forehead. "Out!"

The driver of the Dodge turned pale and froze with fear.

"Out!" Juan repeated. He yanked the door open and grabbed the driver's shirt collar, choking the man as he pulled him out.

"Don't hurt me," the fat man pleaded. "I got family…"

Juan pulled the trigger of the Uzi once, scrambling the old man's brains and shoving him with so much force he staggered back into a thick hedge and fell from view into the foliage.

The Dart was idling in neutral. Juan slipped in behind the wheel and backed out onto the road just as a police helicopter swept overhead. The Haitian kept the Uzi on his lap as he drove slowly away from the house. For a few seconds, the chopper hung above the roadway, then pulled away and headed east, back toward the coast. Sighing with relief, Juan turned onto Range Line Road and headed south again.

He'd traveled nearly five miles without incident and was coming up on the county line when he spotted a police sedan heading his way in the northbound lane. The car wasn't flashing its roof lights or using its siren, so Juan slowed down and continued driving. Not that he had much choice. There was no turnoff at that point. He kept one hand on the wheel, one hand on the Uzi, keeping his eyes on his own lane as the police drove past. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other car slow down momentarily as the driver looked at him.

Juan gently gave the Dart more gas, bringing his speed up to limit. In the rearview mirror, he saw the police car receding, but seconds later, it made a sudden U-turn and flipped on its lights and siren as it started after the Dodge.

Cursing, the Haitian floored the accelerator, but the car was badly in need of a tune-up and barely surged. Juan knew instantly that there was no way he'd be able to outrun the police.

Just after passing over Hillsboro Canal, the Haitian spotted an exit and made the sharp turn onto Lox Road. The police followed close behind.

The road led to a dead end at the southernmost tip of the Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge. The Sawgrass Everglades stretched out in all directions for as far as the eye could see. Juan realized he'd bungled his way into a better trap than anything the law could have set for him. In desperation, he drove off the road and crashed through a flimsy wire fence into the saw grass. The soggy terrain quickly proved too unstable for the auto, which sank to its chassis and refused to budge.

As he crawled out of the Dodge, Juan could hear the approach of a helicopter and see two police officers wading on foot into the clearing he'd made with the car. The Haitian drove them back momentarily with a stuttering blast from his Uzi, but the police returned even more vehement charges from their riot guns, just missing him.

His only recourse was to flee into the saw grass, using his forearms to fend off the cutting edge of the deadly sharp leaves, which bit at him and left him bleeding from numerous wounds. Whimpering to himself from the cumulative agony of the lacerations, Juan pushed himself farther into the forbidding wasteland, taking small comfort in the knowledge that his pursuers were not willing to subject themselves to the same abuse. With the saw grass ten feet high around him, he was able to stay clear of view from the chopper whisking overhead, although he knew it was only a matter of time before one of its swoops would bend the grass enough with its rotorwash to reveal his position.

Before that happened, however, Juan broke through a clearing and found himself on the banks of Hillsboro Canal. Even more fortuitous, he stumbled upon a poacher who was in the process of loading a slain alligator onto a sling underneath the elevated seat of his airboat. The weathered, stoop-backed man in his mid-fifties was startled by Juan's arrival, and before he could reach for his gun, the Haitian drilled him in the chest with his Uzi, then struggled through the muck until he was aboard the air-boat. Starting up the craft's powerful rear-mounted engine, he climbed up into the driver's seat and then started off, hoping he wouldn't bleed to death while trying to elude the police in the thousands of acres of saw grass he had to hide in.

"Why the hell didn't you let us know what you were up to!" Sandy Meisner shouted at Carl Lyons and Gadgets Schwarz, who was still in his baseball uniform. She was livid, eyes filled with a blaze of anger. Behind her, the other three members of the DEA task force looked equally upset. They were in the parking lot at Municipal Stadium standing off to one side from where police and paramedics were tending to casualties and trying to cordon off the scene from gawkers that had wandered out from the ballpark at the sound of gunfire. A few irate citizens were venting their anger to anyone who cared to hear about the bullet holes in their parked cars.

"You guys were supposed to supplement us," Max Magun thundered, his pale face reddening with emotion, "not take over the whole fucking show! I thought that was made clear when we arranged for you to come down."

"Damn right!" Sandy said. She stared directly at Schwarz. "And don't tell me you weren't in a position to let us know what you were up to."

"It happens to be the truth." Gadgets stared at her with disbelief. Was this really the same woman he had made love to only a couple of hours ago? "Sandy, take it easy, would you?"

"Don't tell me how to take anything, damn you! I've got half a mind to blow the whistle and have you glory boys fed to a congressional subcommittee for this."

"It was a judgment call," Schwarz defended himself. "This all came down after I saw you. There was a time element, and we had to go with it."

"Besides," Lyons interjected, "we work better when we don't have too many elbows to rub up against."

"Oh, is that so?" Bill Victish scoffed, taking a step away from his fellow agents and putting himself jaw to jaw with Lyons. They were roughly the same size, although Lyons was more muscular and his weight was better distributed. "Then maybe you can explain why this whole little sting of yours got so screwed up when you didn't have our fucking elbows in your way?"

"Look, pal, I don't need your grief and I don't need your beard in my face, okay?" Lyons shot back. "We had everything under control until that poor bastard in the go-cart showed up and blew the operation."

"If we had been in on it," Victish insisted, taking a half step back from the Ironman, "local security would have been told to give our operatives a wide berth."

"Okay, okay," Hap Freedman said, wedging himself between the feuding parties and playing the role of peacemaker. "Let's not start a war over this. We're all supposed to be on the same side, remember?"

"Ha!" Hands firmly planted on her hips, Sandy was about to unleash another round of discontent when she spotted the rest of the Stony Man contingent walking over to join them. She singled out John Kissinger and pointed an accusatory finger at him. "Now I understand. This fi-asco has all the makings of your grandstanding, Cowboy. Dog can't change his spots, am I right?"

"Nice to see you again, too, Sandy," Kissinger responded casually. "Still having problems with your blood pressure, I take it."

"With the likes of you it's no wonder," the woman said. "Our people have been on this case for months, and you hot dogs come in and jeopardize the whole thing in a few minutes. I must have rocks in my head for suggesting you join us."

Kissinger crossed his arms and looked inquisitively at Schwarz. "Hey, Gadgets, I thought you said there was a bit of admiration in her voice when she told you that story about the bust in D.C."

"I thought there was," Schwarz said. "Must have been mistaken, though, obviously."

Sandy glared at the newcomers. "And I suppose you all think you're the hottest thing since John Wayne in The Green Berets, too."

"I can think of worse role models," Grimaldi retorted. "How about if you follow your buddy's advice and cool off before you blow a gasket, okay?"

"That does it!" the woman raged. "You assholes are off this case."

"Says you," Grimaldi countered. "Funny thing, though, I don't think you're the one who calls the shots on this."

"Maybe she isn't, but I am," Magun said. "I'm the one who cleared things through Justice to bring you down here. And like the lady said, I think maybe we'll do without any more of your 'help.' Thanks but no thanks."

Blancanales glanced at Lyons. "They can do that?"

Lyons shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. But who cares? They want us out, fine. I don't like hanging around where I'm not wanted."

"Good," Victish said. "Go work on your tan and leave this to the pros."

Lyons was going to say something else, but he caught himself and stomped off in the other direction. Grimaldi and Blancanales went with him, leaving Kissinger and Schwarz behind. Cowboy stared maliciously at the agent with the red beard.

"Look, Santa, the lady here'll tell you I spent five years working DBA and went out a winner, and the rest of these guys I'm with now have gone up against more drug peddlers the past few years than you'll see if you ride out for a full pension, so don't peddle any of your crap about us not being pros."

Victish sized up Kissinger and decided against continuing the argument. When Freedman took him by the arm, he let himself be led away. Before retreating with the other DEA agents, Sandy looked at Schwarz and Kissinger and then delivered one final shot, "If you know what's good, you'll stay out of our way."

"Suit yourself," Schwarz said.

Sandy raked the Stoney men with one more vicious gaze, then stormed off to rejoin her fellow agents and the local police.

"Frisky, isn't she?" Grimaldi observed once Kissinger and Schwarz had rejoined the others. "You guys must have had a real ball working together… figuratively speaking."

Kissinger and Schwarz exchanged brief looks, with both men pondering the same question. Had he slept with her, too? For the moment, however, neither of them was about to acknowledge such personal matters.

"She's more bark than bite," Kissinger said. "But I don't know about those hotheads she's working with."

Grimaldi wondered aloud, "Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do now? Brognola's going to flip when he hears we ruffled some more feathers and got thrown off the case."

"I say to hell with what Egghead said," Lyons fumed. "We started something here. I want to finish it."

"How about if we go back and watch the rest of the ball game?" Blancanales suggested as he looked back toward the ballpark. "Let things settle down a bit and take it from there."

"Yeah, we might as well," Kissinger said. "I could use a good chili dog, anyway."

"And I want to see how Schwarz handles a bat," Blancanales said.

"Why don't you go ahead?" Gadgets told the others. "I want to check up on Bendix before they take him to the hospital."

There were three ambulances on hand. Two were filled with fatalities from the shoot-out. Bendix was in the third, lying on a stretcher, his side taped to stop the bleeding.

"You going to make it?" Schwarz asked.

Bendix nodded. "I've been hit by pitches that hurt worse." He said it with his teeth clenched in pain, however.

"Sorry to put you through that."

"Shit, you guys are doing me a favor and don't think I'm about to forget it," Bendix said. "This is a piece of cake compared to what they would have done to me if they had the chance."

"Maybe so, but still…"

Bendix reached out and put a hand on Schwarz's forearm. "Look," he said, "I know that when the police start asking me questions this whole bit about my gambling's going to have to come out. Is there any way… I mean, I can see the reporters drooling over this whole thing already, and—"

"Doug, if there's any way to keep your name clean, you know damn well I'm going to see to it."

Bendix drew his hand back and relaxed on the stretcher. "Thanks," he murmured.

"Okay, fella," the ambulance driver told Schwarz, "we gotta take this guy in now."

Schwarz stood back to let the attendant close the rear doors of the vehicle. Bendix shouted out to him, "And watch out for your uppercut when you're batting. Keep a level swing."

"Will do," Schwarz said with a grin.

As the trio of ambulances threaded their way through the parking lot, bound for the highway and the closest hospital, Schwarz ignored the flashing of press cameras and the shouted questions of reporters standing behind the police lines. He walked directly over to where five policemen were standing near their patrol cars, trying to size up the situation. Homicide Lieutenant Frank, a tall man with an antiquated crew cut and ill-fitting suit, was talking. "I still don't see where some retired ball player ties into all this drug shit."

"He owns a sugar refinery," Schwarz said, startling the others.

"Oh, you again," Frank muttered, obviously not pleased with Schwarz. "What's this about a refinery?"

"The guys who were trying to kidnap him work for a guy who wants to take it over. Bendix wasn't interested in letting it go. They were going to try twisting his arm and we wanted to make sure it didn't come to that." He didn't bother mentioning Bendix's gambling debts. They could be a negotiating ploy later if they had to be brought up at all.

The police officer looked at Schwarz. "Those people at DEA just told me you guys were off this whole thing. Why you still butting in, anyway?"

"You a baseball fan?" Schwarz asked the cop.

"What if I am?"

"Bendix's name doesn't deserve to be dragged through the mud," Schwarz said. "I want to see this mess cleared up before those jackals with the press cards go into a feeding frenzy. Know what I mean?"

Lieutenant Frank looked over at the media corps, even less thrilled at the sight of them than at the presence of Schwarz. When he looked back at Gadgets, he seemed to have gained a little more tolerance.

"Supposing there's something to this theory of yours," he continued, "why would a drug ring want Bendix's refinery?"

"For starters, it's a perfect place for running a heroin operation," Schwarz theorized. "You could have tons of it piled around looking like confectioners' sugar, and you could bag it like it was bound for the grocery store and get it across the state line without raising any eyebrows."

"Seems a little farfetched to me," the officer said.

"Or is it?" another cop interrupted. "He's got a point about using the refinery as a front for the heroin thing, and what's more, it could be they want it as a legit base of operations."

"Come again?" Frank mumbled.

"If you consider we're dealing with some kind of self-made mob," Schwarz said, "it makes sense they'd set themselves up like the Mafia. You know, have an above-the-board business to account for all the money they're flashing around. Cosa Nostra has import shops and olive oil warehouses; why shouldn't these people go with sugar?"

A sudden flash came to the second cop and he slapped a fist into his opened palm. "And what about that whole thing with the Lovecriss cane fields? Hell, that Cepeda murder had mob execution written all over it!"

"If they could move in and take over an established refinery and field, they'd be all set," Schwarz added.

The lieutenant leaned back against his car and mulled over the new angle. It didn't fit neatly enough to suit him. "If this theory is true, what's to stop us from waiting for this 'mob' to set up shop, then just moving in and nailing their asses?"

"Nothing, maybe," Schwarz told him. "Of course, while you're sitting around waiting for them to gift-wrap themselves, who knows how many more people are going to wind up like Alex Cepeda."

Frank adjusted the lapels of his suit and rubbed his thumb along the five o'clock shadow on his square, meaty jaw. "Two things," he told Schwarz. "First off, I know you guys are supposed to be some sort of top-secret hit squad, but if there's gonna be any more butt kicking done around here, I want it done by our men or those folks with DEA. Got that?"

Schwarz deliberately avoided answering. Instead, he asked, "What's two?"

"Two, I played five years in the minors and got all the way to Triple A before my arm went bad on me," Frank said. "I shared lockers with some of those guys you're farting around with this weekend. I love baseball, and you can be damn sure I'm not going to dirty the game's reputation by running Bendix through the wringer."

The bedroom of the trailer home was just large enough for Jacques LeTorq's needs. An old wooden door straddling two sawhorses served as a makeshift table, upon which trays—two deep and four across-had been laid out. Four high-intensity lamps were mounted to a makeshift aluminum framework above the trays and plugged into an extension outlet nailed in place over the doorframe. LeTorq was on his knees in front of the table, linking up the tubing and other equipment needed to help in the intricate processing of the morphine base.

"You can make it all work, mon?" Carr inquired, watching from the doorway.

"Oui," LeTorq said without looking back. "I can manage. For now. After this first supply, I will have a better place to work, yes?"

Carr nodded impatiently. "I already told you that."

"I just want to be sure. That's all." Jacques rose to his feet so that his gaze was even with Carr's. "I am the best man at what I do. I should be treated like the best."

"You make de stuff as good as you talk, Frenchmon, and the boss he take real good care of you."

Carr left the bedroom and walked past Orlando and three other Cubans playing poker in the trailer's cramped living room. The air was thick with the smell of cigarettes and marijuana.

"C'mon, Kingstone, pull up and play a few hands," Orlando said.

"I don't feel like playing cards, mon," Carr said, tapping out a cigarette from one of the player's packs.

"Then tug on a little spliff and relax." Orlando inhaled a joint and passed it Pedro's way. "You been uptight since you came back."

Pedro waved the joint away. He raided the minifridge for a cold can of beer, then started out the door. "I need some fresh air."

Outside, the sun had just dropped beyond the saw grass, leaving behind a residue of bronze and purple in the clouds of a new storm front coming in off the Gulf. Carr opened his beer and took a long sip between puffs on his cigarette. What a day it had been. Two days, for that matter. All these hassles, driving back and forth between Miami and Palm Beach County, spilling blood everywhere he went. And for what? For a slice of a bigger pie. A few dollars more. Hell, was it really worth it? Shit, he was doing all right with his cozy little arrangement at the salvage yard. Why risk his neck greasing the skids for that bastard Janks?

Why?

Carr knew the answer, as sure as he was breathing. For the thrills, mon. Living on the edge, life in the fast lane, blood pumped up and nerves tingling with raw sensation. Playing it safe just wasn't the way for Pedro Carr. He was meant for more. He was meant to be a desperado. Born to be baaad.

"Yeah, that's it," he reassured himself. "Born to be baaad."

He continued to psych himself up as he walked along one of the twin ruts leading to the bait shop. Passing by the other mobile homes, he saw silhouettes in lit win-dows, dark figures sitting on stoop porches, guard dogs straining at their leashes as they howled in protection of their turf. He knew most of these people from countless times in recent years that he'd made trips out to the trailer. It was owned by Joseph Janks and was put at the disposal of whichever hired flunky or flunkies happened to be working out of the area at any given time. They were all lowlifes, poor, illiterate, born losers who always watched one another with suspicion but never took action on their paranoia.

Except for the bikers. They were out again, leaning against their parked Harleys and trading insults, drinking beer out of cans and then crushing the aluminum in their hands or against their foreheads. They called themselves the Maggots. Truth in advertising, the Jamaican thought. He wasn't in the mood for a confrontation with them, especially tonight, so he backtracked and then cut between a pair of dark trailers, coming up on the bait shop from behind.

There was a pay phone mounted on the back wall of the shop, lit by a halogen lamp that threw a harsh yellow glow all the way to the parked airboats moored along the water's edge. Carr finished his beer and tossed the can aside, then unearthed a palmful of change from his pockets and placed a call to Joseph Janks's private room at the hospital. Janks answered on the fourth ring.

"Hello."

Carr related what he knew of the aborted attempt to abduct Doug Bendix at Municipal Stadium, but it turned out that Janks had seen the evening news and already knew about the bloody fiasco. The businessman was enraged, and Carr winced as he listened to the stream of epithets cursing the Jamaican's supposed incompetence. When Janks finished, Carr told him, "Face it, mon, dis whole sugar thing is too hot now. We got to think of another plan."

"And what about that half million Bendix owes us?"

"Write him off, mon. A business loss, that's all."

"I'll write off the money, Carr, but I want him dead. As a lesson to people who let me down."

Janks's message was clear. Carr said he'd see to it and slammed down the receiver. He was livid. That was it. He was through being Janks's errand boy. Fuck his damn pompous muthafucking white honky ass anyway. It was Carr who had worked up the connections along the coast, Carr who had learned the ins and outs of enforcing the big plays. Why do it for Janks when he could just as easily run his own show? Damn right. Raise the stakes and make that edge even finer. Put together his own operation, and work it slowly. Branch out from the salvage yard, extend the turf gradually instead of making these shitbrain moves Janks had prodded him into. Yeah, that was the way to go about it. Pedro Carr, boss man. Number one. The real gold man.

Pedro's dreams of glory were interrupted by the loud, unmistakable drone of an airboat. However, the craft wasn't heading down the waterway that ran past the bait shop and the other boats. Instead, it was sounding off across the trailer park, near the unit where LeTorq and the Cubans were staying.

"Shit, mon," Carr muttered to himself as he bolted away from the phone and headed back toward the trailer. He was halfway there when he heard three short, muffled pops. By the time he reached the trailer and moved around to the back, it was all over. On the other side of the fence, Juan Vuleier was slumped against the crisscross wiring, trying to hold himself up as lifeblood seeped from bullet holes in his chest. He was bleeding elsewhere from cuts rendered by the saw grass. Spotting Carr, Juan called the man by name, then collapsed at the foot of the fence.

"A fucking Haitain, man," Orlando murmured from the back porch, lowering his silencer-equipped Browning automatic.

"Thought he was comin' after our stash or something. Hey, Kingstone, how come he kept calling for you, even before he saw you? You know him or what?"

Pedro didn't answer. He gazed at the body, astounded that the man could have survived the Everglades, much less find his way back to the trailer park.

"Hey, Carr, I asked you a question. You got something going with the fucking Haitians same time you're dealing with us?"

Pedro turned to Orlando, well aware of the Browning in his hand. There was no love lost between the Cubans and the Haitians in Miami or elsewhere in Florida, especially among gang members. If it got out that Carr was using both groups for personal gain, his life wouldn't be worth spit.

"Asshole came to kill me," Carr insisted, improvising a cover story off the top of his head. "His people came to my shop looking to do some business and I told them all to fuck off. They must not like that idea."

"How the fuck they know to find you here?" Orlando demanded. Behind him two other Cubans appeared with their own handguns. Carr left his .44 Automag tucked in the waistband of his pants. He'd have a better chance of talking rather than shooting his way out of this one.

"Maybe they followed me," he told Orlando. "Maybe they got it from one of my shop boys. I don't know, mon. Now move that cap gun outta my face."

The Cuban hesitated, regarding the Jamaican with distrust. Finally he put away the gun. But not the paranoia. He vowed, "I'm gonna be watching you, Kingstone. Real close."

There was a banquet that evening at the hotel for all the attendees of the weekend baseball camp. The incident in the parking lot, particularly the shooting of Doug Ben-dix, put a serious dent in the festivities, but through a collective effort the diners managed to salvage the affair. Lefty Podell and Wyatt Jenkins helped the most, each addressing the gathering with short, comic vignettes about their years in major league baseball. Podell was a particularly gifted speaker, and although many of his anecdotes were already well-known to most of those in the hall, he injected them with enough fresh flair and embellishment to win the crowd over.

Gadgets tried his best to enjoy the proceedings, but his mind was elsewhere and the smile he put on for those fellow novices at his table was forced. He'd called the hospital just before dinner and learned that Bendix's condition was listed as fair, but he knew that the man's psyche had to be in far worse shape than that. The knowledge of his hero's gambling habit had filled Schwarz with anger, but little of it was directed at Bendix. Rather, he cursed the system whereby today's ball players received far more money than they could ever possibly earn, while old stars like Bendix and Podell and Jenkins lived modestly at best. Shit, he remembered that Bendix had once voluntarily taken a cut in salary because he hadn't felt he had racked up the kind of statistics expected of him. Some half-talent today could take those same stats to arbitration and whine about not making seven figures. Major leaguers like Rice and Schmitt and Brett were drawing larger salaries in any one year than Bendix had made in more than twenty. Where was the fucking justice in that?

And up there at the podium was Podell, talking of his love of the good old days with no bitterness, no egotistical raving, no swipes at management. Just trying to give a little back to the game. Schwarz had heard that phrase more than once over the weekend. What was the chance that the players of today would be singing similar praises twenty years down the line? Fat chance. They'd be too busy minding their investments to bother thanking the sport that had provided them with their opportunity to get rich playing a boy's game.

"Hey, but I'm rambling here," Podell told the crowd, peering over at a clock on the wall. "It's getting late and you folks have curfews, right? Another big day tomorrow. Morning game starts at eleven, warmups at nine—"

"And breakfast at seven!" Jenkins cried out, leaning forward in his seat and poking a forefinger at Podell's midsection.

There was laughter and light applause throughout the banquet hall, then people slowly began to file out. Schwarz stayed put at his table, prodding a piece of carrot cake with his fork. Bendix wasn't the only person on his mind. He thought back to his encounters with Sandy Meisner over the past two days, and the images depressed him. Misunderstandings one minute, joyous abandon the next, then the icy face-off in the parking lot. Hell, it didn't make sense.

Maybe I need to get my instincts tuned up, he thought. Try as he might, he just couldn't get a fix on what kind of person Sandy really was, and the frustration was maddening. He could sympathize with Blancanales, who'd recently had the misfortune of falling for a woman who he'd later learned produced smut films. How was it possible to read someone so wrongly? To be so blinded by passion that you were unaware of some hidden, unexplained ulterior motive behind your partner's embrace.

What was Sandy's motive? What did she really have to gain by enticing Gadgets between the sheets? Shop secrets? Some kind of perverse revenge against Kissinger? Or was it something more elemental? Some kind of power trip. Reverse chauvinism. Love him and leave him and put him down the next time you see him.

"Excuse me, sir, but we gotta clean up."

Gadgets glanced up and saw that he was all alone in the banquet hall except for the hired help. A plump, baby-faced busboy was hovering near his table, clearing plates and silverware.

"Oh, sorry." Schwarz got up from the table and strolled out of the banquet hall. He was still wound up and didn't feel like driving to his hotel and an empty room. Of course, he could track down the other men from Stony Man, who had booked themselves into a motor lodge across the street from where he was staying. But he didn't feel like that, either. He felt like a man unable to scratch an elusive itch.

"Gadgets?"

Stunned, Schwarz looked over his shoulder and saw Sandy Meisner standing in an alcove just off the main lobby. She gestured for him to come over. Schwarz held his ground.

"Please," she pleaded. "Hurry."

Not sure what to make of the sudden turn of events, Schwarz warily approached the woman. Once he was within reach, she grabbed him by the arm and backtracked into the stairwell behind her. Pulled off balance, Schwarz followed, although his defensive instincts were coming into play, preparing him for the possibility that she was drawing him into an ambush.

"What the hell—"

"Shh." Sandy placed three fingers on Schwarz's lips once they were inside the stairwell. Her hiss echoed off the stark walls and metal framework of the stairs. She lowered her voice to a whisper as she let go of Schwarz.

"Please, I don't have much time, Gadgets."

"For what?" Schwarz retorted cynically. "You need a quickie or something?"

"Maybe I deserve that," she said. "But hear me out. There's more to this than you know."

"I'll say."

"This afternoon was a performance for my people's benefit," Sandy said. "I had to convince them all that you were being taken out of the picture."

"And what a performance. Oscar material. Had me fooled completely."

"Damn it, Gadgets, would you listen to me? One of our agents is playing both sides."

"What?"

"You heard me."

There was a noise up the staircase, and Sandy fell silent as she looked up. A middle-aged man came down the steps, carrying a piece of luggage in either hand. Neither Sandy nor Gadgets spoke as the man walked past them, grinning self-consciously.

"Trying to avoid those damn porters," he said, chuckling. "Like leeches, they are."

Gadgets nodded and held the door open for the man, then closed it and turned back to Sandy.

"Who?"

"We're not positive. Either Hap Freedman or Bill Vic-tish. You met them both today."

"I remember," Schwarz said. "Hap was the happy one and Victish had the beard."

Sandy nodded. "We're convinced one of them is collaborating with this ring that's behind the whole racket with LeTorq and the gangs."

"How do you know?"

"It's too long a story to go into right now," Sandy said. "I just wanted to let you know that I put on that whole show so they'd be convinced you'd be removed from the case."

A small smile of realization and relief worked its way across Schwarz's face. "But that's not really what you want, is it?"

"Of course not." Sandy grinned back. "I still want you around."

"Oh, and is this strictly for business purposes?" Schwarz asked.

Taking a step forward, Sandy rose on her toes and pressed her lips against his. They embraced briefly, then pulled away. "Answer your question?" she asked.

"Maybe."

"Well, I'll be more convincing later, but in the meantime, there's something I think you and your buddies should know…"

The Riptide Motor Lodge was a generic establishment reeking of anonymnity and therefore a good place for the men from Stony Man to use as their temporary base of operations in West Palm Beach. Blancanales and Lyons shared a room on the second floor while Kissinger and Grimaldi roomed in the adjacent suite. All four were in the latter quarters, however, killing time watching a basketball game between the Atlanta Hawks and Boston Celtics on TV. Grimaldi nodded off periodically and Kissinger busied himself cleaning the small arsenal the men were traveling with. Besides the men's individual handguns, they'd also packed their trusty M-16s, the true workhorse of not only Able Team but countless other military or quasi-military units desirous of a potent, lightweight, low impulse rifle capable of handling thirty rounds of 5.56 ammo at effective ranges of four hundred yards.

There was a break in the game, and while a beer commercial crowded the television screen, Lyons turned to Blancanales. "You know, Pol, as long as we've come this far, we could just hightail it the rest of the way to Miami and try to shake up some action. Who knows, maybe some of that bastard Lalo's people have crawled back out of the woodwork."

Lyons was referring to their last visit to the state, when they'd put a serious crimp in a major cocaine operation and at the same time avenged the death of a drug informant named Fast Danny Forbes, whom Lyons had earlier befriended. Lalo had been the muscle man for that outfit, and he'd killed Fast Danny by sticking his head in an industrial vise and screwing it tight until the informant's brains had burst through his splintered skull. Thanks to a well-targeted blast with an old-but-lethal M-82, Lyons had seen to it that Lalo's gray matter suffered similar displacement.

"Might not be a bad idea," Blancanales said, leaning across his chair for the telephone. "How about if I check in with the chief first, though."

"Why, so he can chomp our collective asses for showing up the DEA? No thanks."

Blancanales started dialing anyway. "With any luck, he'll hear it from us first and we can give our side of the story," he told Lyons.

"Fat chance of that," Kissinger called out from across the room. "Those folks were royally upset this afternoon. My guess is they've already bitched up a storm."

"If that was the case, Brognola would have gotten in touch with us already," Blancanales said. "In any event, we'll find out soon enough, right?"

Although Able Team's portable communications were powerful enough to transmit over long distances, Stony Man computer whiz, Aaron Kurtzman, had recently determined that the signals used in such calls between the Farm and field agents were too easily intercepted by other agencies. And so Blancanales fell back on the more rudimentary use of the telephone, going through the standard, well-orchestrated series of diverted calls and conversational security tests required to establish contact with Stony Man Farm. Compared to the communicators, this process was a time-consuming, royal pain in the ass, but as the Bear had ordained, it was better to go slow but stealthy than fast and reckless.

'"lo, Pol," Kurtzman finally greeted Blancanales after the security procedure had been completed. "Some of Gadgets's psychic abilities must be rubbing off on you."

"How's that?"

"We were just about to call you," Kurtzman said.

"Oh-oh." Blancanales shifted the receiver to his other ear, putting him in a better position to watch the game as he talked. "Then I take it you've heard…"

"Afraid so."

"The chief hot?"

Kurtzman chuckled over the line. "Well, let's say he could have lit his cigar without a match. But he's cooled off a little."

"That why were you about to call?" Blancanales asked.

"Well, it has something to do with the reason Hal's cooled off," Kurtzman explained. "Is Schwarz there?"

"Nope. He had some dinner thing with the folks from the baseball camp."

"Well, he can fill you in with all the details, but in a nutshell, we want you to stay put. There's a wrinkle in this whole thing with the DEA. Seems one of their agents is a mole for the drug smugglers. Until they figure out who it is, you guys are going to be taking over some of the work on the sly."

Blancanales cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and caught the attention of the other men in the room. "You're gonna love this, believe me."

"Did you say something?" Kurtzman asked.

"Just bracing the troops," Blancanales said. "Okay, what are we supposed to do?"

"You guys been briefed about a man named Kyle Lovecriss?"

"Yeah," Pol said. "He owns a sugarcane field, right? Supposedly went on the lam after killing some unionizer and taking a shot at some other guy who could have linked him up with the murder."

"That's basically it," Kurtzman said. "The police have been backtracking, and the last time anybody saw this guy, he was leaving some society shindig in Palm Beach with a female caterer.

"Funny thing is, the company that was hired to do the catering doesn't know anything about her, and nobody at the party who saw her could place her. Closest make was from somebody who thought she was Cuban."

"Hmm." Blancanales's mind was racing, trying to piece the puzzle together. It wasn't easy. "And the cops think that since the two guys who smuggled LeTorq into the States were Cuban there has to be some sort of connection?"

"Exactly. Working on the theory that Lovecriss is the head man to this whole operation, it makes sense."

Blancanales said, "Except why have some Cuban woman masquerade as a caterer?"

"There were a lot of movers and shakers at that party," Kurtzman theorized. "She might have been put in to eavesdrop, for whatever reason."

"I can see that," Blancanales said. "But let's get down to the bottom line. Where do we fit in here?"

"This whole thing with the mystery woman is the bait that's going to be used to try to flush out the DEA agent who's double-dealing," Kurtzman said. "Sandy Meis-ner's going to set the trap, and you guys will be hiding in the shadows to help spring it."

Just then there was a knock on the door.

"Hold on a sec, Bear."

In a split second, the four men in the room dropped their laid-back front and went on the alert. Kissinger tossed a sheet over all the weapons save for one M-16, while Lyons and Grimaldi pulled out their pistols and silently moved clear of the doorway, on the outside chance that bullets would rip through the door as soon as someone spoke.

"Easy guys," Gadgets called out from the hallway. "It's just me."

The men relaxed, although Lyons kept his Python at the ready until Schwarz was let into the room and revealed to be alone.

"You aren't going to believe this," Schwarz began, "but—"

Blancanales interrupted, "Oh yes, we will." He pointed to the phone. "The Bear just scooped you."

As Pol got back on the phone and went over details with Kurtzman, Lyons cornered Schwarz. "Maybe you can fill us in on what the hell's going on?"

Gadgets walked over to one of the chairs and plopped dov/n. "Well, it's like this. We're going gumshoe for a while. Starting tomorrow."

"Come again?" Kissinger said.

"Stake out and follow," Schwarz told him. "The stuff private eyes are made of…"

Joseph Janks changed out of his hospital garb into a five-hundred-dollar Brooks Brothers suit he'd ordered from a prestigious men's store in Palm Beach to replace the bloody clothes he'd been shot in. The fit wasn't as perfect as he would have liked, but that could be taken care of by his personal tailor once he returned to Miami.

A hospital staff aide showed up at his room with a wheelchair. "Ready to take you down, Mr. Janks."

"I'd rather walk, if you don't mind," Janks said, eyeing the wheelchair with revulsion.

"No can do," the aide said. "Regulations, you know."

Janks sighed and eased himself into the chair, wincing slightly as the shifting of his weight aggravated the bullet wound in his shoulder. He took one last look at the room and bade it good riddance as he was wheeled away.

The police officer standing guard outside the door fell into stride alongside the wheelchair as Janks was pushed down the corridor toward the elevators.

"Have your people had any luck finding the man that did this to me?" Janks asked the cop.

"He's not in custody yet, but we're making progress, I'm sure."

"Good," Janks said. As the threesome stepped into an elevator and began the three-story descent to the ground floor, he felt a brief chill of paranoia. The two Cubans who were supposed to have gotten rid of Lovecriss's body had been slain before they were able to confirm that they'd done their job. If the corpse were to turn up somewhere, showing obvious signs of foul play, Janks's story could well fall under increased suspicion. The thought continued to nag Janks as he was led out of the hospital and to the curb where the gold-colored Cadillac was parked. Pedro Carr, wearing a chauffeur's uniform, was standing near the passenger's side of the vehicle, holding the front door open. His dreadlocks were tucked up underneath his cap and he kept his mouth closed to hide the gold fillings.

"I'm in good hands now, officer," Janks said, rising from the wheelchair and offering his hand to the cop. "Thanks for your vigilance."

The cop gave Janks's hand a quick shake and followed the aide back inside the hospital. Janks slipped into the limo without looking at Carr, and he kept his gaze focused straight ahead as the Jamaican pulled away from the hospital and started for the turnpike. Neither spoke for several miles, then Janks broke the icy silence.

"I watched the news this morning. Nothing about Bendix being killed."

Carr rolled his eyes beneath his tinted shades. "He's at the other hospital down the road, mon, and he's got a cop outside his room same as you did. Don't worry, I'll take care of him. Personally."

"When?"

"When de time is right," Carr snapped. Just like I ought to take care of you, honky, he thought to himself. Thinking back to their little conspiracy at the Barefoot Mailman Inn, Carr now wished he had put a bullet through Janks's heart instead of his shoulder. He could still have had the shooting pinned on Lovecriss, and he'd have had a chance to move in and take over a nice chunk of the businessman's holdings before the cops got their act together. Maybe that could still be arranged before this was all over. In the meantime, Carr had decided to suck up to Janks, play the role and try to plot out the way to make his best move.

Janks waited until they were on the turnpike before asking, "And what about your man with the DEA? What's he have to say about that fiasco at the ballpark yesterday?"

"He said they didn't have anything to do with it," Carr told Janks. "There were some hotshots sent in from Washington. They got in the way without letting the agency know."

"What kind of hotshots?"

Carr shrugged as he guided the Cadillac through traffic. "Some top-secret group. We only know they get orders from high up, even higher up than DEA."

"That's not good," Janks said. "All that effort we spent to get a man inside, it could all be compromised by this."

"Not to worry, mon," Pedro said. "They're already off the case."

"Yes?"

Carr nodded. "Had a big shouting match with each other. DEA won and got these other guys taken out."

"I suppose we should be thankful for small favors." Janks glanced at the scenery and rubbed his aching shoulder. With his other hand he went through his pockets for a pain pill and swallowed it. "So how is the heroin operation shaping up? Where do we stand?"

"LeTorq is almost ready to start his thing," Carr reported. "DEA knows there's an organization shaping up with the Miami gangs fitting in, but they haven't linked you."

"What about you?"

Pedro lowered his glasses slightly and smiled. "They know this face, but that's all. I'm driving them crazy."

Janks scowled back at Carr. "If they know your face, what the hell were you doing picking me up? There was a cop right there!"

"But he didn't make me, did he, mon?" Carr responded.

"I don't care! It was a stupid risk!"

"Don't be calling me stupid, mon," Carr warned.

The men lapsed again into silence as the Cadillac rolled through Broward County, skirting Fort Lauderdale and passing through the outskirts of Hollywood, Florida. There were signs of growth throughout the area, much of it reflecting the recent trend to build farther inland, developing the considerable swatch of land between the beachfront community and the edge of the Everglades. Janks had a sizable part of his personal fortune tied up in such development, and he looked to the drug trade as a way of maintaining a favorable cash flow situation and providing him with necessary funds for the countless emergency expenses that came with the construction game. There were palms to be greased, bribes to be paid, strategic last-minute biddings to be made. Ready capital was a must.

As for Carr, his mind was busy as well, but his thoughts didn't bother dealing with development and political concerns. He was a man of the streets, and for him, the heroin angle was an end and not a means. He knew that drug trafficking, properly exploited, could pull in more cash than any of the more aboveboard ventures Janks was concerned with. Janks could have the political power games and all that honky society shit. Carr wanted to ride the horse and, one way or another, he wanted to see to it that he was in the saddle alone.

William Victish and Hap Freedman took turns throwing darts at a board mounted on the back wall of the Royale Pub on Jessamine Street. It was a small, dingy tavern, popular with the yuppie crowd and just now settling down after the hectic lunch rush. The air was filled with the appetizing aroma of shepherd's pie, bangers and the house specialty, Nuclear Fish-n-Chips. The two DEA agents were nursing pints of Watneys and playing 301. Victish was by far the better player, knocking off doubles and bull's-eyes almost at will, while Freedman struggled with the board, coming up with his better scores usually by accident.

"Good thing I'm better with a gun than I am with these things, eh?" Freedman told his partner as he retrieved his darts from the board after a particularly bad throw.

"It's all in the wrists," the bearded redhead advised Hap as he took his place at the line.

"Yeah, yeah, so you keep telling me."

They were waiting for Sandy and Max Magun to show up to discuss their next plan of attack in dealing with the multiheaded beast that was the gang-backed drug syndicate they were trying to put under wraps. They finished the game they were playing and had gotten halfway through another before Sandy finally showed up, alone, and sought them out.

"Hi, guys," she said breathlessly, helping herself to a sip from Hap's glass. "Sorry I'm late, but I've got good news."

"My favorite kind," Victish said, pausing from his game to finish off one last french fry from a plate on the table he and Freedman were sharing.

"Where's Headroom?" Freeman asked.

"That's the good news," Sandy said. "He's on his way to question somebody who claims he knows the woman Lovecriss was seen with the night he disappeared."

"All right!" Victish exclaimed. "About time we got a break."

"Yeah," Freedman concurred, though his enthusiasm was more restrained. "Who's the contact, Sandy?"

Sandy shook her head and borrowed Victish's darts as she stepped up to the throwing line and focused her attention on the dart board. "Dunno. Whoever it is, he's going overboard trying to cover his ass. Max has to drive down to Hypoluxo and use some pay phone to call this person back in order to get the lowdown. That's not supposed to go down until after seven, so we've got the afternoon off." In a series of three deft, assured tosses, Sandy hit one bull's-eye and just missed two others. She went and pried the projectiles out of the board, then headed back to the line, glancing at the two men to gauge their reaction to the news. They both seemed happy about getting the time off, but she noticed that Freedman's grin seemed the more forced of the two.

"Shit, it's been so long since I've had time off, I don't know what the hell to do," Victish said. He hoisted his ale and downed the last swallow, then wiped at the foam on his mustache. '"Spose I'll have another Watneys for starters."

As the bearded agent wandered off to the bar, Sandy remained behind with Freedman, who took his turn at the line and unleashed another round of shoddy throws. "Sounds like this might turn out to be a dead end, if you ask me," he told Sandy. "Or worse."

"How do you mean?" Sandy was almost positive she was looking at the traitor. But she needed more proof.

"That whole arrangement with the phone booth and Hypoluxo just sounds kinda suspicious to me," Freedman said. "It might be a good idea if someone else went along with him, don't you think?"

"Yeah, and I already asked about it," Sandy rejoined, "but Max says the police want dibs on backup, and he doesn't want to muck things up by bringing along any more people than he has to."

"Makes sense, I guess," the sandy-haired agent murmured before taking a slow, thoughtful sip from his mug. "If it helps us make some headway, well, who's to argue, right?"

Victish returned with his fresh Watneys as well as a second pint, which he handed to Sandy. He proposed a toast, "To time off… with pay, of course."

"Of course," Sandy seconded, chinking her glass against his and Feedman's. "So how about if we celebrate with a little three-way 501?"

"Mmm, sounds a bit kinky to me." Victish snickered. "But, hey, I'm a wild kinda guy___"

"Why don't you two go ahead?" Freedman said, finishing his brew. "I've got some errands that have been piling up. Who knows when I'll get another chance to take care of'em."

"Coward," Victish taunted. "You just can't bear the thought of being beaten by a woman as well as the champ."

"Whatever you say, Bill," Freedman said with a laugh. "Have fun."

Freedman took the rear exit and started sorting through his pockets for change as he took long strides down the back alley. He didn't notice that his movements were being watched by Carl Lyons and Pol Blancanales, who were posted at either end of the alley, half-disguised and hidden from the agent's immediate view. Kissinger and Grimaldi were similarly stationed outside the front entrance to the pub, rounding out the surveillance team for the time being. Gadgets was back at Municipal Stadium, wrapping up his weekend with the fantasy baseball camp.

Blancanales watched Freedman from inside a parked Buick Regal with tinted windows that effectively cloaked his presence. He was about to start up his car, thinking that Freedman would be driving somewhere in his Caprice. But the agent walked past his vehicle, finally coming to a stop at a phone booth outside the building next to the pub. Someone else was using the phone, and Freedman's normally calm demeanor began to fray around the edges as he waited for his chance to use the booth.

Reaching across the front seat, Pol picked up a small transistorized eavesdropping device. Dubbed the Dogear by its inventor, Aaron Kurtzman, the sophisticated device was roughly the same size as a communicator, built inside a plastic framework that looked like a hybrid of a flattened earmuff and an oversize potato chip. There was an opening through which Pol withdrew a segmented, flexible antenna, which he eased through a narrow crack in the car window and aimed at the phone booth. When he put his ear against the opposite end of the contraption, Blancanales was able to hear sounds given off by the vibration of sound waves as they hit the glass walls of the phone booth. He could only hear the person inside the booth and the voice was extremely distorted, but he would be able to make out enough words to follow Hap's end of the conversation. Later, a recording of the eavesdropped voice could be run through a larger playback unit capable of phasing out the distortive elements and increasing the clarity of what was heard.

Once he had his chance to use the phone, Freedman hurriedly fed coins to the appropriate slots and punched a local number. Blancanales smiled to himself as he heard the discernible tones of each number pressed on the pushbutton phone; it would be much easier for them to find out the number Freedman was dialing. That in itself would hopefully constitute a major lead. Any conversation picked up would be gravy.

"Yes," the agent said when his call was answered. "I need to talk to Conchita. It's important."

Conchita, Blancanales thought to himself. The Cuban woman?

"Well, when will she be in?" There was a pause, and when Freedman spoke again, the urgency in his voice was obvious. "Can you give me her home phone number? It's an emergency__Come on, I'm telling you, I have to talk to her, now! It can't wait!"

Yeah, of course you do, Blancanales thought. Need to pass along a warning, eh?

"All right, all right!" Freedman went on, exasperated. "At least do me a favor when she comes in and tell her that the pogo man called? Pogo, like the stick. She'll know what I mean. And tell her I'll be there by eight-thirty."

The slamming of the phone was an explosive sound in Pol's ear and he yanked the listening device away as he watched Freedman leave the booth and backtrack to his car. As the Caprice backed out of its parking space, Pol went for his communicator and tuned in, reaching Gri-maldi, who was behind the wheel of a Renault Alliance on Jessamine Street.

"He's all yours, Jack."

Once the Caprice was out of view, Blancanales fidgeted with the Dogear, rewinding the tape and then playing it back, memorizing the tone sequence of the phone number. Hustling over to the booth, he went through the various push buttons on the phone until he matched up their sounds with those on the tape. He jotted down the number, then put through a call of his own to Kurtzman at Stony Man Farm. The Bear put Blancanales on hold, saying it'd take at least a few minutes to tap into the local police reverse directory and have the number traced to a location. As he waited for a reply, Blancanales reflected that if Kurtzman came through, they'd be able to contact the mystery woman linking Kyle Lovecriss with the hell that had broken loose along the Gold Coast in recent days.

Of course, they might have been able to come up with the same information, and more, by collaring Hap Freedman and squeezing him for information. But it had already been agreed that the double agent could be used to better advantage if he didn't know he'd already been sniffed out. Also, there was still a chance that they were jumping to conclusions and that Freedman wasn't their man after all. It could be that Bill Victish was the collaborator with the drug runners. Or, worse yet, that both men were involved.

"Well, Pol, lad," Kurtzman finally droned in Blanca-nales's ear, "I'm afraid you're about to have your virgin nature irreparably singed.

"How's that, Bear?"

"The number you gave me belongs to a place called the Strip Teaser in Boynton Beach."

Pedro Carr pulled up in front of the Coral Gables condominium Joseph Janks both owned and called his home. The businessman's Jaguar, driven back from Hy-poluxo by another flunky in the aftermath of the shooting at the Barefoot Mailman Inn, was visible just outside the parking structure. It was being hand-washed and waxed by a pair of Puerto Rican teenagers.

"I don't care how you do it," Janks told Carr before getting out of the Cadillac, "but I want that Bendix bastard killed in a way that will put out a message to anyone else who gets any ideas of welching on their debts."

Carr nodded patiently in the driver's seat, but he was only humoring Janks. Once the other man was out of the Cadillac and heading up the main walkway to the condominium, Carr eased out of the driveway and started toward his salvage yard, fuming all the way.

Hell with Bendix, he thought. The ball player was Janks's problem, not his. Pedro Carr had more important matters to tend to. He had to figure out the best way to make his big move, to outmaneuver Janks without having things backfire. If he could somehow shift his operations and set up shop where Janks couldn't get to him, things would start to fall into place. After all, Janks didn't know shit about how things worked on the street. Without Carr's help, the pompous white-ass bastard wouldn't know how to swing a drug deal or fence hot goods or manipulate contacts in the field, even if his life depended on it. Sure, he'd be pissed about losing out on the heroin action, but if he was smart, Janks would write off the loss and stick to the political wheeling and dealing he was most suited for. Yeah, if he played his cards right, Carr could just seize control of the vice activity and make it his own domain, become an instant equal with Janks. Tell the honky to accept the way things were now or else he could find himself sliced and diced and tossed into the ocean as dessert for the sharks that had feasted on Kyle Lovecriss.

Caught up in his delusions of grandeur, Carr had driven his Cadillac through the entrance gate to the salvage yard and around the front office before it occurred to him that he hadn't heard or seen the two rottweilers that normally stood guard over the grounds. For that matter, he also hadn't seen either of his two men who ran the yard's legitimate trade out of the front office.

"Don't like this," he murmured to himself as he reached for his gun and shifted the Cadillac into reverse. He cleared his mind of distractions and attuned his senses to the moment, and he didn't like the vibes he was getting. The whole yard was too quiet, too deserted. Normally there would be at least three or four people out crawling amid the piled wrecks with wrenches and pliers, trying to pry loose a few salvageable spare parts. And back in the rear shop he should be able to hear another crew of his own men chopping up a backlog of fenced stolen cars. But there was nothing but the sun beating down on the refuse and the distant drone of traffic on the turnpike.

Ambush.

The moment the word framed itself in Pedro's mind, he made sure the Cadillac was in reverse, then started to speed backward. A second engine suddenly roared into life, and from between stacks of twisted Oldsmobiles and Chryslers, a battle-scarred Chevy Nova lunged into view, blocking his way. Pedro stepped on the brakes and still barely avoided a collision.

"Shit!" Carr whipped his gun around and aimed at the Nova, but the other driver had already ducked out of view.

A second junk car, this one a yellow Pacer, chugged out and rolled to a stop in front of the Cadillac, pinning Carr in. Frustrated, the Jamaican blasted away at the Pacer, shattering its fishbowl windshield but missing the driver, who had already thrown himself across the passenger's seat in anticipation of the shot.

"Put away your popgun, Kingstone!"

Orlando's voice came from the vicinity of a tire heap, but when Carr looked that way he didn't see the gang leader. He did, however, find himself looking at two Cubans peering at him through the sights of Marlin 780 bolt action repeaters. Between them they had fourteen shots, and Carr knew that from less than thirty yards any idiot could make Swiss cheese out of him with half that many blasts.

And they were just part of the ambush. Off to his right, four Haitian gang members popped up from behind the rusting carcass of an old Volkswagen van, armed with eighty-year-old Arisaka Type 30 rifles recently stolen from the collection of a Japanese importer in Aladdin City. In the opposite direction, three blacks strode into view, dragging the bodies of the dead rottweilers by their leashes and cradling Marlin 1894C carbines loaded with 9-shot tubes of 357 Magnum ammunition in their arms.

Carr wasn't about to try bucking the odds against him. He slowly extended his arm out the window of the Cadillac and dropped his gun to the ground, then just as slowly got out of the vehicle.

Orlando emerged from behind the tires. With him were Rosas Juel and Arnold Aitinis, who were leaders of Miami's most notorious Haitian and black gangs, respec-tively. Over the past year, Carr had had extensive dealings with each of the men, but always on a one-to-one basis. Like oil and water, racial gangs weren't known to mix, and Carr was dumbfounded to see the three leaders together, and to see so many rifles out in the open without being used. He didn't like the implications.

"What you know, Kingstone?" Orlando said with a grin as he strode up to the Jamaican. "This dumb Cuban did himself a little homework and guess what? I found out that you've been cutting deals with not only us and the Haitians, but also with the brothers from Liberty City. How about that?"

"I guess that makes me an equal opportunity employer, eh, mon?" Carr was determined not to let the men sense his fear. "Hey, what's de problem? There's plenty of action for everybody, right?"

"Maybe so," Juan said, "but we don't want to see it spread out too thin, know what I mean? Especially on this skagdeal."

"You all get a good share," Carr said.

"Sometimes good ain't good enough," Arnold said. He was the biggest man in the group, standing six-five and weighing almost 250, all of it buffed muscle. He had dark, intense eyes and the arch of his receding hairline exaggerated his hostile appearance even further. "We want the pie cut different."

"Fewer pieces," Carr guessed.

"And bigger," Arnold said. He indicated himself and the other two gang leaders. "You get one slice, LeTorq gets one slice, and we get three, all the same size."

"What about the guy I answer to?" Pedro said, not bothering to mention that he had just been thinking about putting Janks out of the picture. "He's used to skimming off a third just for himself."

"He's gonna have to skim somebody else," Orlando said. "We don't need Mr. Janks no more."

Carr was stunned. Janks's identity as Carr's boss was supposedly unknown to the gangs. This was the first time any gang member had mentioned it. "Janks?" he bluffed.

Juan sneered. "You think we got nothing on the ball, Jamaica, but think again. We're smart enough to call a truce and throw in together on this, and we're smart enough to figure where the big slice has been going."

"So what's it gonna be, Kingstone?" Orlando asked. "You want to join the new club and stay on top of things or you want to go down with the white bread?"

Carr looked at the three gang leaders and the small army surrounding them. For all their talk, it was clear to him that they were still willing to let him call the shots. Otherwise they would have just plugged him like they'd plugged the dogs. Of course, it was equally clear to him that if he didn't like the terms the way they'd been laid out, the gang leaders would have no qualms about snuffing him and managing things on their own as best they could.

"Like they say in de movies, mon," Carr philosophized, "this is an offer I can't refuse, yes?"

"That's right, Kingstone," Orlando said. "And guess what? You want to join this club, for a change you get to go through an initiation."

Grimaldi and Kissinger called it a tail sandwich.

While Jack followed Hap Freedman's Caprice several car lengths behind, Kissinger sped past them and then slipped back into the right lane, putting himself five cars ahead of the double agent. It was an added precaution in maintaining the surveillance, allowing one car to take over for the other if traffic thinned or Freedman started driving as if he was suspicious.

There was enough traffic on the main thoroughfares for them to tail the DEA man without problems the first few blocks, but then the Caprice ventured off onto side streets and the number of cars to hide among quickly dwindled.

"I'm switching off to parallel streets," Kissinger told Grimaldi over his communicator. "Keep me posted."

From behind the wheel of his rental Alliance, Grimaldi saw Kissinger take a right turn at the next intersection. Freedman kept going straight, four cars ahead of the Renault. As he passed the intersection, Grimaldi shot a quick glance to his right and saw Kissinger already making a left turn a block away so that he was still close enough to be in on the tail.

After another five minutes of delicate cat-and-mouse maneuvering, the two Stony Men traded places, with Kissinger bringing up the rear while Grimaldi paralleled a block to the left. Another such maneuver proved to be unnecessary, as Freedman pulled into the parking lot next to the West Palm Beach police station.

"Damn!" Kissinger cursed, cruising past the station and slipping into a parking spot across the street. He hurriedly grabbed the communicator and signaled Gri-maldi. "Jack, do the cops know anything about the story Sandy fed Freedman?"

"I'm not sure. Why?"

"Because he's on his way to the station, and my money says he's looking for more info on what the police have on this Cuban woman."

"We better not take any chances," Grimaldi told Cowboy as he took a sharp right turn and came up on the side entrance to the station. "Stall him somehow while I slip in and check things out."

"I'll do what I can."

Kissinger slipped out of his car and put his football instincts into play, scrambling through traffic and barely avoiding being run over twice before he was across the street. Fortunately, no cops were outside to take note of his reckless jaywalking, and he was able to sprint to the doorway of the station before Freedman spotted him. Doing a quick about-face, Kissinger made it look as if he was just on his way out of the building. Being in peak physical condition, he wasn't winded from his running.

"Well, well," he said, striding up to Freedman and blocking the man's way. "Just the man I was looking for."

"What are you doing here?" Freedman wanted to know. "I thought you were supposed to be on a flight back to Washington."

"Plane leaves in an hour," Kissinger lied. "I just wanted to track you guys down and give you a piece of my mind about that face-off yesterday at the stadium."

"What about it?"

"Look, I know you were the one playing peacemaker, so I might be barking up the wrong tree," Kissinger said, "but your partners were real bush shooting their mouths off the way they did, especially in public. How the hell do you think it looks to the taxpayers?"

"You're Kissinger, right?" When Cowboy nodded, Freedman shook his head and laughed, "You got a lotta nerve talking to anyone about professional etiquette, pal. Remember, Meisner's told us stories about your shenanigans when you were in DEA. You got no halo over your head when it comes to being out of line."

"My behavior got results," Kissinger defended himself. "You boys have been piddling around here for months and what do you have to show for it? I'll tell you. First big break in this case comes from an informer who calls Lieutenant Frank."

"What do you know about that?" Freedman asked.

"Why should I tell you?"

Freedman shrugged. "Suit yourself."

The agent started to walk around Kissinger, but Cowboy sidestepped to block his way again. "Hold on. Where's the rest of your gang? Especially Meisner. She needs a good talking to."

"You're going to miss your plane, Kissinger," Freedman said. "Now how about you get out of my way?"

A pair of cops strode out of the station. Rather than risk bringing them into the altercation, Kissinger casually stepped clear of Freedman. The agent glared at Cowboy and then proceeded inside. Kissinger hoped he'd bought Grimaldi enough time as he went to the corner and crossed the street with the light. Less than a minute after he was back in his car, he got a call from Grimaldi.

"Perfect timing, Cowboy. I slipped out just as Freed-man showed up."

"The lieutenant know the score?"

"Yeah," Grimaldi reported. "He'd already worked it out with Meisner and Magun. Freedman isn't going to find out squat in there. He'll have to sweat it out, unless he's thinking of hanging out in Hypoluxo hoping to run into Magun when he calls the informant."

"If he does that, he's going to be even more disappointed, considering their is no informant and Magun's not going down there to make any call."

"It would serve the fucker right," Grimaldi said. "So what do we do now?"

"Wait," Kissinger said.

They didn't have to wait long. Ten minutes later, Hap Freedman emerged from the police station with a look of obvious displeasure. He got back in his car and squealed out of the parking lot, taking a direct route to the turnpike and heading south. Kissinger and Grimaldi fell into sandwich formation with him. A few miles south of Palm Beach, Freedman exited onto Lake Worth Road and passed through Greenacres City before taking Military Trail down to Hypoluxo Road.

"Well, we called this one right," Grimaldi said as he drove past the greasy spoon Freedman pulled into. "Cowboy, why don't you go on ahead and check out things in Boynton Beach? I'll wait it out with our boy here."

"You sure?"

"Hells bells. If I can't handle a bozo like this alone, I oughta get into another line of work."

"Well, all right. But keep that communicator close by. And your Colt."

"Yes, mother," Grimaldi whined sarcastically. He waited until Kissinger had driven past, then got out of his Renault and headed for the entrance. In the finest Hy-poluxo tradition, the place called itself the Barefoot Cafe. A sign on the door, however, admonished, Bare Feet Not Allowed.

"Not even the mailman?" Grimaldi wondered.

Jacques LeTorq slowly puffed on one of his specially rolled cigarettes. The magic was in the mixture. Half fine-cut imported tobacco, one quarter Maui Wowie—a particularly potent blend of marijuana grown and harvested in Hawaii—and one quarter a concentrated blend of cloves, herbs and opium. Put it all together in peppermint-treated rolling paper and you had a smoke unlike any other. For LeTorq, it always felt as if he were sucking on Aladdin's lamp, filling his lungs with the presence of a powerful genie that could answer wishes and inspire wonderful dreams.

What he wished for now was a little peace and quiet, an end to the turmoil that had dogged him since his arrival in the States. There had been too much gunfire, too much aggravation. Last night had been the worst. First the killing of the Haitian in the airboat, only a few yards away from the trailer. Then the argument between the Cubans and the Jamaican, which had been interrupted by the drone of police helicopters skimming above the Everglades, working their way toward the trailer park. There had been a great panic while two of the Cubans scrambled to get over the fence and make off with the body and the airboat before the choppers had reached the clearing.

LeTorq and the others had cowered inside their trailer as the copter hovered above them for what seemed like an eternity before heading off to follow the trail left by the airboat. The Cubans had driven it as far as the Hillsboro Channel before overturning it so that both it and the slain Haitian would sink into the murky water. Once that crisis had ended, the Jamaican had left, and the Cubans had begun talking to one another in Spanish, figuring Le-Torq wouldn't be able to understand them. They were wrong, however. The Frenchman had a passing grasp of almost a dozen languages, one of the reasons he'd been able to ply his trade so successfully prior to his recent imprisonment in Italy. He understood enough of the Cubans' conversation to realize that a power struggle was shaping up over control of the heroin network that would be spawned by the fruits of his efforts. LeTorq heard it made clear that he was to be kept safe and well compensated for his talents, and that was all that was important to him. He'd survived a handful of similar coups over the years, and he knew that by concentrating on his function and staying out of the politics as much as possible, he'd always manage to come out ahead.

He was sitting in yoga position atop the roof of the old trailer, facing west. The sun had just touched the horizon when he lit his designer joint. By the time he finished it, the gold orb had dropped from view and the stars were lighting up the cloudless night sky. There was no breeze in the air, and when LeTorq exhaled through his nostrils, the pungent smoke lingered around him, helping to ward off mosquitoes. He flicked what little was left of the joint over the side, then closed his eyes and let the last of the smoke out of his lungs slowly, bidding his mind to clear itself of bothersome thoughts at the same time. He succeeded to a small extent.

When he opened his eyes, Jacques saw a car turning off the highway and entering the trailer park. It was Orlando's station wagon.

With a sigh, the Frenchman rose from his yoga squat and climbed down the ladder rungs attached to the rear of the trailer. He was on the ground by the time the station wagon had pulled behind the trailer and come to a stop. Orlando and two other Cubans got out of the Chevy and headed for the back door of the trailer, where LeTorq stood waiting for them.

"The stuff is ready?"

LeTorq nodded. "Ota."

"All right, my man!"

The four men entered the trailer, where two more Cubans were caught up in what seemed to be a never-ending poker game.

"iQuepasa?" one of the players asked Orlando.

The gang leader quickly replied in Spanish that things had gone as planned and that Pedro Carr had been convinced to support the new plans for distribution of the heroin. LeTorq pretended not to be listening to the explanation, but he was inwardly pleased with the development. He didn't like Carr, and despite his desire to remain neutral with regards to any infighting, he couldn't help but like the idea that the smug Jamaican had been brought down a few notches.

In sharp contrast to the trashy, unkempt state of the rest of the trailer, LeTorq's room was meticulously clean, especially considering the labor and materials that had been required to dry the morphine base, combine it with carefully measured doses of solvents, then purify the resulting substance through charcoal to come up with the fine white powder that now filled three glass jars sitting on the edge of the makeshift table.

"This is it?" Orlando said.

LeTorq nodded and unscrewed the lid of one of the jars. Orlando dipped his fingertip in and sampled a few granules on the tip of his tongue. A satisfied grin came across his face.

"Very nice, I think," the Cuban said. "Let's see how pure it is."

From inside his coat, Orlando produced two small glass vials, one half-filled with a clear liquid and the other containing a portion of powder that was the same color and consistency of heroin. With a small measuring spoon taken from LeTorq's nearby supply kit, Orlando skimmed a minute trace of the heroin and added it to the vial with the powder. Next he poured in the liquid from the other container, then capped the vial and shook it vigorously.

"Blue," LeTorq predicted as both men waited for the swirling solution to settle. Sure enough, within a matter of seconds, the once-amber fluid turned clear, then a shade of deep azure.

Orlando whistled as he stared at the glass tube. "Ninety percent, eh?"

"I think so," LeTorq said modestly. "I could do even better if I had a better workplace."

"I bet you could," Orlando said. He screwed the lid back on the opened jar, then put all three containers into a padded carrying case. "And once I get this stuff out on the streets, we'll find you a new place, okay? A mansion in the Keys, maybe? A pool, lotta hot chickies? You like that?"

LeTorq smiled. "Very much."

It was Amateur Night at Rocky's Strip Teaser. The glitzy bar on Dixie Highway was jammed with oglers who cheered on contestants disrobing onstage for dollar tips and a chance for the first-prize purse of an additional cool grand. The atmosphere was charged with lust and revelry, loud with the din of music and raised voices. Scantily clad waitresses threaded their way through the wolf-whistling patrons and endured the inevitable come-ons and pinches on their way to deliver orders of watered-down draft beer and overpriced pretzels. Proprietor Rocky Nalob, a broken-nosed ex-boxer with curly hair and nineteenth-century-style muttonchop sideburns, beamed happily at the proceedings, for this was the hottest night of the week for business. Hell, if there had been enough well-endowed amateurs to go around, he'd have the damn contest every night.

For Gadgets Schwarz and Cowboy Kissinger, it was more like Costume Night. Schwarz, who had been previously wearing contact lenses, now had his eyes framed with a conservative pair of wire-framed glasses, and his genuine brown mustache was accompanied by a matching paste-on beard. He wore a tan Stetson as part of an Old-West ensemble that gave him the appearance of an overpaid accountant who'd never quite gotten over the Urban Cowboy fad that had kicked off the decade. He sauntered casually through the bar, giving only passing notice to the pert young blonde on stage, who had stripped down to a G-string bikini while writhing to a thumping disco song in which Madonna cooed like a choir girl on aphrodisiacs. He was looking for suspicious activity or familiar faces, particularly those belonging to Hap Freedman or the mysterious Conchita. Freedman had been followed to the bar by Jack Grimaldi after a two-hour stay at the Barefoot Mailman Cafe in Hypoluxo. Schwarz finally spotted the agent sitting by himself at one end of the bar, hunched over a beer and staring past the owner at a mirror that provided an overview of the main room.

Kissinger was holding down a table near the stage, sitting so that he had an eye on both the entrance and exit to the bar. Like Schwarz, he'd opted for the Marlboro Man look, though he forgot the cigarettes. His nonprescrip-tion glasses had aviator frames and his fake mustache looked like a clone of Gadgets's real one. When Schwarz plopped into a chair next to him, he leaned over and mumbled over the music, "No luck here. How about you?"

"Freedman's at the bar," Schwarz reported. "Third from the end."

Kissinger nonchalantly stared over the heads of several other men who were preoccupied with the stage show. "Yeah, that's him, all right. Must be waiting for the woman."

"It's only twenty after eight," Schwarz said. "There's still time. Maybe Sandy will come up with something in the dressing room."

"Yeah, maybe."

The blond dancer gathered up the latest round of tips on the stage railing, then stepped out of the spotlight to compose herself as the jukebox cued up the next song, a recent hit by Janet Jackson. Clutching a pink feather boa, she slunk back into view and slipped off her top, revealing small, well-rounded breasts. There was bedlam as the men in the bar voiced their approval, and she worked her way to the railing to tease a few patrons with swipes of the boa.

"How do you feel about Sandy going undercover as one of these dancers?" Kissinger asked.

Schwarz glanced at the blonde and shook his head. "That's not her. She's wearing a red wig, not blond."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Kissinger said.

"Why should I care about her undercover work?" Schwarz demanded.

"Because I think you've already had a taste of it," Kissinger said. "I'm not blind. I see the way you guys look at each other."

"I could say the same about you and her, couldn't I?" Schwarz countered. "You two had a thing going at one time, right?"

"Ancient history, Gadgets."

"Is it?"

Kissinger nodded and took a sip from his beer. "She's a lot of woman, I'll admit that. Too much for me."

"How do you mean?"

"Look, Gadgets, I don't want to start something between us, okay?"

Schwarz eyed Kissinger intently. "It's a little late for that, Cowboy."

"In that case, it proves my point," Kissinger said.

"What point?"

"Sandy, she's real outgoing, to put it mildly. Flirts, speaks her mind, likes to go after whatever pleases her at the moment. When it was me that pleased her, we had some good times." Kissinger was silent a moment, lingering over a long-suppressed memory. He had a pained smile on his face. Behind him, the blonde onstage finished her routine, having stripped down to her high heels. The men were going wild and it took awhile before the din died down enough for Cowboy to resume. "But what happened was I got to liking her favors a little too much, and when I saw her looking at other guys…well, it got to be too much. We were fine as friends, but once we spent time in the sack, there was no going back. We finally broke it off and I got a transfer as quick as I could so I wouldn't have to look at her."

Schwarz clung to his drink, a troubled expression coming over his face. "Why are you telling me all this?" he finally asked.

"Just wanted you to know where I stand, Gadgets, that's all. I don't want her coming between us."

Schwarz clanked his glass against Cowboy's. "Fair enough."

Looking over Schwarz's shoulder, Kissinger shifted uneasily in his chair. "Well, I'm glad we had this talk. Now I'd suggest you fasten your seat belt___"

"Huh?" Schwarz turned in his chair and glanced at the stage, feeling an immediate shiver burrow the length of his spine.

Sandy was onstage, wearing black stiletto heels, fishnet stockings, a leather miniskirt and a tight-fitting span-dex top that left precious little to the imagination. Her red wig was spiked, making her look overall like a photo negative of Tina Turner. To further the comparison, she strutted her stuff to the refrain of "What's Love Got to Do with It?" She grinned fiendishly at the lascivious hoots and shouts that came her way, moving about the stage with a catlike grace and confidence. The woman had presence.

Schwarz was at once both enthralled and horrified by her performance. Her movements fired his imagination and triggered memories of their lovemaking, but on the heels of Kissinger's anecdote, the way that Sandy seemed to be enjoying the display of her body angered him. When the woman spotted him and Cowboy and started working her way to their side of the stage, Schwarz slid out of his chair and told Kissinger, "I'll go keep an eye on Freedman."

Sandy frowned as she saw Schwarz turn his back on her and pry his way into the crowd. Bending near the railing, she motioned for Kissinger to lean closer.

"What's with Gadgets?" she asked.

Kissinger stared at Sandy and shook his head. "If you can't figure that out, Sandy, you obviously haven't learned anything over the past five years."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," she snapped above the music. "I just wanted to tell you Conchita just showed up backstage. She's a waitress here. There's more, but I don't have time to go into it now."

Sandy retreated from Cowboy and went back to playing the crowd. Kissinger calmly finished his beer, then rose from the table. Three other men quickly elbowed their way in and took his place. Cowboy was on his way to pass along the news about Conchita, but he saw that Schwarz had already spotted the woman, who emerged from the backstage door wearing the same skimpy outfit as the other waitresses.

Hap Freedman left the bar and made his way toward the Cuban seductress, so intent on reaching her that he brushed past Gadgets without bothering to glance at him. The agent took Conchita off to a corner near a trio of unused pinball machines. From the bar both Kissinger and Schwarz watched them talk animatedly to each other.

"Well, it's her, all right," Schwarz told Kissinger. "Now if they would only bring in Lovecriss or the Jamaican."

"I wasn't really holding my breath on that," Kissinger said. "My guess is we're going to have to do some more tailing."

"To hell with this private eye crap!" Schwarz said. "I say we just haul their asses out back and get them to talk! That's the way we work best."

"You're just cranked up on account of Meisner." Kissinger gestured in the direction of the stage, where Sandy was shedding her blouse and driving the house into a frenzy.

"To hell with her, too!" Schwarz snapped.

Kissinger reached over and grabbed Schwarz's arm, squeezing it hard. "C'mon, Gadgets, shake it off, okay? Get a clear head!"

"You guys need another brew, maybe?" Rocky Nalob said, shifting over to their end of the bar.

"No, not really," Kissinger told him.

Rocky scratched his sideburns and eyed the men paternally. "Two drink minimum, guys, remember?"

"All right," Cowboy said, letting go of Schwarz's arm. "Couple drafts."

While they waited for their drinks, the two men saw Conchita walk over to the bar and wave for Rocky's attention. When he went over to see her, she put her hand to her forehead and then to her stomach as she talked. .

"She's playing sick," Schwarz guessed, following Kissinger's advice and putting his mind to the business at hand. When the owner nodded and waved her away, Conchita started back for the dressing room, signaling for Freedman to wait a minute. "They're gonna leave," Gadgets added. "We better let the others know."

Out in the parking lot, Lyons crept from car to car, crouched over, a small black box in his left hand, a Colt Python in his right. There was a constant flow of men entering and leaving the Strip Teaser, and his progress was slow and haphazard, as he was forced to cling to the shadows. Forty feet away, parked almost directly underneath the main light flooding the lot, was Hap Freed-man's Caprice. There was a pickup truck several yards away, with five college-age youths loitering around it, passing a flask of Southern Comfort and smoking cigarettes as they psyched themselves up for the floor show inside.

"Hurry it up, damn you!" Lyons cursed the young men under his breath.

As if his nerves weren't already on edge, the Ironman's communicator suddenly activated its signal mechanism, and Lyons had to quickly crank down the volume so he wouldn't be heard over the drone of noise spilling out from the bar.

"Freedman's met with Conchita." Kissinger's voice crackled over the communicator's miniature speaker. "They're leaving any minute."

"Great!" Lyons hissed cynically. "Man, that's just fucking great!"

As he peered over the back trunk of the car he was hiding behind, Lyons saw that the youths near the pickup were showing no signs of moving. If they didn't leave soon, Lyons was going to have to just break his cover and try to bluff his way to the Caprice.

But wait.

A familiar figure had just appeared from the other end of the lot, swaggering with authority toward the pickup truck. It was Pol Blancanales, and he was acting as if he owned the place.

"Okay, fellas," he told the group around the pickup. "This parking lot's only for paying customers, ca-picheV

"Hey, we're working on it, okay, dude?"

"Well, work on it inside or take it elsewhere," Blancanales insisted.

The youths sniggered to one another and loosely fanned out around Pol, who calmly held his ground. Lyons took advantage of the confrontation to slip from cover and circle around to the far side of the Caprice. He reached underneath the car and affixed the small black box to the chassis with a powerful magnet built into the box's housing, then pressed a button to activate the homing signal.

Ten feet away, Blancanales was discreetly coiling himself into a bojitsu stance while he tried to talk some sense into the youths. "I don't get it, guys. You could be inside having a blast and instead you're out here looking to get your butts kicked."

"Oh, yeah?" the spokesman for the group needled. "By you and what army?"

"This army, joyboys!"

Lyons rose into view and stepped away from the Caprice, holding his Colt Python out at his side. The eight-inch-long barrel with ventilated rib was a compelling visual aid, and Lyons knew he wouldn't have to use it.

"Hey, hey," one of the youths wailed nervously, his voice cracking with fear. "We were just having some fun."

"Like the man said, have it inside."

The door to the tavern opened and a couple other customers stumbled out, forcing Lyons to slip his gun out of view. Fortunately it had already served its purpose. Four of the youths backed away from Pol and Lyons and headed for the bar. The fifth leaned against the pickup for support as he threw up on the ground, then straggled off to join the others, wiping at his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

Just as Hap Freeman and Conchita came out of the bar, Jack Grimaldi backed out of his parking spot and rolled across the lot to the pickup. Lyons and Blancanales quickly got into the Alliance and closed the doors behind them.

"Cutting it pretty damn close," Lyons grumbled as Jack pulled away. "You getting a signal?"

"Yep." Grimaldi indicated a pulsing monitor mounted to the dashboard.

"Good," Blancanales said, easing back in the passenger's seat. Staring in the rearview mirror, he watched Conchita and Freeman head for the Caprice. Then Pol's jaw dropped as he saw them walk past the sedan and get into a Hyundai station wagon parked thirty feet away.

"I don't believe it!" Lyons sputtered. "I don't shit believe it!"

"Well, so much for the miracles of modern technology," Grimaldi said with a sigh, switching off the monitor. "Looks like we have to do things the old-fashioned way."

"Damn it, how many times do I have to tell you?" Con-chita complained. "I haven't opened my mouth to anyone!"

"Then how did someone find out about you?" Freed-man repeated.

"I don't know! Maybe somebody was just bluffing, looking for a little quick reward money." The woman was at the wheel of the Hyundai, driving a few miles below the speed limit on the Sawgrass Expressway. They'd just passed Coral Springs and were heading along the easternmost fringe of the Everglades. Traffic was light.

Freedman took a long drag on his cigarette and fumbled through his pockets for the rest of the pack. He tapped out a bent Winston and stuck it between his lips, lighting it with the previous butt. The cigarette burned like a fresh fuse. For the past half hour Hap had been chainsmoking as if he thought that by constantly replacing the fuses he could keep some bomb inside him from going off.

"Think about it," Conchita told him. "If you spent all that time roaming around Hypoluxo without seeing Ma-gun, then maybe he found out it was a false alarm and just didn't bother to show up. Doesn't that make sense?"

Freedman blinked his eyes against the updraft of cigarette smoke, then rolled down his window and let some of the humid evening breeze rush into the car. Outside, he could hear the nocturnal sounds of the wilderness. Except for the lights of other cars, the stretch was dark, illuminated only by stars and the thin slice of moon overhead. The desolation preyed further on his paranoia, teasing his nerves with grim speculation.

"Or maybe there wasn't any informant," he suddenly blurted out. "Maybe it was a trap."

"Come on, get serious."

"Why not?" Freedman said. "Look, there's this whole thing with Magun giving us the afternoon off and nobody letting out any details about this contact. Shit, and there was that ex-DEA guy at the station, too!"

"What are you talking about?"

Freedman explained about his run-in with Kissinger earlier in the afternoon, adding, "So he could have been in on it, too."

Conchita shot Freedman a quick glance. "You're starting to scare me. Calm down, will you?"

They were coming up on the interchange where the Sawgrass Expressway crossed Route 84 and turned into I-75.

"Quick, take a right!" Freedman suddenly rattled, pointing to the Route 84 turnoff.

"But the way to Miami's—"

"Just do it!" Freedman reached across the front seat and grabbed at the steering wheel, jerking it to one side. The Hyundai swerved sharply, almost flying off the road. Conchita elbowed the man away and seized the wheel with both hands as she applied the brakes and tried to keep the compact car from going completely out of control. The vehicle brodied sideways for nearly twenty yards before coming to a stop halfway off the turnoff ramp leading to Route 84.

"Damn it," Conchita swore, "you nearly got us killed!"

"Shut up and drive!" Freedman howled, staring frantically over his shoulder. He saw a second car slowing down as it passed the turnoff and detected the outlines of at least two men inside the vehicle. "We're being followed!"

As Conchita eased the Hyundai back onto the road and picked up speed on Route 84, Freedman went for his service revolver and twisted around in his seat so he had a clear view out the rear window.

"You see them?" Conchita asked.

"No," Freedman said. "Maybe they weren't able to get back to the turnoff."

"Where are we going?"

"Miami's too risky," Freedman thought aloud. "That's what they were expecting, I'll bet."

"Who? Who're theyV

"I don't know. Magun, Frank, those guys from Washington… whoever they are, they got through my cover."

"So where do we go?" the Cuban woman repeated.

"A few more miles and you'll hit Interstate 27," Freedman said. "Take another right when we get there."

"27? That leads nowhere!"

"Not exactly," Freedman said. "We've got a trailer home tucked away up there. If we can make it there before those guys catch up, we can hide the car and hole out for the night."

Grimaldps rental Alliance overshot the Route 84 turnoff, but John Kissinger and Gadgets Schwarz were a mile behind them, having gotten off to a late start leaving the Strip Teaser after getting the news that Freedman and Conchita had taken a different car than the one Lyons had bugged.

"They just started west on 84," Grimaldi reported over his communicator. "We'll double back once there's a break in the median, but you better start hauling ass or they're going to lose us!"

"Gotcha," Schwarz said, pushing all cylinders under the hood of his Ford to their limits. The car lunged forward and weaved through slower traffic to the turnoff. As they started heading west, Kissinger shed his Stetson and shook his hair free.

"I'd sure as hell hate to wear one of them suckers all the time," he said. "What a pain."

Schwarz had already tossed his hat in back of the car. As he yanked off his fake beard, he told Kissinger, "I hope we don't lose 'em, because I'm ready to nut up and doit!"

"So I've noticed," Kissinger said, noting the way Gadgets was leaning forward in his seat, knuckles white against the steering wheel as he sped along the highway, looking for the suspect Hyundai. There were several cars up ahead of them, but none of them looked right. Cowboy went on, "Look, Gadgets, I'm sorry about giving you that lecture back at the club. Maybe I was out of line."

Schwarz shook his head. "If anything, you gave me fair warning. Opened my eyes a little about Sandy."

"Seems to me she did a good job of that on her own."

"Yeah, I'll say. Shit, it made me crazy seeing her come out like that. What an exhibitionist!"

"I think it goes under the category 'If you got it, flaunt it,"' Kissinger said. "It's just her nature, Gadgets. I wouldn't hold it against her."

Schwarz grinned bitterly. "I already held it against her. That's what drove me so crazy!"

"I know where you're coming from. It's those territorial genes acting up, making you want 'em all to yourselves." Kissinger looked at Schwarz. "And you really don't want that much of a commitment, do you?"

"No," Schwarz confessed. "Hell, this whole relationship thing has about as much logic as—"

"There!" Kissinger interjected, pointing at a pair of small red lights in the fast lane more than a mile ahead of them. "That's gotta be them!"

"One way to find out." Schwarz goosed the accelerator and passed a pair of semis in the middle lane. The car in the distance continued to speed ahead of them, and Gadgets had his speedometer inching up into the seventies trying to gain ground. It took the better part of four miles, but finally they were close enough to make out the features of the other vehicle.

"Damn!" Kissinger bellowed with frustration. "It's a Corvette!"

Schwarz instinctively looked to his right. Two lanes over, he saw the Hyundai getting ready to make a turn onto Interstate 27.

"Hold on, Cowboy!"

Gadgets took his foot off the gas but stayed away from the brake pedal as he turned the car sharply to the right, cutting across two lanes of traffic and narrowly avoiding an oncoming semi before bounding over a hump of raised asphalt separating the Interstate turnoff from Route 84. The Ford's undercarriage bottomed out with a shower of sparks, but Schwarz was able to maintain control of the vehicle and power it back onto the road heading north. The Hyundai was less than a quarter of a mile away.

"Next time I think we'll rent a chopper and let Gri-maldi do the driving," Kissinger groaned from the pas-senger's seat. "Shit, this feels like being on one of those mechanical bulls."

Hap Freedman was close to shitting bricks. What had gone wrong? Only a couple of days ago he was on top of the world, working both sides of the drug fence for a healthy income, most of it under-the-table cash slipped to him by Joseph Janks in exchange for information on DEA movements in Florida and for Freedman's efforts in seeing to it that Janks's main rivals in the heroin racket took most of the DEA heat. Janks and Pedro Carr's use of different ethnic gangs for their own dirty work had helped throw both DEA and local law enforcement agencies off their scent up until the past few weeks, and despite his own team's recent headway on the case, Freedman felt confident he'd be able to run interference at least long enough to earn a few more payoffs from Janks. After that, the plan was for him to take a vacation to Europe, where he'd arranged for a staged boating accident that would leave him missing and presumed drowned so that he could start a new life backed by the small fortune in drug money he'd squirreled away in a Swiss bank account.

So/nuch for plans.

Now he found himself riding in an underpowered Hyundai in a highway drag race, hoping to cheat fate and buy a last-ditch chance at freedom. The car behind them was closing in by the second.

"Take a right up here!" he told Conchita, pointing to a faded sign posted at the entrance to Sawgrass Mobile Home Park.

Conchita obliged, making the turn with the same reckless daring that had kept the Hyundai from flipping ear-lier. The car fishtailed along the gravel driveway, spitting cinder and stones behind it.

Freedman had no delusions about his situation. Although he was undoubtedly more familiar with the layout of the trailer park than their pursuers, the advantage was all but neutralized by the fact that this was essentially a dead end, with no true avenue of escape.

Unless…

For starters, he had to buy some time. Looking around the park, he found the likeliest target at the Maggots' nearby Airstream. Nine Harleys were parked in front of the weathered trailer, but all the bikers were out of sight, apparently partying inside, where cranked-up music throbbed through half-opened windows into the night.

"Crash into the bikes!" he told Conchita.

"What?" the woman retorted. "You crazy?"

For the second time in less than ten minutes, Freedman grabbed for the steering wheel. This time he had better luck, succeeding in his efforts to send the Hyundai slamming into the motorcycles like a bowling ball kissing tenpins. There was a sickening crunch of metal biting into metal, and by the time the Korean compact came to a stop, Conchita's forehead was bleeding from impact against the rearview mirror and Freedman's encounter with the dashboard left his right forearm pulsing with raw pain.

"Get out and follow me!" he instructed.

Bolting out of the Hyundai, Freedman quickly aimed his pistol at the doorway of the Airstream, squeezing the trigger twice as the door swung open. A biker who looked like the white man's answer to Refrigerator Perry took both slugs in the chest and slumped against the doorframe, effectively blocking others from getting past him.

Although Freedman's ultimate destination was the dock next to the bait shop, he first led Conchita into the darkness between two other nearby trailers, ignoring the barking dogs straining at their leashes nearby. On the way he raided his pockets for a fresh clip of ammo to feed to his gun.

"Where are you taking me?" the woman demanded.

"To the water," he told her. "We're going for a boat ride."

Schwarz and Kissinger caught up with the abandoned Hyundai just as the Maggots were pouring out of their trailer like hornets stirred from a nest. The sight of their customized choppers overturned and mangled on the dirt incensed them still further, and they were determined to take out their rage on the closest available victims.

"Holy shit," Schwarz said as he saw the menacing horde close in on their sedan. "Don't tell me there's bikers caught up in this ring, too!"

"Maybe we can ask them about it later," Kissinger said, pulling out his .45 Colt. "In the meantime, let's save our asses, okay?"

Schwarz was shifting into reverse when both he and Kissinger saw a biker in the Airstream's doorway drawing bead on them through the sights of a Krico 700L rifle. The engine stalled as they ducked in opposite directions, shielding their faces to protect against a 7 mm Remington Magnum blast that shattered the front windshield and ravaged the passenger's headrest.

"I see what you mean," Schwarz said, bringing his own Government Model into play.

Returning bursts of fire, the two Stony men scattered the bikers and forced the sniper to retreat inside the trailer. Outnumbered and surrounded as they were, however, neither Schwarz or Kissinger dared break from their ve-hide and expose themselves as targets. Fortunately, only a couple of other bikers were armed with guns, and the relatively puny .22 caliber ammunition of their Iver Johnson Trailsmans for the most part flattened harmlessly against the framework of the car or took out more windows. However, the other men had a deadly array of hand weapons, from chains and clubs to switchblades and bowie knives.

"I got a feeling they're counting our shots," Kissinger said after he clipped a tall man trying to sneak behind the Hyundai. "Once we have to reload, they'll be on us like the Sioux on General Custer."

"And I don't even see Freedman or the woman," Schwarz said, choosing his shots judiciously. He grinned fatalistically at Cowboy and offered his best Oliver Hardy impression. "Here's another fine mess you've gotten me into, Stanley."

"Gee, Ollie, it seems to me this whole thing was your idea!"

Another round from the Airstream whizzed past Kissinger's ear and plowed through the padding of the door he was leaning against. A second rifle shot followed shortly after, coming from the opposite direction, taking out the rear window and obliterating the car radio. Third and fourth blasts ravaged the dashboard, and Schwarz grimaced as flying shrapnel pelted him.

"Carbine," he guessed. "Man, we are sitting ducks!"

"No way," Kissinger said, clenching his free hand around the door handle. "If I gotta cash in, I'm gonna do it standing on two feet!"

As he was about to burst out of the vehicle and test his luck, Kissinger heard the explosive rattling of a familiar weapon and the noise was music to his ears. Shifting in his seat, he chanced a backward glance and saw Lyons and Blancanales leaning out of Grimaldi's Renault Alliance, which had just wheeled onto the scene. They were both spraying lead from M-16s, aiming high and low at the bikers to force a surrender without spilling any more blood than necessary.

Between blasts, still another sound intruded upon the isolated park. Two police choppers were sweeping over the Airstream, throwing down wide beams of light that eliminated hiding places and made the bikers easy targets. When Grimaldi came out of the car with an M-203 grenade launcher mounted underneath his M-16 and bull's-eyed the trailer with a 38 mm tear gas cartridge, the shoot-out was over.

Aside from the hulk slain by Freedman and the tall Maggot felled by Kissinger, there were amazingly no other serious injuries. The two choppers descended onto a clearing and dispatched several officers, while a highway patrol cruiser and an unmarked sedan carrying Max Ma-gun and Bill Victish arrived with more backup. Tenants from some of the other trailers began to peer from their windows, and a few more adventurous souls inched out into the night to see what all the commotion was about. The dogs were going out of their minds, barking and howling like banshees.

"Where're Freedman and the girl?" Schwarz asked one of the Maggots being handcuffed by the police.

"I don't know who the fuck you're talking about!" the biker snapped irritably, shaking back his stringy brown hair. "Man, we were all minding our own business. I want a lawyer."

Schwarz tried another tack. "We want the people that rammed into your bikes," he said, indicating the Hyundai and giving a brief description of the DEA agent and the woman. The ploy worked, taking an edge off the longhaired man's temper.

"I don't know about the woman, but I think I seen the guy before." The biker turned and used his shoulder to point. "Used to come out to that trailer at the back of the lot. Heanarc?"

"Something like that," Schwarz said.

"Yeah, I figured." The biker leaned close to Schwarz. "Look, you want to cut a deal, we seen a lot of shit go down at that place. Whaddya say?"

"Who do I look like, Monty Hall? Try your luck with the lawyers," Schwarz said. "That's what they're for."

As Schwarz walked off, the biker shouted after him, "Hey, man, I gave you good information!"

Schwarz grinned back at the man. "Thanks."

Magun and Victish were standing with the other Stony men near the DEA sedan, talking about their flare-up the previous afternoon.

"So, no hard feelings?" Magun was saying.

Blancanales spoke for his comrades. "Well, if all that bitching was just acting, you guys are in the wrong profession."

"It worked, though, right?" Victish said. "We smoked Freedman out."

"Funny thing, though," Kissinger told the bearded man. "According to Sandy, she and Magun were the only ones who suspected there was a double agent. You weren't in on the show. So your little fit was the real thing."

Victish shrugged his shoulders. "So sue me."

"Look, guys, we can settle all that up later," Schwarz told them. "We just got a tip that Freedman's got some kind of link with one of the back trailers. Let's go check it out."

Leaving the police to tend to the bikers, the Stony Man commandos and the three DEA agents broke off and headed for the rear of the lot. They'd only taken a few steps, however, when they heard the cough and sputter of an engine off in the vicinity of the bait shop. Turning toward the sound, they caught a glimpse of an airboat slipping away from the docks and roaring down the waterway that led to Hillsboro Channel.

"That's them!" Kissinger exclaimed.

Lyons turned to Magun and Victish. "You guys go ahead and hit the trailer. We'll get Freedman!"

The DEA men rounded up a few officers while the Stony men broke for the bait shop. Halfway there, Gri-maldi veered off toward one of the idling police choppers. "I'm going to take the high road. C'mon, Cowboy."

As Kissinger and Grimaldi tried to convince the copter pilot to turn the aircraft over to them, Able Team rushed to the dock area. Lyons and Schwarz scrambled along the planks and looked over the four remaining boats moored to the pilings.

"This one looks the fastest," Lyons said, pointing at one of the middle boats. "Let's go for it."

Blancanales saw that the door to the bait shop had been jimmied open, and he ducked inside long enough to find a set of master keys for the boat ignitions. He looked back to see the number painted on the side of the boat Lyons and Schwarz were getting into, then grabbed the appropriate key and brought it to them.

"Only sits two," Lyons said as he climbed up into the small craft's driver's seat.

"Go ahead, Gadgets," Blancanales said as he tossed Schwarz the keys. "There's plenty of action here. I'll go help raid the trailer."

Freedman was at the controls of the airboat, sitting in an elevated tube-propped seat directly in front of a massive, engine-powered fan that was mounted inside an enclosed wire cage like some roaring beast. The blare of the engine alone was deafening; combined with the whirring of the huge blades and the slapping of saw grass against the fiberglass hull of the boat, the craft howled through the Everglades with enough noise to agitate all wildlife within a hundred-yard radius. The sky became alive with the mad flight of mockingbirds, bald eagles, pileated woodpeckers, great blue herons, brown pelicans and shaggy-necked egrets, alarmed at the disruption of their prized habitat.

Conchita cowered at the base of Freedman's raised seat, clinging to the aluminum tubing. She let out an occasional scream of pain when a deflected length of saw grass snapped free of its roots and fell against her like a blade-wielding assailant. Her cheeks and forearms were bleeding from several such attacks, adding to her hysteria. She'd come close to breaking away from Freedman as they were boarding the airboat earlier, and she cursed herself for not having succeeded. She was convinced that the man behind her was half-mad.

They were traveling on the main waterway, seeking out a linkup with the Hillsboro Canal. Freedman held hope that if he could reach the canal and take it to the coast, he could elude capture and make his way south to Miami, where he could appeal to Janks or Carr for help in getting out of the country. Fucking bastards owed him that much at least.

But, like Juan Vuleier before him, Freedman's escape plans were not meant to be. Because of the raucous output of the airboat's engine, the agent wasn't aware that he was being followed from overhead until Conchita tugged on his pant leg and directed his attention upward.

With Grimaldi at the controls, the police helicopter was traveling low over the saw grass, less than thirty feet away from the airboat. Kissinger was trying to talk Freedman into surrendering, but even a battery-run bullhorn couldn't amplify his voice louder than the combined drone of the boat and chopper.

"Hang on," Grimaldi told his partner as he jockeyed with the controls. "We aren't going to get anywhere pacing him."

The helicopter whisked ahead of the airboat, then banked sharply and swung around so that when Grimaldi brought it down another fifteen feet, they were hovering directly above the stretch of estuary Freedman was bound for. Setting aside the bullhorn, Kissinger directed the high-powered beam of the spotlight into the agent's eyes, hoping the blinding glare would slow the man down.

As soon as the light shone his way, Freedman cut sharply to his left, leaving the open waterway for the dense growth of the saw grass. Conchita shrieked anew as she was whipped continually by bending stalks of the rampant grass. For more than a hundred yards, Freedman was driving blind, not able to see beyond the curtain of saw grass directly in front of him. In his favor, the ten-foot-high stalks helped diffuse the spotlight that continued to shine on him as the helicopter resumed its pursuit and tried to cut him off again. It was a mixed blessing, however, because the dense grass slowed his progress considerably.

Finally Freedman came upon a partial clearing, an alley of bent grass apparently made by the passage of a similar vehicle some time recently. He had no way of knowing this was the route by which the Cubans had disposed of Juan Vuleier and the Haitian's stolen airboat. He changed course to follow the new route, picking up speed and freeing one hand from the boat's controls long enough to fire a few shots at the chopper, forcing it to back off.

"Lookout!"

Conchita's shout came too late, however. By the time Freedman looked back down and saw the framework of the second, half-submerged airboat poking above the waterline, it was too late to avoid a collision. His front end clipped the other craft's cage with enough momentum to send their boat airborne at a tilting angle. When they hit the water again moments later, both Freedman and Con-chita were thrown clear as the airboat did a cartwheel into the saw grass and landed upside down.

Fifty yards away, a third airboat, commandeered by Schwarz and Lyons, was using the helicopter as its guiding light in the chase. When he saw the copter finally holding its position and hovering in tight circles above a stretch of the water lands, Lyons abandoned the estuary and headed for the area marked by Kissinger's spotlight. Schwarz was crouched in the passenger's seat, hands on one of the group's M-16s.

A rifle shot echoed across the open spaces as Lyons and Schwarz drew near. Both men could see that it was Kissinger who had fired the shot, as well as a second and third that immediately followed. It didn't take long before they came upon the clearing where the two other boats had collided and saw the reason for Kissinger's actions.

Dazed and bleeding, Conchita was caught in muck as deep as her knees. Twenty feet away, a seventeen-foot-long alligator was thrashing in the water, going through its death throes after taking three direct hits from Kissinger. Cowboy might have nailed the biggest gator around these parts, but not the only one. In the glare of the spotlights, Schwarz and Lyons could detect the glowing eyes of almost a dozen other beasts. Popular mythology aside, as a rule alligators shied away from humans, but this was a case of the creatures being provoked in the midst of their own turf, and taunted further by the smell of blood. They clearly had a one-track mind—to attack and devour.

"Hold on," Lyons said, edging his boat forward. "I'm going after her."

Schwarz switched his M-16 on autoburn and blasted away at the alligators, frightening most of them away. However, two seven-footers came at Conchita from opposite sides, snapping their lethal jaws. One second the woman was staring in mute horror at the reptiles, the next she was gone from sight, dragged off into deeper water and dismembered by jaws with the closing power of more than a thousand pounds per square inch. Schwarz didn't even bother firing, knowing full well that the woman was dead.

"You gotta help me! I give up!"

It was Hap Freedman, shouting at the top of his lungs as he crawled up onto the overturned airboat that had thrown him. His right leg was broken and it was all he could do to pull it up beyond reach of the three alligators who had sought him out, lured by the smell of his blood.

"Please!" he implored Schwarz and Lyons as he was bathed in the spotlight from the chopper. "I'll tell you everything!"

"Lovecriss!" Schwarz shouted over the mechanical buzzing of the boat and chopper. "Where is he?"

"Lovecriss? He's dead!" Freedman pulled himself up even higher and braced himself as one of the alligators lunged at the boat, jarring it slightly in the thick muck. "He was killed the night of the party in Palm Beach."

Lyons was confused. "He wasn't head of the heroin ring?"

"No!" Freedman wailed. "Damn it, kill these gators and get me to safety and I'll tell you everything I know!"

"Tell us who's in charge first."

Freedman shook his head. "Then you got no reason to save me."

"You're not in a position to bargain, scumbag," Lyons told him.

Freedman's leg was bleeding, and the blood ran down the side of the overturned airboat. He was about to talk when all three gators lunged at the boat. Kissinger and Schwarz both emptied their rifles into the beasts, but again they were too late. With a scream of terror, the double agent lost his balance and toppled headfirst into the midst of the alligators. Two had been slain, but there were others to take their place. The men from Stony Man once again could only watch while the water turned red and foaming as the man was devoured with the same ferocity by which Conchita had met her doom moments before.

Heading back toward the mobile homes, Blancanales could see Magun and Victish leading two other police officers in the direction of the rear unit. The men were fanning out, taking up positions to surround the trailer from all sides. Several cops remained behind to keep away the other tenants, and another five patrol cars, including one with Lieutenant Frank, rolled onto the lot. Frank exchanged a few words with the officer overseeing the arrests of the bikers on assault charges, then strode up the shabby pathway toward the far trailer, lugging a bullhorn with him.

Pol lengthened his stride, hoping to catch up with the lieutenant. Then he suddenly stopped and whirled to his right, having detected a faint sound in the ragged brush surrounding the trailer park.

"Drop it!" he called out, bending into a crouch with his .45 held out in front of him. He heard a second, more formidable sound, that of a gun's safety being released. He couldn't pinpoint the location of the sound, however, and rather than firing blindly, he quickly rolled to his left, seeking cover behind a stack of overflowing trash cans. His instincts saved his life, as a hail of gunfire charged out of the brush, gouging holes in the abandoned trailer behind him and clanging off the sides of the trash cans.

Rising to his knees, Blancanales spotted a telltale flash as one last shot was fired his way. He flinched to avoid being hit, then squeezed off three death-bursts at his would-be assassin.

Lieutenant Frank detoured to Blancanales's aid, followed by another officer carrying a portable spotlight. They aimed the beam and it fell on the unmoving body of a man tangled in the shrubs. Blancanales and Frank approached the man warily, relaxing only when they saw his gun lying in the dirt several feet away from his fingers.

"Jacques LeTorq," Frank said, recognizing the dead Frenchman. "Looks like his cooking days are over."

There was a brief commotion in the back of the park. Both Frank and Blancanales turned and looked at the far trailer. The police officers had closed in on the unit and Magun and Victish were already inside. They reappeared moments later, shaking their heads. The police lowered their weapons.

A pair of ambulances pulled into the park, followed by a minivan with the call letters of a local radio station. The bikers bitterly argued their incarceration, pointing at their slain comrade and crushed cycles as proof that they were acting in self-defense. Tenants continued to mill around, trying to make sense of all the pandemonium and trying to keep their dogs from adding to it.

Several minutes later Grimaldi and Kissinger returned in the borrowed helicopter. Lyons and Schwarz pulled the airboat into the docks. All five Stony men regrouped next to Lieutenant Frank's unmarked sedan and related the results of their efforts.

"They had the trailer set up for processing heroin," Blancanales reported, "but we got here too late to stop it from being shipped out."

Schwarz looked over at the ambulance attendants bearing LeTorq's body on a stretcher. "At least they're going to have problems coming up with their next batch."

"Who're 'they,' that's what I want to know," Gri-maldi said.

"Amen to that," Lyons said grimly, still haunted by the vision of alligators tearing apart human flesh. He looked at the mass confusion around him and shook his head angrily. "All this and we come up empty-handed."

"What a circus," Kissinger agreed.

Schwarz grumbled, "Yeah, all that's missing is the ringmaster. I can't believe it's not Lovecriss."

"Well, whoever it is," Blancanales said, "I know that we're not leaving Florida until we find out."

Two hundred dollars richer for having taken second place at Amateur Night, Sandy Meisner lingered at Rocky's Strip Teaser, taking a seat at the bar and keeping an ear open for any more information she might be able to glean about the establishment's link with the mystery gang. What she mostly heard were come-ons from patrons hoping to take her home for a private display of the physical wonders she had showcased earlier. Sandy calmly and tactfully fielded the advances, steering the conversation away from sexual matters to other concerns and topics that allowed her to gauge the suitors' backgrounds and judge whether or not they might be implicated in illegal activities.

An hour and five come-ons later, she finally snared a prospect. He was a tall, strapping Cuban wearing a silk shirt and tailored cotton slacks as well as a tidy fortune in finger rings and gold necklaces. He smoked dark cigarettes and spoke with a calm, assured bravado, talking himself up as being a Miami entrepreneur capable of seeing to it that Sandy "went places" if she were only to give him a chance to be her Svengali.

"What kind of places?" she asked dreamily, injecting a blatant amount of skepticism into her voice.

"All the right places, princess," he told her. "Private clubs, society galas, you name it, I can see that you're there, the center of attention."

Sandy rolled her eyes and glanced at the stage, where one of the regulars was applying baby lotion to her skin as she danced, making her skin glisten under the lights. "By doing something like that, I suppose," she said.

"Oh, no, no, no," the Cuban responded. "That is degradation. You will wear stunning clothes and not have to take them off. You only have to be at my side, let me teach you."

"Teach me what?"

The Cuban smiled. "How to deal with people of influence."

"How to deal," Sandy responded sultrily. "Now that's an idea I like. I knew a dealer once, and there was always a little something when I wanted to feel good."

Letting smoke trail from his nostrils, the man smiled knowingly. "That can be taken care of, as well."

"Oh? You sure do know how to talk, mister."

"I do much more than talk," he boasted. Pausing to look around and see that no one was eavesdropping, he leaned close to Sandy and whispered. "Let me assure you, I am well connected to a new operation being set up along this coast. Ground floor, do you understand? There is much money to be made, princess."

Sandy laid her hand across the man's forearm and squeezed it gently. "Tell you what, prince. Let's cut the small talk and get down to numbers, okay?" She saw that he was impressed with her forthrightness. "How much am I worth to you and what are you dealing?"

He laughed. "I am not a prince. My name is Raoul."

"Oh, Fidel's brother, right?" Sandy wisecracked. "Now that is well connected."

"No, not that Raoul," he confessed. "And I can answer your questions… later. First, what do you say we leave this noisy place? I'm staying at the Hilton. We could talk there."

Sandy thought fast. From the dilation of his pupils and his general demeanor, she guessed the man was on either cocaine or heroin. And his talk about a new operation on the coast rang too true to the gang dealings the DEA was investigating. She had a strike, and like any good fisherman, she knew that the best course of action at this point was to let our more line.

"Fine," she said, reaching for her coat. Quickly scanning the room, she noted that neither Schwarz or Kissinger had returned yet, and there were no other familiar faces. She was on her own. What a challenge. To break the case open on her own. Oh, how sweet it would be! Give John Kissinger a taste of his own medicine, show him a woman could play his kind of ballsy game and win.

Raoul helped her into her coat and led her out into the parking lot. His sleek Mercedes gleamed like a polished gem off at one edge of the lot.

"Ooh, very nice," Sandy commented as Raoul opened the door for her and closed it after she had gotten in.

"I'm glad you like."

Raoul circled around and slipped into the driver's seat. Easing out of the parking lot, he turned onto the Dixie Highway and drove south.

"The Hilton's the other way," Sandy said, trying not to show her sudden alarm.

"Very perceptive." The voice came from the back seat. Orlando sat up slowly, coming into view. When Sandy turned to look at him, he smiled and pointed a gun at her face. After he'd leaned forward and removed her wig, he said, "Hi, cop lady. Where's your camera?"

None of the men had slept soundly the night before, and there were red eyes all around as they gathered for breakfast at a franchise restaurant down the block from the police station. Able Team and Lieutenant Frank filled a padded red leather booth while Kissinger, Grimaldi and Max Magun had pulled up an adjacent table so they could confer without raising their voices. A waitress continually stopped by the table to fill coffee cups, and each time she did the conversation would grind to a halt or abruptly shift to less sensitive topics than the one that had brought them together.

"We just have to rethink things, that's all," Lieutenant Frank said after the latest round of refills. He looked at Schwarz and Lyons. "You're positive Freedman was telling the truth about Lovecriss being dead?"

"Nothing's positive in this world," Lyons replied, pouring maple syrup over his stack of steaming wheat cakes. "But I think he was on the level. You get enough fear into somebody and they'll deal you straight. He said Lovecriss was offed the night of that party and that somebody else was running the heroin operation."

"And he didn't get a chance to say who?" Frank inquired between bites from his bowl of grits. "Not even part of a name?"

"Lieutenant, with all the racket our boat and the chopper were making, it was a fucking miracle we heard anything, okay?"

"Hey, take it easy," Frank countered. "We're on the same side here, remember?"

Lyons chewed down his wheat cakes and nodded. "Yeah, yeah," he droned.

Schwarz said, "If we assume that Lovecriss was killed that night, there's a few angles that bear more looking into."

"Such as?" Kissinger asked.

Gadgets was a firm proponent of the Socratic method of problem solving, framing thoughts as questions until an answer took shape. He started the time-honored procedure by asking, "If Lovecriss was murdered and this Cuban woman had something to do with it, what was their connection and when did the murder take place?"

"Since they're both dead," Victish said as he rose from the table, "that's going to be hard to establish."

"Lieutenant Frank says there's a lot of prostitution run out of the Strip Teaser," Schwarz added. "Wouldn't it make sense that Conchita was acting as a call girl?"

"But she was fronting as a caterer at the party," Frank reminded him.

"Couldn't that have been a pretext to lure Lovecriss without him thinking he was dealing with a prostitute?" Schwarz suggested.

"You mean, like an ego thing?" Blancanales said.

Gadgets nodded. "Maybe he was the type who liked the conquest aspect. You know, better to win a woman over than have to just shell out a few bucks for sex."

"Well, I don't suppose it would hurt to do a little more surveillance of the Teaser," Frank conceded. "Speaking of which…"

The men turned and looked at Bill Victish, who was just returning from the back hallway. He shook his head. "Still no answer. I talked to the manager, and he said the maid already did her room. Sandy wasn't there last night."

Schwarz and Kissinger reflexively glanced at each other, but said nothing.

Blancanales asked, "Does that automatically mean trouble?"

"Ahh, no," Max Magun admitted. "Not necessarily. Sandy's a, shall we say, free spirit."

"Not that free," Schwarz cut in.

"Oh?" Magun didn't seem convinced. "You think you know her better after a couple of days than I do after working with her for more than four months?"

"You worked with Hap Freedman for that long and you sure as hell didn't know him too well, did you?"

The DEA agent's face reddened and he was ready to retort, but at the last second he relented. "Touche," he grumbled under his breath.

"She's stayed out all night plenty of times," Bill Victish said, "but she usually checks in with our answering service."

"Usually?" Schwarz said. "But not always?"

Victish shook his head. "Sometimes she winds up places where there aren't any phones. You know how it goes."

It was Kissinger's turn to stand up for the woman. "I say we suspect foul play until we know otherwise. I'm going to check out the Teaser."

"I'll go with you," Schwarz said.

After the two men left, the others continued discussing their unfinished business.

"As long as we're playing hunches, my gut tells me Lovecriss got iced right after he left the party," Lyons said.

"That doesn't jibe with the facts," Lieutenant Frank said. "Remember, we've got Lovecriss placed in Hypo-luxo later that night, shooting that businessman."

"And maybe it's your evidence that doesn't jibe with the facts, Lieutenant," Grimaldi observed. "As I recall, there was only one witness besides the guy who got shot."

"Remember, Lovecriss's prints were on the gun," Frank told the pilot.

"Yeah, but that could have been rigged, too," Grimaldi said. "Mob uses that trick all the time."

To demonstrate Grimaldi's point, Blancanales used his napkin to pick up the fork on Frank's plate. "Your prints are on this fork, Lieutenant. Supposing I keep it wrapped up and take it to the beach, then put on a pair of gloves and ram it through the neck of some sunbather. If no one sees it happen, who's going to be the suspect, you or me?"

Frank made a sour face and took his fork back. "You guys are a regular pack of Perry Masons, aren't you?"

"You can call us just about anything you want," Lyons said, "but don't call us lawyers, okay?"

"Yeah. How about 'a regular pack of Philip Mar-lowes'?" Blancanales quipped. "We'll go for that."

"I've got a better idea," Frank said. "Why don't you go make a little trip to the Barefoot Mailman Inn and talk to the guy in room 9C? Name's Wes Quale. You might be on to something, much as it pains me to admit it."

"And I think we'll hit the hospital and chat with that guy who got shot," Magun said. "What was his name again?"

"Janks," Frank told him. "Joseph Janks."

Rockvs Strip Teaser was open twenty-four hours a day, but the morning shift was decidedly quieter than Amateur Night had been. There were only five patrons in the bar, scattered about in various corners, trying to look inconspicuous. Only one man had gathered the nerve to sit ringside for a close view of the bored dancer going through the motions in time with the languid beat of a Lionel Richie love song. Two waitresses stood off by the pinball machines, smoking cigarettes and taking turns with the flippers. Rocky Nalob was behind the bar, restocking the refrigerators with long-neck beers.

Schwarz and Kissinger entered the club after paying a two-dollar cover charge. They sized up the activity, then made their way to the bar. The owner glanced over his shoulder at them. "Lemme finish unloading this case and I'll be right with you."

"Fine," Kissinger said. "No hurry."

Off to the right of the bar was a half-open door leading to the owner's personal office. Schwarz nodded at Kissinger, then nonchalantly walked around the bar and pushed his way into the office.

"Hey!" Rocky shouted. "Hey! What you think you're doing?"

As the muttonchop man went after Schwarz, Kissinger followed behind, pausing in the doorway long enough to look back at the waitresses. "Just a little business chat, ladies. Nothing to be concerned about," he assured them.

Stepping into the office, Kissinger closed the door behind him. Schwarz had already turned on the proprietor and shoved him into an overstuffed chair set next to a chest-high stack of cardboard cases containing empty beer bottles. The ventilated barrel of Gadgets's Beretta 93-R was pressed against one of the man's sideburns.

"We're in a bit of a hurry," he told the owner, "so pardon our manners."

Rocky stared at them. "Haven't I see you guys around here? Last night."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Who are you?"

"If you give us any trouble, we're going to be your worst dreams come true," Kissinger said. "From now on, you only talk when we want you to, okay?"

The owner rolled his eyes downward, eyeing the Be-retta, then the Colt .45 Kissinger had removed from his shoulder holster. He swallowed hard and nodded feebly.

"Good," Schwarz said. "Now, then, we're looking for a woman who was in here last night."

"Lotta women in here last night," the man said.

"We're looking for one in particular." Kissinger gave a brief description of Sandy and the costume she had been wearing for Amateur Night. "Remember her?"

"Yeah, the redhead," the owner rasped nervously. "Real fox. Came in second, but woulda won it if it had been up to me. No shit."

"Like they say, ace, flattery will get you nowhere," Schwarz told him. "Tell me, when did she leave and who did she leave with?"

"She stuck around for a while. You know, playing the field, milking her performance for all it was worth."

"Skip the play-by-play," Kissinger cut him off.

"When did she leave and who did she leave with?" Schwarz repeated.

"I dunno, musta been around midnight. Left with some coon. Cuban, I think. Maybe P.R. or Jamaican."

Kissinger looked at Schwarz. Gadgets reached into his back pocket and pulled out one of the photocopies of Pedro Carr. "This guy, maybe?"

Upon seeing the picture of Carr, Rocky's face blanched and beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip.

"Not him." He shook his head and tried not to show his concern, but acting wasn't his forte.

"But you know this guy, right?"

"Nope."

Schwarz grabbed the man's face and jerked it to one side so he was looking at a potted cactus next to the room's only window. Gadgets aimed his Beretta and fired two shots that were muffled by the weapon's customized supressor. The cactus lost one of its spiky limbs under the concussive force of 9 mm parabellum.

When the gun was pressed back against his face, the owner could feel its sudden heat and smell the potent aroma of its discharge.

"This magazine has eighteen more rounds," Schwarz advised the owner. "I could turn you into a golf course right now and no one would even hear."

"Fore!" Kissinger called out cheerfully.

"Okay, I know both of 'em!" the man babbled. His broken nose was quivering and so were his hands. "The guy in the photo's name is Pedro. The guy who left with the woman is Raoul. He works for Pedro."

"Pimp?" Kissinger asked.

"Raoul? Yes."

"And this Pedro…"

"He's some kind of middleman, I guess. Arranges things for the money men."

"What money men?"

"I don't know," the owner claimed. "I swear! That's why they use Pedro, so no one knows who's at the top."

"What about Raoul and the woman? Where did they go?"

"I don't know," Rocky pleaded again. "Look, I get paid a few extra bucks every month to let these people hang out here and do a little business. That's it. I don't get involved any more than I have to. I'm legit."

"Ever hear of 'aiding and abetting'?" Kissinger asked. "Or how about 'harboring a fugitive'? I could go on."

"Look, I don't know where they went, I'm telling you!" the owner protested. "You want me to make a guess, I'd say Miami."

"Why?"

"That's were the action is. If Raoul was wanting your babe in his stable, that's where I hear he does his business."

There was a knock on the door, followed by a woman's voice. "Rocky, are you all right? Should I get Jake and Pete?"

Rocky didn't need prompting from his visitors. "No, I'm okay," he shouted. "Just seeing some old friends."

"Are you sure?"

"Damn it, mind your own business, Gloria! Got it?"

The woman didn't respond, but all three men could hear the sound of her spiked heels moving away from the door. Schwarz gave Rocky a genial pat on the back.

"That was very good, Rocky. You've got some smarts after all."

"I told you all I know," he insisted. "I swear."

Kissinger went over to the man's desk and started looking through the drawers. "Are you sure you don't maybe have some addresses or phone numbers that might help us out?"

"I don't. Look, if you're cops or something you know the way these people work. They aren't the type to pass around business cards and put ads in the yellow pages, know what I mean?"

Kissinger didn't find anything worthwhile. He shrugged at Schwarz and both men put their guns away. Rocky relaxed slightly in the chair.

"Okay, Rocky, we're going to go now, but don't think we don't have an eye on you," Schwarz warned him. "Keep your nose clean."

"Who are you guys?" the owner asked again as the men headed for the door.

"Think of us as your guardian angels," Schwarz told him. "Your life is in our hands."

All the eyes in the bar were on Schwarz and Kissinger as they left Rocky's office. They ignored the attention and strolled out the back exit.

"Well, what do you think?" Kissinger asked once they were outside.

Schwarz thought about it briefly. "She's either on the hottest lead we've had so far, or else she's stumbled into a serious trap."

Kissinger said, "Or maybe both."

Pol Blancanales and Carl Lyons paid Wes Quale a little visit at unit 9C of the Barefoot Mailman Inn, treating him to the same cordial form of interrogation that Rocky had received at the Strip Teaser. The corpulent eccentric had at first been adamant that his earlier testimony regarding the shooting of Joseph Janks was accurate. But when Lyons and Blancanales convinced the man that histrionics and lying could prove hazardous to his health, he relented and confessed his collusion with Pedro Carr.

"Yes, it was Mr. Carr who pulled the trigger," the fat man said morosely. "Just as he'll pull the trigger again once he finds out I've gone stoolie on him."

"You help us get to him," Blancanales promised, "and he's going to end up in a place where he can't do you any harm."

Quale was sitting on the edge of his bed, the only clear space in the entire room. A clutter of books, fast food wrappers, manuscripts, crushed pages, corkboards filled with notes held by thumbtacks, and other paraphernalia were strewn about as if they were laundry and the room was a tumble dryer that had just gone through a particularly turbulent cycle. "I always met Carr either here or at a place called the Strip Teaser, just down the road in Boynton—"

"Boynton Beach, yeah, we know the place," Lyons interjected.

"Ah, then you like to see the little darlings shed down to their skimpies, too___"

"Guess again," Lyons said.

"What about this Janks guy?" Blancanales asked. "What do you know about him?"

Quale shrugged his ample shoulders and fanned himself with a loose-leaf notebook. "The first time I saw him was the night he was shot. I didn't know his name until I saw it in the papers. I'll say one thing for him, though. He has excellent taste in automobiles. That Jaguar…oh, it was to die for!"

"If you say so," Lyons told him. "By the way, were you burglarized recently or is this just your idea of creative housekeeping?"

"My home, my castle." Quale sniffed contemptuously. "I'm quite comfortable with my surroundings. And, if you'll excuse me, I do have a lot of work to catch up on."

"You realize you could well end up in a smaller cage than this once the cops find out you lied to them," Blancanales said.

"Nonsense," the fat man insisted. "I was under duress. That nasty Jamaican threatened my life if I didn't play his game."

"How was that?" Lyons taunted the man. "He say he was going to come in here with a vacuum cleaner?"

"That's quite enough!" Wes Quale pointed past the other men and commanded, "The door, gentlemen. Close it behind you as you leave. This audience is concluded."

Folding his arms petulantly across his chest, Quale fell silent and looked the other way as if his mere disdain was powerful enough to send Pol and Lyons fleeing. The two Stony men paused a moment, then wearily left the apartment, thankful to get outside and breathe some fresh air.

"Man needs rubber on his walls," Lyons commented.

"I'll say," Blancanales said, fishing through his pockets and heading for the pay phone at the edge of the parking lot. "Let me call the Farm and see if Kurtzman's come up with anything on Janks."

"Good idea."

Pol was dropping coins into the phone when he spotted two cars heading down the narrow road leading to the inn. Lieutenant Frank was driving in the lead, with Schwarz and Kissinger bringing up the rear. Blancanales held off on calling Kurtzman and retrieved his money from the coin return.

"We're on to something," Frank said, rolling down his window once he was in the parking lot. "Janks had already checked out of the hospital, but I put through a check on any calls he made from his room. There was only one," he told Lyons and Blancanales.

"Miami?" Lyons guessed.

The lieutenant nodded. "Some auto salvage yard out in gangland territory."

Blancanales proclaimed, "Next stop, Miami."

If there was a soft spot in Joseph Janks's heart, it was for opera. He'd had his first taste of that grand spectacle during his youth in Germany, when his father would take him to the famed Dresden Hoftheater at least ten times, any given year. Verdi, Puccini, Mozart, Bizet—Janks drank in each performance with undeniable joy and passion, and at home he would listen for hours to recorded versions of the operas he had earlier seen, reliving his awe at the glorious tableaus and memorizing the arias, even when they were in a language other than his own.

In fact, opera had provided Janks with the only moments of joy during those childhood years. His home life had been miserable, as he was both verbally and physically abused by his mother and only lamely defended by his father, who was at heart a spineless man unable and unwilling to stand up to his wife's overbearing dominance of the household. As often happens in such situations, when a remedy was finally achieved, it was a drastic one. Janks's father had one day reached the limit of his endurance and had slain his wife in what was determined in court to have been a fit of passion and temporary insanity.

With his mother dead and his father in prison, Janks had wound up in foster homes where he never felt truly wanted, and as soon as he was old enough to enlist, he had served in the West German militia for four miserable years. Fed up with the offerings of his motherland, Janks had seized an opportunity to travel to America, and for the better part of thirty-five years the States had been his home. While he spent those years in a dogged, no-holds-barred pursuit of wealth and power, Janks always found time for his longtime love of opera, and in recent years he'd been in a position to pursue a personal dream, to create a full-scale replica of the Dresden Hoftheater and personally oversea the arena's opera season.

Now, six years and more than seven million dollars later, the Miami Hoftheater was on the verge of completion, serving as the anchoring structure around which Janks and a group of fellow investors and industrialists planned a full-scale, four-square-block urban renewal project in a run-down area of Miami just west of Coral Gables. It was a risky, adventurous project, but once he had the heroin operation set up and running smoothly, Janks felt certain he would have the means by which to be the key player in the development. He wanted the land around the new Hoftheater to become in essence his private fiefdom, a domain he could lord over and control.

A wooden barricade still surrounded the magnificent edifice of the Hoftheater as the final stages of construction were carried out. Janks arrived at the site in his chauffeur-driven limousine, and it took several honks of the vehicle's horn before a security guard showed up to open a side gate so they could drive onto the grounds. Rolls of fresh sod were stacked on flats on either side of the front steps, and some of the grass had already been laid down in front of landscaped areas featuring lush camellias, magnolia trees and elegant palms that complemented the opera house's European look in a strange sort of way.

"Just let me out here, Roger," Janks told the chauffeur as they neared the front walkway. "I want to go in for a couple of hours and see how things are shaping up, then I'll be going across the street for the ground-breaking ceremony at the art museum. If you want, you can take your lunch break and pick me up there at two-thirty."

"Very good, sir."

Janks stepped out of the limousine and surveyed the monument to his childhood memories. The sight rallied his spirits, which had been flagging in the wake of all the problems he'd had to contend with up in Palm Beach County. Things had gone poorly enough while he had been there, and this morning his breakfast had been ruined by news of a shoot-out at a trailer park in the Sawgrass Everglades that had resulted in the death of Jacques LeTorq. The heroin processing lab had been discovered, but all the converted stash, with a street value of more than eight million dollars, had already been removed from the trailer. Janks knew that the heroin was down here in Miami, being readied for sale by that bastard Carr and his renegade acquaintances.

Forget about that for now, Joseph, he chided himself. Time enough for worry later.

Tucked under the man's arm was a newly purchased compact disk of Mussorgsky's Khovanshchina, as performed by the Moscow Symphony. It was, above all others, his favorite opera, and he longed to test the new theater's acoustics by playing the recording at full volume over the auditorium's state-of-the-art sound system. So wrapped up was he with his expectations that he gave only passing notice to the laborers lingering outside the structure. In the back of his mind it registered that these were not the normal workers, but he didn't give the matter any more thought, and by the time he had passed through the gilded front doors into the sumptuous lobby, he had already forgotten about it.

Humming the opening refrain of Khovanshchina, Janks strode across the plush carpet toward a marble staircase leading up to the lighting and sound booths. Before he reached the steps, however, he was distracted by the appearance of a familiar figure entering the foyer through an archway linking with the rest room facilities.

"Carr! What are you doing here?"

"Got some business to take care of, mon."

"You have no business here," Janks insisted.

"Guess again," Carr replied. He took out his handgun and aimed it at Janks. "There's been a change of command."

"You can't be serious!" Janks scoffed. "You've become as insolent as you are incompetent!"

"Sticks and stones can break my bones, mon, but words can never hurt me." Carr smiled and a shaft of light pouring through the foyer's stained-glass windows glinted off his gold tooth.

"I'll have you thrown out of here, that's all." Janks looked around the empty lobby and raised his voice. "Guard! Guard!"

"Save your breath, mon. The only guards around here now work forme."

"What do you mean?"

Carr told the entrepreneur. "I convinced your guards and the workers to take the afternoon off. Some of my gang friends have taken their place."

Janks frowned, trying to comprehend what was happening. "Why?"

"There are some people coming to the ground-breaking hoopla across the street that gangs do not like," Carr explained patiently. "People like District Attorney Groves, for instance. My friends have a score or two to settle with these people. So they will pretend to be working here until the ceremony is under way, then we will have ourselves some fun and spill the rich man's blood for a change."

"You're out of your mind!" Janks retorted.

"No, boss," Carr said, pulling the gun's trigger and pumping four slugs into Janks's chest. "I'm out of options."

Five miles away, Sandy Meisner was strapped to the hood of a Toyota Corona station wagon by lengths of rope that chafed against her exposed flesh. She had been stripped naked and was bound spread-eagle while seven gang members stood around her inside the body shop at the rear of Mangrove Auto Salvage Yard. One side of her face was bruised and her left eye was nearly swollen shut from the blows to the face she'd received from Orlando.

"Talk, bitch!" He leaned across the Toyota and poked his finger against the purplish welt on the woman's cheek. "How much do your people know about us?"

Sandy winced, then abruptly jerked her head to one side and snapped at Orlando's finger with her teeth, managing to nip a portion of the man's knuckle.

"Oww!" Orlando pulled his hand away and spit at the woman. "iPuta!"

On a signal from the gang leader, another of the Cubans went to the nearby workbench and grabbed a spray gun connected by tubes to a five-gallon barrel of gray auto primer. Orlando and the other men donned masks to cover their nostrils and mouths to avoid breathing the fumes. The man with the gun began spraying in sweeping motions across the front end of the hood, at the same time covering Sandy's feet and lower legs. The paint burned into her flesh and she struggled against her bonds, only managing to bring on more pain from the chafing of the ropes. As much as she was in agony, however, Sandy refused to give in to the sensation. These bastards would never see her weep.

"Just tell us what we want to know!" Orlando told her. "Is it really so much to ask?"

"Why don't you stick that spray gun up your ass!?"

Orlando laughed mockingly, "I know a better place to stick it."

The other men sniggered as the gun's gray spray worked its way up the woman's bare legs. One of them, the only Cuban in the group taller than six feet, reached out and brushed the gun to one side, saying. "Before she is ruined, let me have her!"

"And me, too!" another gang member howled.

Soon all the men were clamoring for a chance to take advantage of their prisoner. Orlando shouted to restore order, then looked again at Sandy. "Well, senorita, are you ready for all these new boyfriends?"

Sandy spit back at him. "Got to hell. All of you!"

Orlando turned to his men and spoke to them quickly in their native Spanish, then told Sandy, "I'll leave you with them. Once they've had their fun, I'll come back and we'll talk again. Maybe then you'll be more cooperative."

When Sandy responded with a torrent of expletives, Orlando gagged her, then stepped aside as the taller Cuban climbed up onto the front bumper of the Toyota and began to loosen his trousers, all the while leering down at his intended victim. Beneath her tough facade, Sandy felt a growing fear and revulsion. I should have forced them to kill me, she thought.

Passing through a side door, Orlando entered the adjacent workroom, where, in the midst of scattered tools and greasy auto parts, the leaders of the black and Haitian gangs were supervising the breakdown of Jacques LeTorq's last batch of heroin into sellable packets.

"She squeal yet?" Arnold asked, glancing up from his work at Orlando.

•'Not yet," the Cuban told him. "But I'm sure she's about to break."

The air in the room was charged with an undeniable tension. Aside from the three leaders, there was one additional member from each gang crowded into the room, visibly displaying their firearms and making it clear they were prepared to use them if there was even the slightest indication of a double-cross in the making. It was life-as-usual in the drug trade, where trust was less a rule than an exception and paranoia was the surest instinct of survival.

Other gang members were stationed throughout the salvage yard, which had been closed to the public for the day while it served its more lucrative function as the kickoff point for the latest heroin network yet to be spawned along the Florida coast. However, the sprawling acreage of the yard was too vast for blanket surveillance, particularly when towering heaps of crushed autos blocked the line of vision in so many areas. It was possible, therefore, for three men to scale one of the perimeter fences and slip into the canyons of wreckage undetected.

Gadgets Schwarz, Rosario Blancanales, Carl Lyons.

Able Team.

For the first time since the shit had hit the fan along the Gold Coast, the three-man unit was working on its own, if only for the moment. Blancanales, veteran of jungle warfare school during the Nam years, led the way, treating the piled wreckage as protective foliage providing them with a screen behind which to advance upon the enemy.

All three men carried Beretta 93-Rs with 20-round box magazines and silencer modifications. They wore camouflage outerwear over Kevlar-lined bulletproof gear, and seven-inch daggers were strapped to their thighs as an additional tool for close combat.

Blancanales had a chance to put his knife to use when they came across their first sentry, a lean Haitian poised on the roof of an ancient milk truck that was missing all four wheels and half the parts under its hood. Pol came up on the man from behind, then coiled briefly before springing upward with silent speed and grabbing the guard by his collar. As the Haitian was pulled down from his perch, the cold hard steel of Blancanales's blade sliced through his throat, severing cartoid artery, jugular vein and esophagus. Blood spurted with geyserlike intensity from the open wound, bathing Able Team in crimson before they slipped away from the body and continued their deadly trek toward the rear shack. Before entering the compound, they had surveyed the salvage yard through a telescope mounted atop a parking structure two blocks away. There were no guards posted around the front building, but they had seen three men stationed just outside the structure now in front of them, making it their most likely target.

A second guard, this one Cuban, fell beneath Lyons's blade before Able Team found itself within striking distance of the rear shop. Because the area around the building was open, they could steal no closer. Fortunately, the three guards stationed around the shack showed no signs of having sensed the approach of intruders.

"Plan?" Schwarz whispered as he watched the building.

Lyons quickly assessed the situation. "Gotta take 'em by surprise or forget it."

"Sounds good. Specifics?"

"Take these three out, then storm the doors and windows."

"Okay." Blancanales reached for his communicator and poised his thumb against the signal button. "On a count of three. One…" He pressed the button, and switched the safety off his Beretta.

"Two…"

Off in the distance, the men heard activity around the perimeter of the salvage yard. That would be Kissinger, Grimaldi and Lieutenant Frank, responding to the communicator signal and providing a distraction for the other guards posted away from the repair shack.

It was time to kill or die.

"Three…!"

Rosas Juel looked up from the scales he was using to parcel out the heroin. "What was that?"

The other gang members inside the shack glanced toward the window as well, just in time to see a Haitian sentry teeter awkwardly to one side and then fall from view. The bodyguards were clawing for their weapons when the door suddenly burst inward. Schwarz and Blancanales charged in, saw no trace of Sandy and ripped loose with their Berettas at a rate of nearly two rounds per second. A split second later, the window shattered and Lyons poked a third automatic through the opening.

Soundless blasts peppered the six gangsters huddled around the scales, and a steady spray of blood began to drench the unwrapped mound of heroin in the middle of the room. Two of the bodyguards managed to get to their guns before they fell into the line of fire, but their return shots were wild, missing Able Team by several yards.

The louder shots, however, did draw attention from the adjacent room, and when the connecting door swung open and one of the Cubans peered out inquisitively, Schwarz took him out with a blast that nailed him less than an inch above the right eyebrow. Knowing he'd used most of the ammo in his Beretta, Schwarz grabbed a Heckler & Koch HK-93 dropped by the black bodyguard closest to him before leading the charge into the other room. The automatic rifle was loaded with twenty shots of 223-caliber ammunition, and when Schwarz witnessed the tableau of degradation taking place in the other chamber, he squeezed off the first three shots at the head of the tall Cuban poised over the helpless, restrained body of Sandy Meisner.

The slain Cuban fell across Sandy, becoming a protective shield for the woman as Lyons and Blancanales followed Schwarz into the room and traded shots with the startled Cubans. It was far from a fair trade. The Cubans, trying to shake off their lust and deal with more pressing concerns, were slow in responding to the siege, and three more of them were gunned down before the survivors threw up their hands in surrender.

"Jackals!" Schwarz screamed at the men in uncontrolled fury. He strode over to the closest Cuban, whose pants were unzipped in anticipation of his chance with Sandy, and suddenly lashed out with the stock of the Heckler & Koch. There was a loud, bone-crushing sound as the gang member's jaw was brutally rearranged and several teeth were knocked down his throat. He sagged to his knees, coughing blood onto the concrete floor.

"Okay, Gadgets," Lyons said, reaching for his cohort. "It's over, man. Let up."

"Let me go!" Schwarz snapped, shaking Lyons's hand away.

Blancanales collared one of the prisoners and started shouting at him in Spanish, asking for the whereabouts of Pedro Carr and Joseph Janks. Sirens sounded outside the shack, bringing in Miami's finest, who had been called in by Lieutenant Frank shortly before the assault had begun.

Schwarz leaned across the Toyota, pulling away the body of the Cuban he'd shot earlier. Underneath him, Sandy was bloodied and bruised, fighting hard to fight back the tears that welled in her eyes. Schwarz used his dagger to cut the ropes that bound her to the hood, then took a large sheet of canvas and wrapped it around the woman as she sat up, trembling.

"It's all right," Schwarz told her. "It's all right."

Sandy's gaze darted wildly from one side of the room to the other, and as Schwarz was helping her down from the hood of the car, she suddenly broke away from him and grabbed the rifle he'd set on a nearby bench. Before Schwarz could react, she'd leveled the weapon at the surviving Cubans and pulled the trigger. Blancanales had to leap away to get clear of the line of fire.

Only when the Hecker & Koch was empty did Sandy take her finger off the trigger. She threw the rifle at the corpses, then muttered bitterly, "Now it's all right."

Across the street from the Miami Hoftheater, a small crowd was gathered on an empty, weed-choked lot that eight years ago had been the site of a low-rent apartment complex. Joseph Janks had purchased the parcel at the same time he'd acquired the site for the opera house, getting the land at a bargain price because the high incidence of crime in the area had driven down property values.

"And, thanks to the vision of Joseph Janks and the efforts of both our local chamber of commerce and the Miami Foundation for the Fine Arts, today we mark the ground-breaking for what will become the largest collection of modern art in not only Florida, but the entire South."

District Attorney Nancy Groves was giving the remarks, reading from prepared notes she held in one hand. She clutched a shovel in the other. Behind her was the mayor of West Miami, two county supervisors, the head architect of plans for the Janks Museum and Groves's campaign manager in her race for governor. A few other local politicos rounded out the gathering, which had drawn a substantial media turnout but only a dozen or so area residents. Watching over the proceedings were officers whose two patrol cars were parked along the curb several yards away. When one of the cops heard an incoming call on the dispatch radio, he leaned inside his vehicle to take the message.

When she had finished her small speech, Groves handed her notes to her manager, then clasped both hands around the shovel and walked forward to a spot where some of the hardened earth had already been loosened earlier, making it easier for her to stab the spade into the dirt.

As the D.A. was hoisting her first shovelful, a Ford Taurus suddenly hurtled around the corner and sped toward the group. As it was braking to a halt, the police officer who had been on the radio reached for his riot gun, then bolted away from his car, shouting to the assembly, "Everybody down! Snipers across the street!"

While the other police went for their .357s, Gadgets Schwarz tumbled out of the sedan and tossed a pair of high-yield smoke bombs onto the parkway in front of the ground-breaking gathering. Because there was no wind blowing, the thick and billowing smoke curled upward, providing a screen for those who would otherwise have been easy targets for the gunmen across the street, who had opened fire from their cover behind the wooden fence surrounding the opera house.

Lyons and Blancanales followed Schwarz out of the sedan, having dropped their Berettas in favor of more potent M-16s. While they joined the police officers in returning fire at the snipers, the Renault Alliance bearing Jack Grimaldi and Cowboy Kissinger rolled onto the scene.

"Looks like things are under control out here," Grimaldi said from behind the steering wheel. "Hang on, Cowboy, we're going in for the kill!"

Reaching the driveway, Grimaldi braced himself and eased down on the gas pedal. The sedan gained momentum as it closed in on the chained gateway to the opera house, and with a metal-bending crunch, the barrier gave way, letting the two Stony men behind enemy lines.

Kissinger had already rolled down his window, and he fired at the nearest sniper with a volley of 5.56 mm destruction from his M-16, almost chewing the man in half. Grimaldi continued driving and Kissinger continued shooting, sandwiching the snipers. When several Haitians turned away from the street to contend with Kissinger, they did so at the expense of defending the wooden fence.

Seconds later, Carl Lyons scrambled over the fence and dropped down behind a skid filled with rolls of sod. A Cuban fifty yards away almost hit the Ironman with a blast from his Marlin rifle, but the charge was blunted by the sod. Lyons traced the shot and let loose with his M-16, scarring the marble steps before his fusillade connected with the rifleman, taking him out at the knees.

Two policemen charged on foot through the opened gateway and felled another of the snipers before they themselves became victims of gunfire showering down on them from an upper window of the Hoftheater.

"Carr!" Lyons shouted, recognizing the man in the window.

"He's mine!" Schwarz called out as he sprinted through the gateway and started up the marble steps, ducking bullets from yet another enemy gunman.

As the din of warfare continued to reverberate outside the opera house, Schwarz pushed his way inside the main lobby and started for the staircase. On the way, he passed Joseph Janks, who lay dead and bleeding on the carpet where he'd been shot earlier.

"You don't have a chance, Carr!" Schwarz hollered on his way up the steps. "Give it up!"

Carr, however, refused to be baited into disclosing his position. Schwarz's words echoed in the stairwell and bounded back at him. Reaching the second floor, Gadgets paused to reload his M-16 before crossing the foyer and entering the auditorium. When the door hissed shut behind him, the outside noises immediately faded and he found himself surrounded in silence.

Was Carr in here, he wondered? His eyes slowly scanned the box seats, the balconies, the orchestra pit and the stage area. With only strip bulbs down the aisles and a handful of exit lights to illuminate the vast arena, there was little to see but shadows and vague silhouettes. Nothing moved. No trace of the Jamaican. Cautiously Schwarz inched his way down the aisle, passing between rows of plushly lined chairs.

A shaft of light suddenly probed through the darkness, falling on Schwarz. As he started to duck for cover, a shot disrupted the silence and slammed against his side. He staggered off balance and tumbled over one of the aisle seats. His M-16 fell off to the side. Landing facedown on the carpeted walkway between seats, Schwarz lay still.

Inside the lighting booth, Pedro Carr slowly maneuvered the glaring beam until it was again shining on the man he had shot. It looked as if Schwarz was dead, but Carr wasn't going to take any chances. He moved away from the spotlight and raised his rifle, aiming through the booth opening.

"Bedtime, mon," he whispered as he focused his sights on the man's head.

Schwarz was down, but he wasn't out. The Kevlar plates beneath his outerwear had absorbed the brunt of the shot he'd taken. True, he'd be black and blue there and maybe the force of impact had broken a rib or two, but the bullet hadn't penetrated, and the warrior was far from dead. His hand groped for his Beretta, and when he saw the spotlight shifting toward where he had fallen, he summoned forth a mental image of the lighting booth behind him. This was one time when his supposedly paranormal senses could make the difference between life and death.

When the light had stopped moving, Schwarz secured a tight grip on the Beretta, then drew in a deep breath and concentrated on his next move. Counting silently to three, he abruptly swung around, bringing up his pistol and firing blindly where he hoped Carr would be. His first shot took out the spotlight, and when he shifted his hand slightly to one side and fired again, he heard a grunt, followed by the clatter of Carr's rifle tumbling down from the opening in the booth.

The auditorium lights suddenly flashed on, and moments later Lyons and Blancanales charged into the seats with their M-16s.

"Gadgets!" Pol called out. "Are you okay?"

Schwarz glanced up at the lighting booth. Carr was leaning halfway out of the opening, bleeding from where the gunshot had entered through his mouth, shattering his trademark gold tooth en route to his brain.

"Yeah," Schwarz said, rising to his feet. "How's things outside?"

"Party's over," Lyons said.

"That so?" Blancanales wisecracked, glancing at the empty stage. "I thought they always said it ain't over until the fat lady sings."

EPILOGUE

"I'll be able to go for the fences by next year's camp," Doug Bendix promised, swinging an imaginary bat in slow motion. He grimaced halfway through the motion. "Till then I'll just have to lose a few pounds and bunt a lot, eh?"

The ex-ball player was standing next to his hospital bed. His ribs were taped tightly beneath his bathrobe.

"I got a couple of mine cracked," Gadgets Schwarz said, lightly touching his right side. "But if you can manage to get up and around this quick after the hit you took, I'm not going to complain."

They were alone in the room. Bendix extended a hand to Schwarz. "Listen, I want to thank you. For everything. I really owe you."

Schwarz shook Bendix's hand as he shook his head. "I think we're about even."

"Come off it," Bendix said. "Hell, you put your ass on the line coming up with that story about me acting on behalf of the DEA with all that gambling shit."

"Hey, there's undercover operations set up like that that run into dead ends," Schwarz said. "You played a big part in shutting down this whole operation, so why not take a little credit? Besides, it was Sandy and Max Ma-gun that put together your cover."

Bendix sat down on the edge of the bed. "Then you're going to have to pass along my thanks to them." He winked at Schwarz. "Especially that Sandy. She's something, isn't she?"

"Uh, yeah," Schwarz said. "But I'm not sure I'll be seeing her before I take off, so—"

"What?" Bendix couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Look, I'm no Cupid, but I could have sworn there was something shaping up between you two."

"Well…it's a long story," Gadgets replied evasively. "Let's just say some things aren't meant to happen."

The two men traded a few more parting words, then shook hands again before Schwarz left the room. At the end of the hallway, he pushed the button for an elevator and let out a deep breath as he waited for a car to reach his floor.

Sandy.

He wasn't sure what was harder for him to get a handle on, who she really was or what kind of relationship they'd had, if any. From everything he'd observed about her and heard from Kissinger, it just seemed that Sandy was too hardened and fiercely independent to adjust to the give-and-take of an intimate friendship. And for his part, Schwarz was still wrestling with his own emotions over her behavior at the Strip Teaser and at the salvage yard, when she'd recoiled from all his attempts to comfort her after what the Cubans had subjected her too. It was as if she was hell-bent to take any action, however dramatic, to keep from getting close to him after those few hours of lovemaking they'd shared at her hotel room. Was there some kind of insecurity lurking beneath her seeming hedonistic exterior? Or was—

The bell above the elevators rang and the doors in front of him parted horizontally. Sandy Meisner was on her way out of the elevator and the two of them nearly collided.

"Hi," she said, taking a step back from Schwarz and holding the doors open.

"Hi," Schwarz replied, at a loss for words.

Her face was still swollen, but she'd tampered with her hairstyle and used makeup to downplay the exterior bruises, and the smile she offered Schwarz told of an equally dilligent effort to combat her inner pain. "Cowboy told me you were here," she said. "I thought maybe I could give you a lift to the airport."

"Yeah," Schwarz mumbled. "Sure…"

He got into the elevator with her. There was an awkward silence as the doors hissed closed and the car began to descend. Halfway to the ground floor, Sandy turned to Gadgets and said, "A lot's happened here the past few days. I'm going to need some time to sort things out."

"Makes sense to me," Schwarz managed to say. "I hope it all works out for you. I mean it."

"I know you do." She reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. "I liked the time we had together, Gadgets. Nothing's going to change that."

"Good."

"Maybe at some point down the line we can get together again," she went on. "Compare notes or whatever, see where we stand."

"I'd like that," he told her.

"I was hoping you'd say that." The elevator came to a stop. As the doors opened, Sandy leaned forward and kissed Gadgets lightly, then said, "Now, then, let's blow this pop stand. There's still a lot of shit out there that needs to be flushed down the toilet."

Schwarz smirked as he followed her across the lobby, then chuckled. "What a lady…"