"I thought you needed an American to complete the assignment."

"I need an American to take the blame. Anyone can complete the mission."

Pelly realized he'd be in the U.S. for a while. He'd try and improve his English during the visit. He finally said, "I'll take care of Duarte if you need me to, but I'm not sure what he could do to hurt us."

"That's why you're not in charge. He is determined and smart, and that worries me when we have such big plans. You need to ask fewer questions and take more action."

Pelly glared at his boss. He had no idea what kind of action he might take if he got the chance. This whole mission was crazy and, more important, didn't earn them any money. He did not share his boss's sense of vengeance. He did, however, share his view of how helpful the right killing could be.

Ike looked over his shoulder into the noonday sun and saw how the light hit Craig's brown hair. Ike knew he should keep his mouth and the truck shut, but he had been bursting to tell someone what he was up to and what he had been entrusted to transport.

As the door slid up, Craig said, "You got this whole truck for that one crate?"

"I wasn't sure how big it was gonna be. It had to be covered, too. It might not have fit in a pickup with a cover."

Craig hopped up into the truck.

Ike took a second to look at the muscular young man's backside as he made the jump, then followed him inside. There were six pine two-by-four pieces of lumber he had thrown in the truck in case he needed them to stabilize the crate. He hadn't known it would be so heavy, and once they had it on the truck's wooden floor the crate had bit in and he could tell it wasn't going to budge. The lumber, all between four and six feet, lay in a small stack next to the wall of the truck bed.

Ike watched as Craig kneeled next to the crate and poked a finger between the boards. He was pleased to see the interest in the young man. Maybe he'd even have a companion for the trip to Houston.

Craig turned and said, "Okay, I give up. What is it?"

Ike smiled. "You sure you want to know? Once you hear it, you won't be able to forget it." He smiled, still sucking in the little gut he had developed just after turning thirty.

"I wouldn't have come in here if I wasn't ready for a surprise. Maybe if I hear a surprise, I'll give one, too." His smile and green eyes made Ike's knees go weak.

Ike squatted next to him and pulled on the one board that was loose. He figured he'd tease him a little more by showing him the metal casing and some of the wires he'd be able to see through the crate. "See if this gives you any idea." He worked on the board as Craig scooted to the side to give Ike room to work.

Ike pulled the board loose easily, his heart pounding and sending blood through his ears like a bass drum. Once he was done, he said, "Lookie here. What'd ya think?"

As Ike turned to see Craig's reaction, he felt a stinging pain in his shoulder and heard a loud slapping sound. He reached up and grabbed at his left shoulder and turned to see what had happened. He froze, seeing Craig with one of the shorter two-by-fours in his hands, his arms cocked like Barry Bonds at the plate.

All Ike got out was "Wait…" when he saw the pine board rush toward his face and Craig's young, muscular body twist on his swing.

His vision went blurry, then dark. He felt like he was in an empty, dark hallway.

23

ALEX DUARTE DROVE PAST THE HOUSE IN A WORKING-CLASS neighborhood of Gretna, just outside New Orleans. The rental Nissan didn't look like a cop's or anyone else's who shouldn't be in the area. The sun had just disappeared behind a tall oak tree, and the light was fading fast.

He checked the piece of paper with the information Alice had found for him on Cal Linley. The longshoreman had lived at this address for eleven years and drove a Ford F-250 pickup truck registered to him and Ella Linley, whom Duarte assumed was his wife.

Duarte scanned the house and yard to see if there was anything that might cause him trouble. He knew to do a recon first. He had learned that lesson in Bosnia, where everyone had a gun-maybe not as many guns as Louisiana, but close. There was a chain-link fence and a gate for the backyard, and that probably meant there was a dog back there.

The F-250 was in the attached carport. Duarte could just make out a bumper sticker that said WHITE PEOPLE ROCK! He smiled. This guy was a cop-beating, racist thief. Duarte wouldn't have a problem questioning him.

He parked the Nissan in front of a dark house five up from Linley's, and casually strolled down the sidewalk without seeing anyone or feeling like someone was looking out at him from a window. He had a good sense of when someone was watching him, but you never really knew until they took action.

He walked just past the house that interested him, noticing the lights in the side window, probably the kitchen and in the rear room. He thought he saw the gray-blue flicker of a TV set as well. He turned on the property line and quick-stepped to the corner of the fence, then crouched.

Now he could clearly see the backyard, the side and rear of the house.

He stayed low and still for three full minutes, letting his eyes adjust to the growing darkness and ensuring no dog was going to bound out of the shadows at him. He'd still approach the guy like a cop, ID out and professionally, but he wanted to know all he could before he asked the first question. He crept toward the carport. As he passed the big Ford truck, he felt the hood. The slight heat meant the man had been driving in the past hour or so.

As he stood looking at the door that probably went to the kitchen, he saw the knob turn and a shadow behind the glass jalousies.

Duarte purposely stepped out into the light and reached for his wallet.

The door opened and a large man with a rough face and thinning hair stepped awkwardly down the two steps with a plastic bag of garbage in his hands. He never even noticed Duarte.

Duarte said, "Mr. Linley."

That made the man's head snap.

"What the hell? Who're you?"

Duarte held up his identification. "Alex Duarte, ATF."

"ATF. I don't talk to no damn ATF assholes. Besides, I ain't done nothin' with guns."

"I just had a few questions about a container at the port."

"Then go talk to the damn port director, sport. I got nothin' to say to you."

"Sir, can we step inside and speak?"

"No. I done told you to fuck off. What're you? Some kinda of Mexican that don't understand English?"

Duarte fought to hide his smile. This redneck had no idea what was about to happen to him.

William Ike Floyd felt like he was swimming, then he heard some noise. He opened his eyes and thought he was looking up at the sun until he realized it was a streetlight. An old round glass one that was really low. He lay still and felt something bite into his back. He had no idea where he was or what had happened. He started to sit up, but the pain in his head forced him to lie back down. But that hurt, too. Tiny, sharp rocks dug into his bare skin.

He sat up quickly, letting the pain sweep through his body but feeling the need to clear his head. He looked at his lap and legs. He was naked. Naked and outside. But where?

He tried to stand, but lost his footing and tumbled back to the rough, dirty street. He looked up at the low streetlamps and narrow road, then realized he was in an alley. In the alley naked, sore and, most important, without the truck.

He finally got to his feet. He raised his hand to his head and felt the sticky blood along his hairline.