"Deal! Want to shake on it?"

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

"Understood."

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

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

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

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

"You would say anything to save him."

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

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

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

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

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

"You want some too?"

"Luis! Wait! Just a minute." Alejandro kept the gun in place. "We gotta think about this." "Okay, fine, you think. I'm gonna kill this fucker." He started toward Richard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Richard was up, rushing to get to them.

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

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

"Adios to you too, you little-"

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't..."

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

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

Chapter Fifteen

He gathered the child close, crooning to him, rocking him, letting him wail out his grief. Richard's eyes streamed tears as well in shared sorrow.

Eventually they were both exhausted. Michael went still, his face smoothing out. His eyes went dead and dull once more as he retreated into the sanctuary that appalling experience had created within him. Soon his lids drooped and he slept.

Richard stood up, careful not to jar him awake, and carried him toward the rental. He removed the absurd crossbow and lay the child out in the back seat. When he straightened, Jordan Keyes was standing a few paces away.

The man had been damned quiet about it. Probably force of habit.

He seemed quite at home in his dusty fatigues and boots, his face liberally streaked with flat black paint. All he had to do to be invisible in the dark was shut his eyes. The gun in his hand was fitted out with a massive silencer. He was in matte black from head to toe, including the night-vision goggles hanging from his neck.

"Well, that got pretty intense," he said with a nod toward the fallen. He drew his arm across his sweating brow, shoving back the knitted skullcap to reveal some pale forehead. The ski mask-styled covering bore a cousin's resemblance to a chain mail coif, giving him a knightly air. "You okay?" His gaze dropped to the gash in Richard's side.

"Just some scratches. Nothing to worry about. I want to get the boy out of here."

"I'm all for it, but we got a hell of a mess. Can't leave anything behind that the Feds can track back to us... you hearing any of this?"

"Yes, I'm just a little tired."

"No shit, Sherlock, but get with the program, we've still got work to do. You need caffeine tabs? I got some."

"No, thank you." He drew himself up, shifting mental gears. They were rather rusty at the moment.

They walked to the center of things, surveying the battlefield. Richard looked at the fallen, scenting the blood, but felt no hunger. He was weary in spirit and sick. He had no conscience left when it came to killing killers. In the heat of necessity it was easy, but afterward doubts would creep in. Who were they? Had they deserved their fate? And why was I the one chosen to deliver it to them?

"Too much work and risk to try hiding the bodies," said Keyes. "But we're going to have to destroy all trace of our specific presence. With any luck, the Federales might think one of Trujillo's competitors caught up with him. And having him on this particular site won't hurt to keep them speculating. Just what kind of a link do you have to this place? Is that going to be a problem?"

"There's no paper trail to me from the land itself, but Luis worked for a company of mine. He's Luis Marcelja there, but his fingerprints are on file; the alias will be found out. A smart investigator will find me sooner or later."

"Trust me, they're going to have nothing but smart investigators all over this one once they identify Trujillo.

Though if anybody comes after you, chances are they'll want to shake your hand."

With Bourland's help and his own hypnotic abilities he'd manage. He'd done so before. "I can weather it."

"Well, I can't. You and I don't know each other, never heard of each other."

"Of course."

"Let's start by moving your buggy... just what the hell did you do?" For the first time Keyes noticed the log rammed into the first Caddie. He looked at Richard. "There's a story here."

Richard shrugged. "Adrenaline."

"Impressive." He leaned into the open passenger door and gingerly twisted the keys, careful to avoid touching the corpse. The motor died. "Okay. She might roll forward-no way am I going to mess with the parking brake-but you get your crate out of there."

He did so, the bumpers scraping as Richard drove the rental clear and circled around the wide yard. He went halfway to the entry road and parked. Going back he saw Keyes had found a dead tree branch and was dragging it all over the ground, stirring their footprints and tire tracks back into the dust.

"Where did you walk, exactly?" he asked, pausing to wipe down the second car's ripped-out steering wheel. He had no question over how it had come to rest yards outside of its vehicle.

"There and there, and I went to cover there."

"Any sandy spots?"

"I don't know."

"Well, find 'em and sweep." He gave Richard the branch, then went to crouch before the bumper of the front car. He brought out a knife and a penlight and proceeded to scratch off paint traces that had transferred over from its contact with the rental. He caught the tiny flakes and pocketed them, then did the same for Richard's transport.

They worked like a rehearsed team, going through the effects of the dead, not for booty, but for any linking evidence. None presented itself. Richard found cell phones and beepers, taking them away in case anything inconvenient might be in their electronic memories. He'd make a good home for them in a dumpster later, after smashing them to pieces.

Richard saw to Trujillo himself, Keyes to Anton. Both were clean.

"Mouth shot?" Richard asked, indicating the back of the neck exit wounds.

"Little something I picked up from a commando. Blows the spinal cord to hell and gone. The brain can give all the orders it wants, but nothing goes out. No reflex twitching that can kill the hostage."

And he'd done both with a silencer yet. "Impressive." A near-instant death. Too good for the bastard, but necessary. He returned the Glock to Keyes, who put it with his Walther.

"Hate to lose this one," Keyes said about the latter. "I just got it broke in."

"How will you dispose of them?"

"Probably take 'em apart, see what fun I can have with a blowtorch. I know ways to mess up a barrel without even trying. You use that revolver at all? Good. One nice thing about those, they don't throw brass. Any chance of you finding your empties? Never mind, there won't be prints on those anyway. It should be enough to just lose the weapons. The forensic boys can't trace something that doesn't exist any more. I think we've balled things up enough now; let's boogie. What are you going to do about Luis?"

"Kill him."

"You want a moment alone?" There was no irony in the question. He was aware that sometimes cold murder had to be a private act.

"Not yet. I've something... special in mind for him."

Keyes looked disappointed. "You're not going to set up some kind of Rube Goldberg thing, are you?"

"No, but I would like to ask about contracting for your services. I'll pay your normal fee."

"You haven't heard it yet."

"How much?"

He named a price. High, but Richard had the funds. "It's local work. I remember your policy against it, but this would primarily be a watchman's job. It can be done from a safe distance."

Keyes's mouth drew tight. "Well, I can see you've got a hell of a grudge on. Would you mind giving me the headlines about that first?"

He did so, his voice cold as he looked down on Luis's unconscious body. Richard had to be cold so as not to feed the rage. If he let it take him over, then Luis would die now, too quickly, deprived of a just punishment. In this creature's case, Richard had absolutely no conscience at all.

Keyes shook his head. "So he thought you fathered the kids, stewed about it for years, and then went postal with his brother's help. That explains why Trujillo stepped outside his usual box with the explosion stuff. Luis was the fireworks fan."

"Yes. For Luis it must have been a symbolic thing as well. His way of utterly obliterating the life he had here. I had no clue, not one hint of what was in his mind. If only I'd..."

"Hey, no way are you responsible for him being nuts. I want to know about the kids, though. The boy does look like you."

"It's genetics. The children took after their mother's side; her ancestors are all from Iceland. Luis was their real father. That's why Stephanie and I parted. I could not give her children or the life she wanted. He could." And ripped it away. "As for this job, all you need to do is make sure he stays where I put him."

"What have you got in mind?"

Richard explained it to him. In detail.

Under his sweat-streaked mask of black paint, Keyes went a little pale.

"It won't be easy to endure," said Richard. "And I don't know how long it will take. Are you willing?"

Keyes snorted, throwing a glance at the ruins of the house. "For a guy who did that to his own family? Hell, yes.

And keep your cash. This one's on me."

He left Keyes to tidy up the last details and drove home.

This second trip was hauntingly similar to the first: the boy asleep in the back and Richard driving all battered and tired, his sheer weariness holding back the grief. It would need release and soon, but when? Tomorrow Bourland would arrive, and Richard would have to be there for him, if only to offer a drink and a listening ear. Other necessities would also arise, as the mundanities of the world closed in, demanding attention.

In the old days he could go off on his own and wail his sorrows to the forgiving sky. No more.

When may I truly grieve for you, my poor Stephanie?