Sitting in the little room thirty feet from Emilio Gonzaga's dining room, feeling the stares from Mickey Kee, Marco, and the two Gonzaga bodyguards, Joe Kurtz felt himself beginning to prepare for what was to come.

He would be leaving a lot of loose ends behind—the thing with Frears and Hansen, for instance, but that wasn't Kurtz's business. Arlene would take care of Frears, perhaps try to get the Conway-connection information to the police. It wasn't Kurtz's problem. Then there was Donald Rafferty and Rachel—that was Kurtz's business—but there was nothing for Kurtz to do there. Right now, Kurtz's business was Emilio Gonzaga, Samantha's real killer, and Emilio Gonzaga was only thirty feet away, down a short hallway and through an unlocked door.

When it happened, it would have to happen fast. And soon. Kurtz guessed that Gonzaga and the Farino woman were on their main course now, the three bodyguard-servants in there, standing by the wall.

Mickey Kee was very vigilant, but—like all bodyguards—he was also bored. Familiarity bred laxness. Even the past twenty minutes, when Marco did nothing but read a racing form and Kurtz did nothing but sit with his eyes half-closed, had lowered Mickey Kee's guard. The other two bodyguards were chimps—sloppy—their attention had already wandered to the small TV set on a buffet near the wall. Some soap opera rattled away and both of the guards were fascinated with it. They probably watched every day.

Mickey Kee was obviously troubled by Kurtz's presence. Like all good bodyguards, he was suspicious of anything out of the ordinary. But Kee was also thirsty and kept crossing to the inlaid-mahogany bar near Kurtz—walking within three feet of Kurtz—to refill his glass of club soda. And while he held the glass in his left hand—Kurtz had noticed that he was right-handed—it still occupied too much of his attention. It was almost time for Kee to refill his glass.

When it happens, it will have to happen fast. Kurtz had also noticed that Kee carried his primary weapon, a 9mm Beretta, in a quick-draw shoulder holster. All the better for Kurtz, who would use his left forearm to slam into Kee's windpipe, his right hand pulling the Beretta and firing into the two armed bodyguards at a distance of only six feet.

It would have to happen fast, but there was no way to do this without warning Gonzaga and his goons inside. Kurtz would need more weapons, more bullets, so he'd have to take another ten seconds to retrieve the bodyguards' guns after he shot them. Marco would have to be neutralized, although if he fled, Kurtz was prepared to let him go. He would not be a factor.

Then another twenty seconds to get down the hall and go through the dining-room door, low, firing both weapons, the third one in his belt. Kurtz had only one target in that dining room, although he was prepared to kill everyone else there to get to that one target.

He thought he had a decent chance of getting into the dining room and getting to that target before it fled or called for reinforcements, but Kurtz didn't think he had much chance of surviving that exchange. The guards there would have gone for their guns at the first sound of gunfire. Still, they would be confused. Unlike expertly trained Secret Service operatives, they were cheap hoods, killers, and their first instinct would be self-preservation, not throwing themselves between Emilio Gonzaga and a fusillade of bullets.

Still, Kurtz would have to move fast, shoot fast. If he somehow survived the dining-room exchange, he would make sure that Gonzaga was dead—an extra bullet through the head should do that—and only then would Kurtz worry about getting out of the compound. His best bet would be the limo they'd arrived in, although even it couldn't crash that metal security gate out front. But Kurtz had studied the aerial photos, knew the service roads and back exits to the compound. There would be more than a dozen guards still loose on the grounds, TV monitors, the Jeep that patrolled the place, but they would be confused, reluctant to shoot at Gonzaga's personal limo, not ready for someone trying to break out of the compound. Kurtz might have a slim chance of survival, even if wounded.

No, I don't, he told himself. Emilio Gonzaga was one of the few made men in Western New York, head of his own sub-family. However unimportant Buffalo mob business might be, the real New York families weren't going to sit by and let a nobody kill one of their franchise boys without stepping in to reset the balance of pain in the universe. Even if Joe Kurtz killed everyone in the Gonzaga compound today and got away unscathed, the Mafia would find out who had done it and track him down if it took twenty years. Joe Kurtz was dead as soon as he raised a hand against Emilio Gonzaga.

C'est la vie, thought Kurtz and had to fight the impulse to smile. He didn't want to do anything right now that would make Mickey Kee pay more attention to him. Kurtz felt all other thought fade as he became an organ of watchfulness and preparation, an adrenaline engine with one purpose.

Mickey Kee sipped the last of his club soda. For a second, Kurtz was afraid that the man had drunk enough, but Kee was still thirsty. Vigilant, carrying the glass in his left hand—but not vigilant enough, Kurtz knew—Kee began crossing the room toward the bar again.

Kurtz had mentally rehearsed his next moves until they would require no further thought or preparation. Kee would be dead in five seconds, but it was necessary that Kurtz come away with the Beretta as the killer fell, Kurtz clicking the safety off even as he swung the pistol toward the startled bodyguards in front of their soap opera…

Mickey Kee came within range.

Joe Kurtz's cell phone rang.

Kee paused and stepped back, his hand moving toward his shoulder holster. Kurtz let out the breath he'd been holding, held up one finger to remind Kee that he was unarmed, and answered his phone. There was nothing else to do at the moment.

"Joe?" Arlene's voice was more alarmed than he had ever heard it.

"What is it?"

"It's Rachel."

"What?" Kurtz had to come back from wherever he had gone in his preparation—most of his mind and body were still involved in shooting the bodyguards, breaking into the dining room, bringing the bead of the Beretta's gunsight in line with Emilio Gonzaga's fat, fish face. "What?" he said again.

"It's Rachel. She's in the hospital. She's hurt bad."

"What are you talking about? How do you know—"

"Alan's sister, remember? Gail. She's a nurse at Erie County. She knows about Rachel. She knew Sam, remember? She called me just now. Gail just came on-shift. Rachel was admitted this morning, about nine a.m."

"Rafferty hit her?" said Kurtz. Mickey Kee and the others were watching him with interest. Marco licked his lips, obviously wondering if this new wrinkle would affect his chances for surviving the next hour.

"No. They were in a car crash on the Kensington. Donald Rafferty was drunk. Gail says that he's got a broken arm and a possible concussion, but he'll be okay. Rachel's in really bad shape."

"How bad?" Kurtz heard his own voice as if it were miles away.

"They don't know yet. Rachel's been in surgery all morning. Gail said they've removed her spleen and one kidney. They'll know more in the next hour or so."

Kurtz said nothing. A red film descended over his vision, and he heard a noise that sounded like an elevated train rushing by.

"Joe?"

"Yeah," he said. He realized that if he did not relax his hand, he was going to snap the little phone in half.

"There's more," said Arlene. "Something worse."

Kurtz waited.

"Rachel was conscious when they cut her out of the car. The paramedics were talking to her to keep her conscious. She told them that she'd run away the night before and that her stepfather had come after her and found her near the bus station, made her get in the car, and that she'd run away because he'd been drinking and tried to rape her."