The triplets fanned out, wolf-packing.

Rakkim tap-danced for them, got a smile from one of the triplets, the one with the scar under his right eye. A winner. He pointed at scarface. "You get to die first."

Scarface's smile disappeared. Eyes hot now. He moved ahead of his two brothers.

Rakkim advanced in a half crouch. He kept his left arm up to protect his face, his right hand held the knife close-like a bouquet of roses for your mama, that's what his blade instructor at the academy used to say.

A shock whip flicked, missed, not even close. Another one right behind, slightly closer, but scarface held off, closing in. Another snap of the whip. Another. They thought they were herding him, but he moved right where he wanted to be, waiting for an opening. He lunged at scarface, retreated across the wet stones.

CRACK.

Rakkim flinched, the whip snapping an inch from his face, sparks crackling.

Scarface cawed.

Rakkim dodged right, just out of reach of the other two, feinted as the whips cracked around him, then charged scarface as he moved in to catch Rakkim from behind. The man's eyes widened as Rakkim slipped by him, driving the blade into his chest with a twist as he passed. In and out, fast but not fast enough. Rakkim bit his lips shut as a whip caught him across the back-the leather jacket offered some protection, but the pain wobbled his legs as he scuttled out of reach.

Scarface stayed standing, stayed there as the drizzle drifted down on his vacant expression, then fell to his knees, still holding the whip. Fell forward, sparks shooting out from under him.

Rakkim smelled burned hair in the rain.

One of the other triplets bent over scarface, tenderly turned him over. Blood spread over the stones. He looked up at Rakkim. "Fuck ibn-Azziz. I'm bringing you back in pieces."

Rakkim laughed. "Did you rehearse that line before you left for the office?"

"Relax, Jerry," said the other one. "Killing him isn't going to bring back Jimmy."

Jerry stood up. "Shut up, Johnny."

Rakkim hooted. "Jimmy, Johnny and Jerry? What are you, the three blind mice?"

"Do something," ordered Kissell, rain dripping off his nose.

Leo dashed from the alcove, blew past the bodyguard, splashing down the alley.

"Let him go," said Kissell. "This is the one we were sent for."

The two remaining triplets moved in, whips snaking, reckless now. Rakkim darted from side to side, stayed away from any solid strikes, but the glancing blows cut through his jacket and seared his flesh.

Rakkim charged, feinted at the last minute, came in low and caught one of the triplets behind the knee, sliced his femoral artery. The man fell screaming in the alley. His brother rushed Rakkim.

Rakkim backed up, stumbled on a patch of uneven stones and fell.

The last triplet charged, his whip biting into Rakkim, slashing his arm, his chest, just missed his face, so close the sparks burned his cheek.

The wounded triplet lay curled up holding his leg, bleeding out onto the stones.

Kissell kicked the dying triplet in the back. "Get up!" He went to kick him again when the third triplet's whip snaked out, wrapped around his neck, Kissell's eyes bulging.

The last triplet jerked his whip and Kissell's head went flying off his shoulders, bounced down the alley.

Rakkim tried to dodge as the last triplet came at him, but his legs were numb, his movements slow. Water streamed down his face as the triplet stood in front of him, whip sizzling. He flicked the whip, the tip grazing Rakkim's chin, a perfectly controlled cut.

"I'm going to burn off your ears first," said the last triplet. "Then your nose…your hands, your feet. I'll deliver you alive, but you're going to wish you were dead."

"Talk, talk, talk." Rakkim wiped rain from his eyes, blood too. He raised a crooked arm to protect his face, holding his blade close. "Go ahead…do something stupid."

The last triplet eased toward Rakkim, the whip sparking.

Rakkim had to force himself to maintain his grip on the blade. He blinked, saw movement behind the triplet, heard footsteps splashing.

The last triplet turned and was hit full in the face with a paving stone. Knocked backward, he lay unmoving, skull crushed.

Leo stood over the last triplet, breathing hard.

"You…you throw like a girl." Rakkim laughed, as his legs gave out, sent him sprawling. "Leo…" He held his hand out. "Help me up."

Leo stared down at the dead triplet.

"Leo?"

Leo looked like he was about to cry. "I…I never killed anyone before."

"Well…you picked a good time to start." Rakkim lay back on the cold stones. Rainwater eddied around his head.

CHAPTER 26

Lester Gravenholtz stared straight ahead as Malcolm Crews strutted across the stage of the grand amphitheater in Atlanta, posturing for the TV cameras. Crews was sermonizing his balls off, but Gravenholtz barely noticed, concentrating instead on not looking around for Karla Jean again. He about had a crick in his neck as it was. Enough was enough. You'd think no pretty girl had ever looked at him twice without being paid…which was pretty much the case, except for Baby, which was a whole nother story.

Gravenholtz shifted in the pew. Up until Baby gave him the look, he had been loyal to the Colonel, his strong right arm, and even if the Colonel held him back sometimes, gave him a talking to when Gravenholtz wanted to lay waste to the countryside, well, that was just the Colonel's gentility, his sense of Southern honor. No harm in that. The Colonel was fair and square, when most men in his position would have taken what they wanted with both hands. Besides, there were always plenty of badasses even the Colonel thought deserved killing, so Gravenholtz had plenty of room to work out his aggressions. Yeah, it had been some good times before Gravenholtz took up with Baby.

Gravenholtz glanced around…no Karla Jean. Fuck her. Fuck her.

Not that Baby hadn't been worth ruining his life over. He groaned thinking of her, and the old lady next to him scooted away from him. Seeing Baby in the morning light, those creamy curves…the sweetness of every inch of her…and that dirty mind…that had been what really sold him. He balled up the tract the ushers handed out, threw it on the floor. Over and done with. He might as well have been a tissue she blew her nose in, then tossed away. Oh, she acted like things were temporary, like any day now she'd show up in his bed and put him through his paces, but he knew better. He wasn't a fucking moron.

"I've been asked to tone down my rhetoric," said Crews, voice low, as though imparting a secret to the crowd and the millions watching him on television. "I've been advised, 'Pastor Crews, you best tone down your condemnation of Aztlan. Leave such things to the politicians, Pastor Crews, and tend to matters of God.'" The lights flashed off his pure white suit as he strode across the stage. "I've been told to tone down my defense of the Colonel, told to leave this good man to the tender mercies of those who know more than I do about, he spat the word, geopolitics." He stood under the hot lights, arms outstretched, martyred, slowly shaking his head. "And brothers and sisters to that I say…"

The crowd leaned forward.

"I say, God damn the politicians."

People in the crowd jumped to their feet, applauding.

"God damn the appeasers."

More people stood, raised their hands over their heads.

"God damn those who attempt to silence your pastor."

The crowd thundered their approval.

Crews was talking dangerous stuff. Last night Jinx Raynaud, the president's wife, had Crews perform a private healing on her son, warning him afterward that her husband wanted Crews to quit stirring the people up against Aztlan, give him time to work things out with the Mexicans. Crews told her he answered to God Almighty, not man.