"They?"

"One of the boys is on watch at the door. It's invitation only. Lots of big spenders with grabby hands. I was invited but didn't like their energy. They look like Mob, but not as polite."

"You could handle them."

"Too much trouble. Besides, it's harder when they're drunk. You know that. I like it out here where the house guys keep an eye on me, and I can pick and choose who I want to be with."

By that she meant whom she chose to feed from. "Understandable. Where's this party?"

"Take a left at the rest rooms, door at the end of the hall."

"Thank you." He made to stand, but she put a hand on his arm.

"Ladies first. It'll look better, and it's good for my ego."

He liked her style. "No problem."

"And one thing? Be careful with them. They're dangerous. Even for someone like you, they're dangerous."

"Someone like me?"

"Like us."

"Throwing in with me against them?"

"Your energy tells me you're a good guy. I like good guys."

"I try."

"You don't discount that kind of stuff, do you? Auras and things?"

"Never. It's a useful gift to have. Thank you for the warning. Professional courtesy?"

"Something like that. As one bloodsucker to another." Vashti of the Flaming Tresses winked, flashed her delightfully wicked smile-with just a hint of her retracted fangs showing-and gracefully rose, bangles and bells making their own music as she undulated away. Seconds later she was at work on another man, presumably someone who could provide her with more than mere cash to keep her well nourished for the evening.

Ships in the night, indeed. I wouldn't mind docking at her port.

When the next dancer took her place on the runway, Richard quit his table, heading toward the rest room area. Its arched opening led to a short hall containing better lighting, a phone, and a moderate respite from the noise. At the end of the hall was a red door with PRIVATE painted on in silver. Before it stood a large slab of a man with absolutely nothing better to do than watch the comings and goings of the patrons. He wore a loose tan sport coat, warm for the weather, but excellent for hiding weapons.

Though lacking in Vashti's gift for reading an individual's energy, Richard could tell at thirty feet that the fellow would not be readily persuaded to allow in a party crasher.

Not by ordinary means, anyway.

Richard walked up as though he had a perfect right to be there. The man shifted slightly, the movement reminiscent of a boulder settling itself more firmly in the earth. But all boulders could be budged-providing one had the right sort of lever.

Fortunately, the lighting was sufficient, and the man conscientious enough not to drink while on duty. A moment of quiet talk and he obligingly held the door open to let Richard pass through.

"Forget you ever saw me," Richard told him, by way of a final order, getting an affirmative grunt in reply.

He stood in a dim antechamber. Loud music, drunken whoops, and laughter beyond another arch indicated that the party was in full swing. Richard stepped forward, using the cover of an artificial ficus tree to delay notice of his presence. Through the silk leaves he saw a rousing orgy in the making. It reminded him of the goings on at the old Hellfire Club, but with fewer clothes to remove.

Booths lined three walls, the center of the floor given over to dancing. All the dancers were topless, and several of them were clad only in high heels, some jewelry, and a smile. He wondered where they stowed their tips. The men getting lap dances had seemingly forgotten the no-touching rule, and one couple who had slipped under a table was in desperate need of a hotel room. Though more than enough to get the whole club closed down, apparently the money going to the management made the risk worth it.

Richard scanned each man's face, looking for Nick Anton among the crowd of thirty or forty. In the bouncers there was a preponderance of shaved heads, tattoos, goatees, and sloped shoulders. The low lighting wasn't much of a hindrance, but it was erratic as it flashed in time to the music, making it hard to focus. Figures writhed in the gloom, or sat transfixed by the dancing or by whatever booze or drug they'd taken. The heavy sweet smell of pot was on the air, along with that of regular tobacco. The restless, too-bright eyes of some indicated there was plenty of coke to be had as well.

All the better for him, there was less chance of any of the guests noticing...

Time stopped. The hubbub of the party went still and faded. A frisson of pure shock struck him almost as solidly as a fist. Richard blinked, but what he saw remained firmly in place. He gaped, disbelieving his luck, then with an internal lurch accepted it as a gift from a benevolent Goddess.

Right in the middle of the drunken and drugged mob, like a king carousing with his sycophantic court, was Alejandro Trujillo.

Chapter Ten

Richard's first instinct was to surge forward, grab him by the throat, and gut the bastard bare-handed. The impulse, all fire and ice, roared over him. It felt good, but he could not give in to it, and made himself ride it out until he could think again.

Alejandro was unaware of his doom standing a scant few yards from him. He was grinning, enjoying a joke from the naked girl seated next to him, a half-smoked cigar in one hand, his other on the girl's thigh. His shirt was open, and the way things were proceeding it wouldn't be long before his pants went the same way.

It's a victory party. He's celebrating their deaths.

The sounds and movement of it abruptly resumed again in Richard's perception. He stalked slowly into the middle of it, heart pumping hard with pure rage. He went straight to the girl, gently touching her arm to get her attention.

She paused in her laughter to look up, saw his face, and blanched. He gestured for her to leave. Not understanding the why of it, but clearly relieved to be excused, she boosted from her chair and tottered off, amazingly quick on her six- inch heels.

Richard took her seat. Alejandro's expression was a study in puzzled fury for the interruption. He brought himself under swift control.

"What do you want?" he asked. No need for the preamble of demanding this stranger identify himself; any man making such an approach would always want something.

"Do you know who I am?" Richard asked in perfect Spanish.

Slightly older than his brother, Alejandro bore a sibling's likeness to Luis, but his good looks were dissipated, his expression remote, stony. He could smile and laugh as heartily as the next man, but the humor would never reach his shark's eyes. They were hooded over now with supreme caution. He raised his hand lazily. The people nearest to them drew back and several men materialized in their place. The brassy music continued, but the dancers faltered in their gyrations.

"I don't think it matters who you are," Alejandro replied. "You do not belong here. I will ask you to leave."

"Not if you are a wise man."

"Indeed?"

"A wise man knows the face of his enemy."

"And how have I offended you to make you my enemy?"

"You breathe. That is offense enough."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. You will be too, I expect. Very soon."

"As will you. For Luis."

That shot home. Alejandro's eyes flickered. "I know many named Luis."

"But only one you may call brother."

"What is your business with me?"

Richard made no immediate answer, putting forth his concentration to snare Alejandro's will and subjugate it to his own. "I want you to listen very carefully. What I say is important to you. Your life depends on it."

Alejandro had had drink, quite a lot, but the words, the soothing tone were having their effect. He blinked, eyes just beginning to glaze.

"You must tell me where Luis is. That's the most important thing in the world to you now."

"I..."

"Yes, you know where he is. You must tell me." Richard felt the veins in his temples pulsing as he pressed matters.

"Where. Is. Luis?" "He's... he's..." Alejandro wavered, fighting it.

"Where?"

"You-you're the one who..."

Richard kept his voice even and low. Velvet persuasion. "Never mind that. Tell me where Luis is."

His breath came harsh, sweat popped on his brow, but Alejandro could not pull away. He raised his arm, weakly, like one drowning.

"Tell me." Someone slapped a hand down hard on Richard's shoulder. He continued without pause. "You must tell me. You will tell me. Where is Luis?"

"No..." Alejandro won his struggle, his head jerking to one side as though to avoid being struck. He nearly fell from his chair, but one of his men caught and steadied him. It was a general signal to the others to do something.

They hauled Richard up and back. He recovered himself in an instant, but they were fast. More hands grabbed his arms, fists pummeled his body. He shook off two men and felled two more. Three took their place, hampering each other, but eager to get in on the kill.

Something slammed against the side of his head. It was meant to be a fatal blow, but only slowed him. He punched backward reflexively, his elbow connecting with a skull to judge by the bruising impact that shot up his arm. A gun was shoved in his face. He batted it away, breaking bones, and tried to force himself through to Alejandro, who was retreating toward the door, yelling orders.

Richard felt a terrible shock in his back, level with his right kidney; his legs suddenly gave out. The lot of them toppled, their combined weight pinning him to the floor. He tried to shoulder his way from under the pile, but could not. Then he couldn't move at all. He lay dazed and inert, his mind tardily concluding some minutes later that he'd suffered another strike to the head, this one decidedly effective. Somewhere above, his enemies caught their breath and discussed what to do with him.

"Who is he?"

"Man, I need a doctor."

"Gonna kill that mother-"

"What was that shit about Luis?"

"Goddamn fucker..."

"Man, I'm bleeding, gimme some help here..."

"... busted my arm."

"Enough! Shut up!" Alejandro. Very much in charge. They subsided. "You-put that damn thing away. You think they would not hear a shot?"

Richard was turned over. His eyes refused to focus properly. He winced against the spin of too-bright lights and the flesh-colored blobs that were people. His primary sensations had to do with lack of air, bruisings, and an appalling burning in his back.

A blurred face came near, scowling. "It is you. I thought you were in-How in hell did you get here?"

"Who is he, boss?"

"Never mind." Alejandro snapped. "Everyone out! The party's over. Move! Now!"

A general shuffling took place, accompanied by muttered questions or grumbles at the fun cut short. Soon the room was cleared of all but a few of the crowd. Richard dimly recognized the oversized form of Nick Anton among their number.

Alejandro nodded at him. "You and your men, get this bastard out of here."

"What do you want us to do with him, sir?"

"What do you think? Get rid of him."

"Permanently?"

"Of course. And make damned sure you do not leave a trail-of any kind. If this comes back to me you are dead." "Yes, sir." Anton was apparently unfazed by his employer's threat. "What about the manager?"

"I will make it okay with him. You do this."

Not one to waste time, Anton directed two of his people to see to Richard. He was roughly lifted and carried through a side exit. He registered the change from cool, smoke-filled air, to muggy outside air. Most of his attention was on the bonfire in his back. He belatedly recognized the distinct pain of a knife wound. It had gone deep. He'd be a little while recovering-if they gave him the chance.

They won't.

The men dropped him onto the hot, gritty concrete. One went off to get a car. Two remained. He'd never have better odds and, given his condition, two against one were more than enough.

Anton bent close, one hand holding an odd-looking knife. The thing was half a yard long with a viciously sharp Damascus blade, some sort of a custom job. He wiped the flat of it against Richard's shirt to clean the blood away, straightened, then apparently slipped it into his pants pocket. He must have removed or put a hole in it to allow him access to whatever hidden sheath he had strapped to his leg.

Once the knife vanished, Richard abruptly came to life, seizing Anton's ankles. The big man was just stepping away, and his forward momentum worked against him. He cursed and tried to right himself, but came crashing down, hands barely cushioning his fall.

His friend had time to turn and react, aiming a kick at Richard's face. He caught it with his hands and twisted hard, throwing him severely off balance. The man gave a hoarse yell of pain, not only for his jolting hit to the ground, but for his greenstick fracture.

Anton was quick. That long knife magically reappeared in his hand, and he made his thrust just as Richard was getting to his feet. The blade caught him across the back of his right knee, slicing easily through the tough denim to bite the flesh. He grunted as his leg caved. More fire shot through him as he dropped and rolled, trying to gain time.

Anton followed with a backswing, but Richard dodged it, moving awkwardly.

He pushed upright, but could place no weight on his leg. Anton charged in, death in his face; Richard dove under his guard, tackling him. It was like trying to bring down a well-muscled refrigerator. He just barely managed, landing on top. Seizing his slim advantage, he smashed a fist into Anton's jaw with as much force as he could summon. The man stopped fighting. Thank God.

The second one was too busy moaning over his injury to do anything. Good. Richard used the pause to assess his own damage. A bad wound in his back, yes, but starting to ease. His knee was far worse; the bastard had hamstrung him. He'd not felt anything like this since swords had gone out of fashion. Keeping as immobile as possible, he put pressure on the vein to keep from bleeding to death before he healed, his breath made short and shallow by the pain.