I crossed the parking lot, my pores immediately yawning open in the sticky heat. Ahead of me was a red brick building; behind it, I knew from the satellite photos, a swimming pool, from which the sounds of children’s laughter carried over to me now. Two Chinese men in golf clothes came through the doors to the club, presumably heading to a nearby course. They ignored me as they passed.

I walked straight down the access road to the pier, my head swiveling as I moved, searching for danger, so far spotting none.

“No sentries I can see on the craft,” Boaz said, avoiding the b’s and p’s and m’s that would force him to purse his lips.

“Roger that,” I said. Near the second line now.”

“I think this is a good location to take a few photos.”

I kept moving, looking for problems. Several of the boats had little parties in progress on their decks, prosperous middle-aged Chinese and foreign men in white captain’s hats, women in shorts and bathing-suit tops, the smell of beer and barbecue, the sounds of carefree laughter. I passed several people moving to and from the main clubhouse, everyone in shorts and boating shoes, suntans and white smiles. Life was good for these people. Not one of them gave me even a second glance.

I passed the fourth perpendicular. I could see Boaz now, halfway down the fifth. He had erected a tripod with what looked like a professional photographer’s auxiliary light set atop it, the light set in the center of a large metallic umbrella, the whole thing connected to an exceptionally large rectangular battery pack. He was working the controls of a device the average person would assume was a light meter.

“You ready?” I said.

“Ready.”

I turned onto the fifth perpendicular and began heading toward Boaz. The gloves Kanezaki had thoughtfully provided were in my pocket, and I pulled them on as I walked. I set down the fishing pole, then reached inside the coveralls and came out with the HK. I held it along my leg, the muzzle of the suppressor past my knee, and kept moving in. I wished there were some cover or concealment, but the terrain was what it was. I hoped Boaz’s ray gun was as good as he claimed.

“Five, four, three, two, one,” I said, still walking casually toward him. “Go.”

33

AT FIRST, Dox thought the hot flush was a fear reaction. After all, a sadistic sociopath he’d provoked to murderous rage was athwart his chest, a second away from gelding him. The only thing that could have surprised him at that point was the wonder that he’d managed not to piss himself.

But within a half-second, he understood it wasn’t a hot flush, although he had no better explanation. It felt like he’d touched a burning lightbulb, except not just with his fingertips, but with his whole body. Then, before he could even complete the What the fuck? thought he was forming, his entire body was on fire, like someone had doused him head-to-toe in kerosene and set him alight. He howled in agony and writhed under Fester’s knee. Then Fester was off him, shrieking, rolling on the deck as though his clothes were ablaze and he was trying to put himself out.

Dox strained against the chains, sure he was on fire and utterly confused about where it had come from and why he couldn’t see the flames. He managed one coherent thought-Out of the frying pan, into the fire-and then all he could do was howl and hope it would be over soon.

34

A SECOND AFTER Boaz engaged the device, a cacophony of shrieks emanated from belowdecks on the boat. Among them, I recognized Dox’s baritone roar, and was seized with conflicting emotions: relief that he was alive, horror at the level of pain that could have produced that agonized wail.

I stood there, helpless, the HK in front of me now in a two-handed grip, waiting for someone to stumble off the boat so I could shoot. Nothing happened. If anything, the screaming got worse.

In my peripheral vision, I saw movement on the adjacent craft. I glanced left and right to confirm there was no danger. Civilians, looking out from their boats now to see what was causing the ruckus.

“What’s happening over there?” a Caucasian man yelled in English from the boat to my left.

“Police matter, sir,” I called back in my best command voice. “Please just stay on your craft and keep your head down. There could be shooting and I wouldn’t want you or your family injured.”

The man disappeared without another word.

The screaming went on. Goddamnit, why aren’t they trying to get off the boat?

“Turn it off!” I said. “They must be stuck belowdecks. I’m going in.”

“It’s off,” I heard him say. In my peripheral vision, I saw him pull a pistol from a bellyband. I half turned to him, but he was pointing the gun at the boat, not at me.

“Stay there,” I said. “We might need heat again.” I jumped onto the deck and moved to the stairs.

The screaming had stopped. I paused at the edge of the entrance, glanced down, and pulled my head back. With my eyes adjusted to the glare outside, I couldn’t see what was below. I pulled off the shades and jammed them in a pocket.

Another quick peek. Nothing. Still no screaming.

There were only six stairs. I leaped over all of them and landed in a squat on the deck below. I pivoted, the gun out, tracking for danger. Still nothing. I was in a narrow corridor. There were three doors, all closed, all on my right, all with small windows.

I moved up next to the first of them and snuck a quick peek through the window, then away. Nothing.

I checked the second one the same way. Again, nothing.

I checked the third. Dox, lying on his back, in shackles. A bald guy, his face covered in blood, holding a knife, staggering toward him.

I grabbed the knob. It was locked. Fuck.

I stepped to the side, closed one eye to ensure that if I got hit with debris I’d only be half-blinded, brought up the HK, and fired three rapid shots into the door jamb inside the knob. The HK whispered and kicked in my hands. Wood splinters exploded past me.

I stepped back and launched a front kick just to the side of the knob. The door blasted inward. The bald guy spun to face me. I put two rounds in his chest. He staggered back to the wall and crumbled to the deck.

There was no one else in the room but Dox. I knelt beside him, the gun up, facing the door. “How many others on the boat?” I said. “Do you know?”

“One other,” he grunted. “One other.”

“Hilger?”

“No. Someone else. I think he’s locked in one of the…”

From two doors down came the staccato crack of a half-dozen rapid pistol shots. The guy Dox was talking about, in one of the rooms I’d passed. The windows were small, and I’d been moving quickly. I must have missed him.

There was no cover in the room. I moved up stealthily along the wall, keeping the HK aimed at the door, waiting.

Nothing happened. Whoever he was, he was smart. The defender in a fixed position has a significant advantage over the aggressor who comes looking for him. He knew it, and he was waiting for me to pass him on the way out.

Fuck, I didn’t have time to play it this way. Club security, cops…we had to get out of here.

“Give me five seconds of heat,” I whispered into the earpiece. “Exactly five seconds.”

“Jesus Christ, not again,” Dox mumbled from behind me.

“Three, two, one,” I heard Boaz say, and then my skin was on fire.

An involuntary scream tore loose from my throat, with Dox offering a chorus from the deck behind me. I fought the illusion that the gun was red-hot and battled the overwhelming urge to drop it. It was all I could do to stay on my feet. Whoever was down the hall, the only advantage I had was that I knew what this was, and that it would last only five seconds.