Sergeant Romo's men rejoined them, breathing hard, eager to get back to the boats.

The thin man had come to him two days ago. Ortiz had been drinking in a tavern when a man sat beside him, a thin man who spoke accented Spanish and drew the Unit X sign in the moisture on the bar. The man wiped away the sign, then said he had a mission for Ortiz and his team. Ortiz listened, demanded to know who the man really was. Said Tenochtitlan did not order the murder of women and children.

The Belt murders our oil minister, Miguel, and you expect us to do nothing? The man ordered another round of drinks for them. Are you not a patriot?

Ortiz had left the drink untouched on the bar, but he didn't walk away. Ortiz told the man he was a patriot, but not a butcher.

The man watched him in the mirror over the bar. Said authorization had already been sent. Do your duty, Miguel.

Yesterday the base commandant had called Ortiz in, said he had gotten orders, and transport would be provided to Ortiz and his team. The commandant didn't ask where they were going or what their mission was-he was used to Unit X operating on their own.

Ortiz raised a fist to Sergeant Romo and the team scurried back through the underbrush in twos, heading toward their rally point in the pine woods beyond the town. Ortiz was the last to leave, racing through the morning, casting aside all field discipline, scared that he would be left behind with what he had done.

The charges detonated as he reached the trees, a rapid sequence of explosions, the fireball rising into the sky. Ortiz stumbled forward, almost fell. He blinked back tears, and ordered his men forward to the boats.

CHAPTER 25

"I'll take them," said Leo.

The pale teenage chip jockey behind the armored glass rubbed his thumb and index finger together and Leo counted out $4,000 in hundreds, slipped them through the slot.

The chip jockey had the emotionless eyes of a crustacean, flat black eyes that should have been mounted on stalks. He lazily recounted the money, dragging out the process, then tucked the bills into his camouflage shorts. His long fingers placed the two new Chinese lithium chips into tiny glassine envelopes while his eyes did something else, maybe ran a salinization test or a plankton quality assessment. The chips slid out the one-way box onto the other side of the glass.

Leo rechecked the chips through a jeweler's loupe, nodded. "You got a demag case for these? Wouldn't want to scramble the configuration."

The chip jockey rubbed his thumb and forefinger together again.

Leo flipped him the finger, started for the door.

Rakkim waved to the chip jockey. "Good talking with you."

Leo jerked the door handle, but it didn't budge. He turned to the chip jockey. "Hey!"

The chip jockey picked his nose. Examined his fingertip. Pressed a button.

The heavy, metal-clad door hissed as the security bolts slid back into the door frame. Leo flung the door open, stepped out into the narrow alley, Rakkim right behind him. The door shut, the bolts slamming back in place.

Rakkim turned up the collar of his leather jacket against the light rain, but stayed put.

Every week it was the same thing. Leo asked Rakkim to come along on one of his buying expeditions in the Zone. The tech galleries along the lower level had the newest whizbang gear in the country, but they didn't open until after dark, and this part of the Zone was dangerous-even the police and tourists kept their distance. Leo pretended he wanted Rakkim along for company, and Rakkim pretended to believe him.

Every week they made the rounds, but they always ended up at this same chip shop, where the clerk reserved his best merchandise for Leo. Leo always bitched about the price or the condition, but the chip jockey didn't dicker. He didn't talk either. All these weeks and Rakkim had never heard the jockey utter a word. At the end of the transaction, Leo would ask for something. A demag case, a virus tracking number, a glass of water, something that should have been thrown in free after the money he had spent, and the chip jockey would demand to be paid, and Leo would always flip him off. Then Rakkim and Leo would go out for dinner. Rakkim would never understand brainiacs.

Leo zipped his jacket all the way up, not eager to step out into the rain. "I still wish you'd come with me to Las Vegas," said Leo. "We'd have fun."

"Yeah, you, me, a conference full of math whizzes, what could be better?" said Rakkim.

"Being invited to deliver a paper in front of the International Pure Math Symposium is a real honor," said Leo. "Just thought you might want to be there to see it."

"You said they invited Spider."

Leo sniffed. "What's your point?"

"They didn't ask you to deliver an address," teased Rakkim. "They asked your father."

"My father is too sick to travel. Besides…he'd be the first to tell you I've far surpassed him." Leo started down the alley.

Rakkim grabbed Leo by the shoulder, pulled him back.

"What? Oh."

Two men stood at each end of the alley, the four of them strolling toward them, jaunty as sailors home on leave. One was Kissell, a near-giant that Rakkim had seen a few days ago-Senator Chambers's chief bodyguard, a clean-shaven thug with tiny eyes and a soft gut. The other three he had only heard about, identical triplets, Black Robe enforcers working out of the Hassan Nasrallah mosque, three slender sadists given carte blanche to keep the faithful in line.

Rakkim's knife slid into his hand.

Leo banged on the chip jockey's door. "Hey! Open up!" The cameras over the door swiveled, took in the approaching men. Leo kicked at the armored door. "Let us in!"

The lights went out in the store.

"Son of a bitch!" screamed Leo.

"You looking for work?" Rakkim said to the bodyguard. "I hear the Kit Kat Klub is hiring toilet swabbers. I could put in a good word for you."

"Keep talking," said Kissell.

"I didn't think the senator recognized me," said Rakkim. "That's what I get for going easy on him."

"Chambers didn't have any idea who you were." Kissell had a small voice for such a big man, almost a squeak, as though all that flesh had compressed the sound. "It's Grand Mullah ibn-Azziz who told me your name. He's a little upset. Come along, I'll take you to New Fallujah-you can offer your apologies in person."

If ibn-Azziz had tagged him for exposing Senator Chambers, then Jenkins had given him up. "No, thanks. I get carsick."

"It wasn't really a request," said Kissell.

The triplets unslung shock whips from under their raincoats, slender three-foot flails that could shred flesh.

"Careful, fellas," said Rakkim. "You don't want to hurt yourselves."

Two burly workmen started down the alley from the main street, stopped when they saw what was going on, then turned and fled.

"What do we do, Rakkim?" whispered Leo.

"Move aside and let this tourist pass, Kissell," said Rakkim. "We'll discuss things in private. No reason to complicate-"

"No," hissed Leo.

"Go on, Leo," Rakkim said quietly, "I'll catch up with you later."

"I…I c-can help," sputtered Leo. He bent down, clawing at one of the paving stones, trying to dislodge it, but his fingers slipped on the wet surface and he went sprawling.

The triplets laughed, their whips coiling and uncoiling as they moved closer.

"Help!" Leo scrambled to his feet, shouting to the nearby stores. "Help!"

No answer.

Rakkim pushed Leo into a small alcove, the doorway to a boarded-up holo shop, then took up a position in front of him. "Be ready to run…and don't look back."

"What am I, a baby?" said Leo.

Rakkim watched the triplets approach, taking their time. Sparks crackled from their whips. He felt calm. Eye of the hurricane. Waiting around as the storm clouds rolled in and no way to avoid it. He stepped out into the alley, eager to get started.