'Justice,' the driver said.

'I'm thirsty,' the fourth man said. 'The walk down that slope made my mouth dry.'

'Mine, too,' the man with the gun said.

'And Herr Schmidt, I imagine that your mouth feels especially dry. From fear. I believe you deserve a drink.'

The fourth man removed a plastic container from a knapsack on his shoulder. Repelled but determined, contracting his chest, visibly holding his breath, he stooped toward the noxious fumes that rose from the water's edge and scooped foam, slime, sludge, and sewage into the container.

Schmidt screamed. 'No! I can't drink from…! Don't make me swallow…! That stuff 'll kill…!'

The man with the flashlight nodded. 'Kill you? Indeed. As it killed the fish. As it killed the river. As it killed the trees and the bushes and the grass. As it's slowly killing the people in the cities who depend on the river for water, however much the cities try to purify that water.'

'Regrettably, an example has to be made,' the man with the gun said. 'Many examples. If it's any consolation, take heart. You won't be alone. I promise. Soon many of your fellow sinners will join you. Many lessons need to be taught. Until the ultimate lesson is finally learned. Before it's too late. That is, if it's not too late already.'

The man with the container of sludge pressed it against Schmidt's mouth.

Schmidt wailed, then clamped his lips tightly together, jerking his face away.

'Now, now,' the man with the container said. 'You must take your medicine.'

The other men held him firmly.

'Accept your fate,' the man with the flashlight said. 'Taste the product of your success.'

Schmidt struggled, desperate, yanking his arms, straining to escape the rigid hands of his captors.

'Destiny, mein Herr. We must all confront it.' The man with the container raised it again toward Schmidt's clamped jaws.

Again Schmidt jerked his face away.

'Well,' the man with the flashlight said, disappointed. 'That leaves us no choice.' With relentless strength, he tugged Schmidt downward. The other men helped him, using their knees along with their hands to force Schmidt onto his back, straining to keep their prisoner's thrashing face pointed toward the murky, fog-and-smoke-clogged sky.

The man with the container knelt and pressed a nerve behind Schmidt's ear.

Schmidt screamed reflexively.

At once, another man rammed a funnel into Schmidt's mouth, clamped it firmly between his lips, watched the container being raised toward the funnel, and nodded as foam, slime, sludge, and sewage were poured down Schmidt's throat.

'Perhaps, in one of your future lives, you'll be more responsible,' the man said. That is, if we're successful, if anyone has a chance for a future life.'

Later…

After the corpse was discovered and the autopsy was performed…

The medical examiner debated about the primary cause of death. In theory, Schmidt had drowned.

But the chemicals that filled his stomach and swelled his lungs were so toxic that, before he drowned, his vital organs might easily have failed from instant shock.

TWO

Craig, you were with me. You heard me talk about Joseph! You saw what was in his bedroom. If the killers followed both of us, to protect their secret, they might come after you!

Remembering Tess's warning when she'd phoned him at One Police Plaza, Craig squirmed against his seatbelt and directed his troubled eyes toward the smog beyond the window of the Trump Shuttle 727 about to land at Washington National Airport.

Come after me! he thought.

Until Tess had mentioned it, that possibility hadn't occurred to him. He recalled – and had meant – what he'd replied. Let the sons of bitches try. The truth was, he would welcome a confrontation. Anything to stop the madness. Anything to save-!

Keep running, Tess! he thought. Be clever! Don't take chances! Soon. I'll be there soon!

Prior to leaving One Police Plaza, he'd phoned the security personnel at LaGuardia's Trump Shuttle terminal to alert them that he was a police officer who'd be bringing credentials, that he'd be prepared to fill out all the forms and comply with all the complex procedures, including an interview with the pilot, that allowed him to carry his handgun aboard this plane. On the way to the airport, he and Tony had done their best to make sure they weren't being followed, although in the chaos of noon-hour traffic that was almost impossible.

Now, concealing his gesture from the passenger next to him, Craig kept his right hand beneath his suitcoat, his fingers clutched around the.38 caliber, Smith and Wesson revolver's handle. Not that it mattered. If there was trouble, it certainly wouldn't happen during the flight. Certainly not shooting. Too dangerous. The bullets would rupture the fuselage and depressurize the cabin, at the risk of causing the jet to crash. All the same, the feel of the weapon gave him confidence.

As casually as his nerves would allow, Craig glanced around. No passenger seemed to care about him.

Good, he thought. Just keep control. He strained to reassure himself. You've taken every precaution you could think of. You're in the flow now! You're committed! You've got to go with whatever happens!

Still, he hadn't noticed the gray-eyed man ten seats behind him, who appeared to nap, thus hiding the color of his eyes, and who, under various names, had bought a ticket for every Trump Shuttle flight from LaGuardia to Washington National Airport since the woman had disappeared last night.

Not that the gray-eyed man had intended to use all the tickets. Instead he'd waited, unobtrusively watching the terminal's entrance, in case the woman's detective-friend arrived. One of his counterparts had kept a similar watch at the Pan Am shuttle terminal.

About to give up hope, abruptly seeing his target get out of a police car, the gray-eyed man – pulse speeding – had strolled inside the terminal, passed through the security checkpoint, presented the ticket for his flight, and boarded the jet before the detective did. In that way, he followed the detective paradoxically from in front and almost surely prevented the target from suspecting he had company.

Yes, the woman had escaped last night. But thanks to the onboard phone, which the gray-eyed man had asked a flight attendant to bring to him, he'd been able, using guarded expressions, to alert additional members of his team that the detective was en route to Washington National Airport, presumably to rendezvous with the quarry.

The woman.

She was dangerous. She knew too much.

So – it had to be assumed – did the determined detective, who showed far too great an interest in the woman.

When the two came together, they would both be silenced, the photographs would be destroyed, and the covenant would at last again be protected.