The driver was still alive, thrown from the car and bleeding to death from holes that no doctor could ever patch in time. The soldiers in the lead jeep were nowhere to be seen, though there was blood on a rear seat. The trail jeep's driver was still at the wheel, his hands clutching at a face shredded with broken glass, and the man next to him was dead, but again the other two were gone -

Then Morales knew why. Automatic weapons fire erupted in a building to his left. It started, stopped, then began again. A scream came from a window, and that also stopped. Morales wanted to race into the building, but he had no jurisdiction, and was too much a professional to risk his life so foolishly. He moved up to the smashed limousine. He knew that this, too, was futile.

They'd all died instantly, or as quickly as any man might die. The Director's two bodyguards had worn Kevlar armor. That would stop bullets, but not fragments from a high-explosive warhead, and had proven no more effective than the armor in the Tank. Morales knew what had hit the car - weapons designed to destroy tanks. Real ones. For those inside, the only remarkable thing was that you could tell that they had once been human. There was nothing anyone could do, except a priest... or rabbi. Morales turned away after a few seconds.

He stood alone in the street, still operating on his professional training, not letting his humanity affect his judgment. The one living soldier in view was too injured to move - probably had no idea where he was or what had happened to him. None of the people on the sidewalk had come to help... but some of them, he saw, were hurt, too, and their injuries occupied the attention of the others. Morales realized that the damage to the car told everyone else in view where they might best spend their efforts. The agent turned to scan up and down the street. He didn't see the technician at the light-control box. The man was already gone.

Two soldiers came out of a building, one carrying what looked like an RPG-7 launcher unit. Morales recognized one of them, Captain Edmundo Garza. There was blood on his khaki shirt and pants, and in his eyes the wild look that Morales hadn't seen since his time in the Marine Corps. Behind him, two more men dragged yet another who'd been shot in the arms and the groin. Morales bolstered his automatic before going over, slowly, his hands visible until he was sure he'd been recognized.

" Capit n ..." Morales said.

"One more dead upstairs, and one of mine. Four teams. Getaway cars in the alleys." Garza looked at the blood on his upper arm with annoyance that was rapidly changing to appreciation of his wounds. But there was something more than shock to postpone the pain. The captain looked at the car for the first time in several minutes, hoping that his immediate impression might have been wrong and knowing that it could not be. His handsome, bloody face looked at the American and received a shake by way of reply. Garza was a proud man, a professional soldier dedicated to his country as thoroughly as any man could be, and he'd been chosen for this assignment for his combination of skill and integrity. A man who did not fear death, he had just suffered the thing all soldiers fear more. He had failed in his mission. Not knowing why only made it worse.

Garza continued to ignore his wounds, turning to their one prisoner. "We will talk," the captain promised him just before he collapsed into Morales' arms.

"Hi, Jack!" Dan and Liz Murray had just arrived at the Ryan house. Dan had to remove his automatic and holster, which he set on the shelf in the closet with something of a sheepish look.

"I figured you for a revolver," Jack said with a grin. It was the first time that they'd had the Murrays over.

"I miss my Python, but the Bureau's switching over to automatics. Besides, I don't chase bad guys anymore. I chase memos, and position papers, and budget estimates." A rueful shake of the head. "What fun."

"I know the feeling," Ryan agreed, leading Murray to the kitchen. "Beer?"

"Sounds good to me."

They'd first met in London, at St. Thomas's Hospital to be precise, some years earlier when Murray had been legal attach to the American Embassy, and Ryan had been a shooting victim. Still tall and spare, his hair a little thinner but not yet gray, Murray was an affable, free-spirited man whom one would never pick for a cop, much less one of the best around. A gifted investigator, he'd hunted down every sort of criminal there was, and though he now chafed at his absence from hands-on police work, he was handling his administrative job as skillfully as all his others.

"What's this sting I heard about?" Jack asked.

"TARPON? The Cartel murdered a guy who was laundering money for them on a very big scale - and doing some major-league skimming, too. He left records behind. We found them. It's been a busy couple of weeks running all the leads down."

"I heard six-hundred-plus-million bucks."

"It'll go higher. The Swiss cracked open a new account this afternoon."

"Ouch." Ryan popped open a couple of beers. "That's a real sting, isn't it?"

"I think they'll notice this one," Murray agreed. "What's this I hear about your new job?"

"You probably heard right. It's just that you don't want to get a promotion this way."

"Yeah. I've never met Admiral Greer, but the Director thinks a lot of him."

"Two of a kind. Old-fashioned honorable gentlemen," Jack observed. "Endangered species."

"Hello, Mr. Murray," Sally Ryan said from the door.

"Mister Murray?"

"Uncle Dan!" Sally raced up and delivered a ferocious hug. "Aunt Liz says that you and Daddy better get out there," she said with a giggle.

"Why do we let them push us warriors around, Jack?"

" 'Cause they're tougher than we are?" Ryan wondered.

Dan laughed. "Yeah, that explains it. I -" Then his beeper went off. Murray pulled the small plastic box from his belt. In a moment the LCD panel showed the number he was supposed to call. "You know, I'd like to waste the bastard who invented these things."

"He's already dead," Jack replied deadpan. "He came into a hospital emergency room with chest pains, and after the doc figured out who he was, they were a little slow getting around to treating him. The doc explained later that he had had an important phone call come in, and... oh, well..." Ryan's demeanor changed. "You need a secure line? I have one in the library."

"Color me important," Murray observed. "No. Can I use this one?"

"Sure, the bottom button's a D.C. line."

Murray punched in the number without referring to his beeper. It was Shaw's office. "Murray here. You rang, Alice? Okay... Hi, Bill, what gives?"

It was as though the room took a sudden chill. Ryan felt it before he understood the change in Murray's face.

"No chance that - oh, yeah, I know Pete." Murray checked his watch. "Be there in forty minutes." He hung up.

"What happened?"

"Somebody killed the Director," Dan answered simply.

"What - where?"

"Bogot . He was down for a quiet meeting, along with the head of DEA. Flew down this afternoon. They kept it real quiet."

"No chance that -"

Murray shook his head. "The attach down there's Pete Morales. Good agent, I worked OC with him once. He said they were all killed instantly. Emil, Harry Jefferson, the ambassador, all the security guys." He stopped and read the look on Jack's face. "Yeah, somebody had some pretty good intel on this."

Ryan nodded. "This is where I came in..."

"I don't think there's a street agent in the Bureau who doesn't love that man." Murray set his beer down on the counter.

"Sorry, pal."

"What was it you said? Endangered species?" Murray shook his head and went to collect his wife. Ryan hadn't even closed the door behind them when his secure phone started ringing.