When he got within a half mile, he eased back on the throttles and flew fifty feet above the tall tail of the DC-10 to avoid the air turbulence off its wings and its jet wash.

The bigger plane had a slightly slower cruising speed than the 727 and Ahmed wanted to be careful to avoid getting on top of it. He hugged in as close as he dared, knowing that with his transponder turned off, the collision avoidance system on the DC-10 was blinded. From out in front there was no way that the crew on the flight deck of the large wide-body could see them.

In less than a half hour they were more than a hundred miles off the north coast of Puerto Rico, well beyond the range of ground-based radar, in an area approaching no-man’s-land, the heart of the Bermuda Triangle.

Once inside the chain-link gate, the driver of the large cement truck made a broad-arcing turn toward the two parked water trucks. But instead of continuing on, he stopped. He turned the wheel and started to back up. The reverse safety bell on his rear wheels started to clang and by the time the guard at the gate turned and saw him, the truck was moving backward on a direct line toward the open cavern over the subway.

“Where the hell’s he goin’?”

Two of the transit cops looked over. One of them shook his head, then started to wave his arms back and forth. “No. No. Not there.” He took a few tentative steps toward the moving truck. “Hey, dimwit!” he yelled at the top of his voice.

The driver looked at him for an instant before pressing the accelerator to the floor. The weight in the back of the truck was the only thing that slowed it down. The cement truck started to back up faster, its reverse safety bell now ringing frantically. As the transit cop realized there was something wrong, both he and his partner started to run toward the moving truck.

One of the workmen, still hammering forms, hearing the bell bearing down on him, looked up and threw his body out of the way as the rear wheels barely missed him. They rolled right over the wooden forms, crushing them, and kept right on going. The forms didn’t even slow down the heavy quad set of dual wheels.

“Stop!” The workman leaped to his feet and jumped up onto the truck’s running board as it passed by. He reached inside and tried to grab the steering wheel.

The driver wrestled him for control of the wheel, but the framing contractor was big and burly and by now was flowing with adrenaline.

The Somali driver grabbed the Sig Sauer nine-millimeter pistol next to him on the seat, pressed the muzzle against the workman’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. In a cloud of bloodred spray, the workman’s gaze fixed as his body tumbled backward off the truck. A second later the driver felt the steering wheel pull to the right as the front left wheel of the massive truck rolled over the dead laborer.

The two transit cops pulled their pistols and started firing at the truck’s windshield. They unloaded their full clips on the fast-moving vehicle. Two of the rounds hit the driver in the head and chest.

His right foot went all the way to the floor as his body fell forward onto the wheel.

The truck careened to the right and caromed off a pile of steel I beams. The impact jarred the dead driver’s foot off the gas pedal. But the truck didn’t stop. Instead it slowly continued to roll toward the open pit.

One of the transit cops launched himself onto the running board at the driver’s-side door. He pulled on the door handle and found it was locked.

He reached through the open window and opened the door from the inside as the truck continued to roll. He jerked the dead driver out of the seat, threw him to the ground, and climbed up into the cab.

The rolling dolly on the rear end of the truck slid over the edge of the open cavern. It disconnected from the tow gear on the back of the truck and tumbled down into the open shaft.

The cop hit the clutch and jammed his foot on the brake just as the first set of rear wheels went over the edge.

About two hundred miles out, over the dark blue water of the Atlantic, Ahmed told Masud to dial in the transponder numbers and to be sure that the altitude button was pressed.

Masud turned each of the four knobs until he dialed in the squawk number for the big DC-10, the numbers 1423, then he pressed the button that would disclose to ground radar the 727’s altitude. But he didn’t flip the button to turn the transponder on, not yet. “Ready,” he said.

Ahmed eased back on the throttles. He wanted to maintain altitude but increase the distance between himself and the bigger plane. The 727 fell back three-quarters of a mile. The fear was that if he was too close, the jet intakes on the smaller Boeing would suck in debris and stall out.

“What do you think?” said Ahmed.

“A little farther,” said Masud.

Ahmed eased back on the throttle a little more. Suddenly the smaller plane was buffeted by the swirling turbulence off the wing-tips of the big DC-10. Ahmed shook his head and adjusted the throttle forward again. “Do it.”

Masud opened the lid on a metal box bolted to the floor at his feet. He lifted the two red plastic switch covers, looked over at Ahmed one last time, bit his lower lip, and flipped both switches.

The two wing-mounted missiles fell from their pylons and an instant later their rocket motors flared on. They streaked forward on each side of the cockpit, leaving a contrail like a running torpedo as Ahmed lifted the nose of the 727 and pulled to the right.

Two seconds later a massive ball of fire erupted just over the nose of the plane, to the left. Ahmed pushed down on the right pedal and turned the wheel. He lifted the left wing as streaks of smoking-hot debris flew past the window and made a rat-a-tat pattern like flack striking the aluminum skin along the side of the fuselage.

“Transponder!” Ahmed had his hands full with the controls.

Masud reached over and flipped the transponder button on. It was unlikely that ground radar from anywhere would have had them on the screen, but any loitering AWAK flights that might have them on the screen would have noticed only a momentary flicker in squawk signature on their screen for 1423, and only a slight adjustment for heading and altitude.

Ahmed looked out his side window and watched behind him as the flaming debris fell toward the sea.

FORTY-FOUR

It is sometime Monday morning when I hear the familiar and now detested ring tone from my cell phone. At least this time I know where it is, on the nightstand somewhere behind me.

I can sense the satin smoothness of her body stir as I move my hand like a blind man along the surface of the table feeling for the phone. The blanket lifts up just enough to allow some of the chilled air from the register of the hotel’s air conditioner to spill between the sheets.

“Turn that thing off. It’s cold.” Joselyn presses her warm back up against me like a hot spoon under the heavy covers.

My hand finds the phone and I pull it to my ear. “Hello!”

“You might want to be getting your ass outta bed,” says Herman. “Thorn’s on the move and unless they’re ghosts, I don’t see any cops or the FBI.”

“What are you talking about?” I am half asleep. “They told us to leave it alone,” I tell him.

“Yeah, I know. But I got hungry. Got outta bed to come over and see for myself Thorn’s hotel,” he says. “They got a bar with a small restaurant, so I decided to get some breakfast. While I was eating Thorn came out of the elevator carrying a briefcase.” Herman is breathing heavily.

“Where are you now?”

“Just across the street. I’m out in front of a liquor store on the corner, place called Kogod’s Liquors,” he says. “There’s an old fire-house next door.”