For a long moment nothing happened. Then with a pop like the top off a bottle of beer, the hatch gave, swinging back on bent hinges to crack on the stone, revealing a square hole silent as the grave. The first inches of steep metal Navy stairs faded swiftly into a play of shadows and rain.

Past that, nothing.

Jason set the crowbar on the stack of bricks. His bangs had fallen across his eyes again, and he slicked them back, hands trembling, though whether it was from effort or tension, he couldn't have said.

Down that hole was everything they needed.

Or nothing but ghosts.

He took the flashlight from his pocket, grabbed the lip of the trap hatch, and started down.

July 9, 2004

Jason sits on the ridge in full kit – desert BDUs, body armor, M4 carbine, spare 5.56 ammo, helmet with NODs, sidearm, Gerber knife, Wiley X ballistic sunglasses, first aid kit, gallon of water, sixty, seventy pounds in all – and watches the house burn.

Flame runs like water, spills in hungry shades of orange and yellow. The heat warps the world into twists and spires. Greasy black smoke pours out windows. The warmth on his face is a pulse, a brush of sun.

He has his iPod going, only the left earphone in, Bjork singing over shimmering tones that all is full of love, that you have to trust it, her dreamy voice a fantastical counterpoint to the angry roar and crackle of flame. Down the hill, Jones macks for the camera, rifle in one hand, a thumb jerking toward the flame, as Kaye frames the shot with the digital camera.

"I was talking to that guy," Martinez points, then pats an ammo pouch on his flak jacket, pulls a pack of Miamis, Iraqi knock-offs of Marlboro Reds. Lights one with a Zippo, takes a drag. "He told me the people lived here were Sunnis, that's why they got burned out."

"They work for Saddam?"

"Nah. Just Sunnis, somebody didn't want 'em around."

Jason nods, swatting at a fly buzzing his ear. He does a silent count of his men, Jones, Campbell, Kaye, Frieden, Crist, Flumignan, Borcherts, Paoletti, Rosemoor, and Martinez, ten. "Too bad."

"Too bad for them, too bad for us." Martinez turns, holds the moment, then smiles. "Here we are without a couple of hot dogs and some long damn sticks."

All is full of love, all around you.

CHAPTER 34

Floating dust and the smell of fire.

Under chipped paint, the metal railing was cool. Jason kept a hand on it as he moved down the steep staircase, swinging the flashlight in arcs. The darkness was thick and hungry enough that the flashlight seemed only to make the gloom more oppressive. He pointed it like a blind man with a cane, sweeping the ground before him. Pipes and electrical conduit hung from scorched concrete. The air was thick with a smell of burned toast. Piles of junk and abandoned furniture loomed like the bones of giants.

Metal bonged, and he turned to see Cruz descending, outlined in pale gray light, rain seeming to magically appear around her, the drops bounded by the square trap hole. She had the crowbar in one hand and her flashlight in the other. Where their beams met, the spot seemed to glow with light against the greater darkness.

"The fire didn't reach it," she said. Her voice muted and hollow with subterranean acoustics.

"Went up, I guess," Jason said. "The ceiling is concrete."

She nodded, then frowned. "Shit." He followed her gaze. Shelves had been overturned, and piles of broken glass sparkled. Boxes lay open, their contents strewn in all directions. She sighed. "Galway and DiRisio must have checked here. They'd have had hours. If there was something to find, they'd have found it."

Jason nodded absently, seeing two basements. The one his flashlight illuminated, ruined and silent. And the one he and Mikey had sat in years ago. All afternoon they'd hauled junk out of the place, and when they were done, they'd collapsed on ladder back chairs. Listened to the Sox game and shared a bottle of Black Label that Michael had stashed, passing it back and forth, smiling.

"To the good life, bro." He barely whispered the words.

"What?"

"You from Chicago?" He started for the southwest corner.

Cruz followed, her footsteps seeming to come from all directions. "Yeah. Well, Cicero."

The chairs were gone, the radio was gone, but the radiator was right where he remembered it. An old stand-up job, maybe three feet high and the same across, a coiling rack of heavy metal jutting out of the wall. "Growing up, you ever hear about bars, speakeasies, I guess, that served alcohol during Prohibition?"

"Sure."

"This used to be one. Speakeasies survived by payoffs. Grease the wheels, get left alone. But," he squatted in front of the radiator, ran his hands over the cool metal, "sometimes even the ones that paid got raided. You know, so the city could make it look like they were cracking down on Capone and the rest."

"So?"

"So," he said, his index finger finding a metal rib, "owners realized they needed good places to hide things." Jason lifted the latch. There was a click as it locked upwards. He grabbed the radiator with both hands and pulled. It swung aside like a door.

Behind it lay a cast-iron safe, the face set even with the wall.

"No shit," she said, admiration in her voice.

"No shit. Michael loved all the little secrets in this place. He used to store a bottle in here just to have an excuse to open it." Jason reached for the handle, fingers tingling. He jerked down on the lever.

It didn't budge.

"Gimme the crowbar." He wedged it behind the handle, the tip braced against the floor. Took a deep breath and heaved. Nothing. He pictured DiRisio smiling down at Mikey. The last face his brother ever saw. Threw himself against the drop-forged steel, the veins in his neck popping, his arms shaking.

The handle didn't even shudder.

Jason stood, wound up, and hurled the crowbar. "Christ!" It arced through the air with a whir like a helicopter cranking up and smashed into something metal at the far end. The clanging echoed back loud. He felt tears of frustration gathering at the corner of his eyes. So close. They were so goddamn close. But what good was close?

The circle of light Cruz held on the radiator swayed and stretched, then narrowed as she knelt in front of it. One hand traced the face. "We can figure this out."

"Don't waste your time," he said, one hand rubbing his eyes.

"Look, it's a hidden safe. He probably didn't bother with a random combination." She sucked air through her teeth. "When's Billy's birthday?"

"Huh? April 2." He turned, hope springing sudden, and then equally suddenly quelled. "No, it won't work."

"Why?"

"The dial only goes to 50. He was born in '97."

She rocked back on her haunches. Twisted a curl of hair idly, fed the tip of it to her mouth. Then smiled. "You got twenty bucks?"

"Why?"

She reached for the dial, spun it three times, then stopped, spun it the other way, stopped, then once again. The latch swung with a quiet clank. She smiled. "April 2, 1997: 42-9-7. He combined the month and day, split the year."

He stared at her for a long moment. "I could kiss you."

"Open the safe. You owe me twenty bucks."

The briefcase was a brown leather zipper bag, the kind lawyers liked. Soft and new-smelling. The same one he'd watched his brother worry over just days ago.

Jason stared at it. Hiding this briefcase had been his brother's last act.

Why had he done that? If he'd suspected men were coming for him, he wouldn't have waited, wouldn't have put Billy at risk. So it must just have been a precaution. Jason remembered how nervous his brother had seemed about the bag, how he'd moved it around. He must have stowed it so he could relax, know that it was in a safe place. And not just any safe place.