Randall looked at the documents in his lap. “But why Patrick McKenna?”

“Because it’s a common name.”

“Couldn’t I have picked something?”

“Flash Gordon was taken.” Randall stared at him.

“Sorry,” said Ramirez. “That was supposed to be a joke. Break the tension.”

An exit sign.

Battle Creek.

They got off the interstate and wound through anonymous neighborhoods.

“Remember what we talked about,” said Ramirez. “It’s critical. Randall Sheets never existed. And Patrick McKenna always has. You need to set aside some quality time rehearsing with your family over the next weeks, calling each other by new names.”

“I think we’re smart enough to-”

“I’m serious. Can’t tell you how many people we’ve had to move again because of slipups in the wrong place, and it usually happens at the beginning. After a while, it’ll come naturally.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“One more thing,” said the agent. “The phone in the living room. Its wire runs through a little tan box. That’s the encrypter. There’s a switch on the side. Don’t call me unless you absolutely have to, but if you have to, flip the switch for a secure line.”

Patrick looked out the windows as they swung onto a sleepy, tree-lined street. “I just want to see my family.”

The car pulled up to the curb. Patrick grabbed the door handle, then stopped and turned. “I never thanked you.”

“Go on, they’re waiting.”

Patrick ran up the walkway and rang the doorbell.

Ramirez watched the tearful reunion on the front steps. He waited until the door closed, then drove back to the airport.

THE PRESENT

Police headquarters.

An evidence bag of hex-head bolts lay on the conference table. Detectives gathered around a TV set. Someone inserted a DVD that had been discovered by the employee who’d made the 911 call from the Daytona Beach boardwalk.

An early-morning glow had just broken over the Atlantic, but not the sun, giving the image a grainy, low-light effect.

On-screen: Pedro, secured in his seat, gagged, eyes of horror.

Offscreen: “… Five… four… three… two… one… liftoff!”

The video camera on the safety bar showed Pedro suddenly accelerate skyward in the open-air ball of the Rocket Launch. The beach and boardwalk receded quickly, tiny buildings and cars like a child’s train set.

Then the ball reached its zenith, and elastic cords jerked hard. The padded, U-shaped restraining bar over Pedro’s chest-minus its bolts-flew off like the pilot’s canopy of an F-16 Falcon during subsonic ejection.

Followed by Pedro.

The now-empty ball continued bouncing on its cords, camera still running.

A detective slowed the DVD to frame-by-frame. On one of its last bounces, the ball caught the background image of a miniature Pedro sailing out over motel row.

Chapter Thirty-Four

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

A late-model Mercedes raced west through Little Havana on Calle Ocho. The road became the Tamiami Trail. A half hour later, they left civilization behind and entered the Everglades.

Hector was driving, Luis riding shotgun. Guillermo sat in the backseat like an only child, arms around a big briefcase.

“No deviating from the plan,” Hector said over his shoulder. “We can’t be in the same place as the payment.”

“Why not?” asked Guillermo. “You raised him like my brother. Don’t we trust him anymore?”

“Yes, but he may be followed. He’s on the inside now.”

“I still don’t understand how we got him there. He had a record, from when Madre first picked him up at the jail.”

“Juvenile. Had it sealed.”

Guillermo looked out the windows. “Where is he?”

“Nearby, but he won’t know the final location until you call him.”

Fifty miles into the ’glades. No shade from the withering swamp heat. People in wide-brimmed straw hats reclined on lawn chairs along the shoulder of the Tamiami, cane-pole fishing an alligator-filled canal. Vultures picked at unrecognizable remains, taking flight when the Mercedes blew by. Hector slowed as they passed one of the water district’s drainage control dams. A quick look around. No other cars. He hit the gas for a dust-slinging left turn onto an unmarked dirt road.

“Where will you be?” asked Guillermo.

Hector jerked a thumb north. “Back on the trail. When we see his car leave and are sure he had no tails, we’ll come back to pick you up.”

“But why do we have to pay one of our own extra for the name?”

“You talk too much,” said Luis.

“He’s got to learn sometime,” said his brother, looking over his shoulder again. “We’re not paying him. The files on their confidential sources are sealed tighter than ever since that grand jury. He needs the money to bribe someone else.”

“I still can’t believe we have an informant in our family.”

“It’s the business we’ve chosen.”

The Mercedes rolled to a stop in a small clearing. Dragonflies, sun-bleached beer cans, a single sneaker in weeds.

Guillermo opened his door, filling the car with a blast of scorched air and the buzz of insects.

“We’ll be waiting for your call.” Hector reached for the gearshift.

The car’s horn suddenly blared. Solid.

“What on earth-” Luis looked toward his brother.

The inside of the driver’s windshield was splattered red, his brother facedown on the steering wheel. Luis spun toward the open back door. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

A pair of nine-millimeter rounds entered Luis’s forehead through the same hole.

Guillermo calmly placed the pistol back in his briefcase and walked around to the driver’s side. A dust cloud appeared in the distance as another Mercedes came up the road from the direction of the Tamiami. He opened Hector’s door and pulled him back by the hair. The horn stopped.

So did the second Mercedes.

Guillermo walked to the trailing vehicle and retrieved a gas can from the passenger seat.

“Remember to roll their windows down,” said the driver. “Those other fools left too much evidence when the fire suffocated itself from lack of air.”

Moments later, Guillermo climbed into the second car, which made a tight U in the clearing and drove back out the dirt road. Behind them, flames curled from open windows.

“The last people I would have expected,” said Guillermo. “Why would they turn on the family?”

“One of them did.”

“One?”

Juanita nodded. “Our informant couldn’t figure out which.”

“So you had me kill both your brothers?”

She smiled and patted his hand. “You’re a good boy, Guillermo.”

“Thank you, Madre.”

THE PRESENT

A ’73 Challenger raced up the strip.

Serge reached into a small drugstore shopping bag.

“Smelling salts?” asked Coleman.

“Explain later.” Serge removed a greeting card from the same bag. “Right now I must depend on your particular talents. Nearest liquor store?”

“Three hundred yards. Left one block, then right, north side of the street.”

He hit the gas.

“But, Serge, you don’t drink.”

The Challenger hung a hard left. “It’s not for me. It’s for one of Guillermo’s goons.”

“You’re buying one of his goons a drink?”

A skidding right turn. “Several.”

They dashed into the store. “Coleman, time’s of essence. Your expertise again-liquor store layout. Where’s the…”

Coleman quickly guided Serge to respective products on his mental list. They ran for the cash register with arms full of bottles.

Minutes later, the Challenger patched out of the parking lot.

“What’s the big rush?” asked Coleman.

“Pedro just made the TV news.”

“And?”

“So up to now we’ve had the advantage of them not knowing what we know. But as soon as Guillermo sees the news, he’ll realize they’ve been made. We already might be too late.”