He veered to get a different angle. Beyond a tangle of hibiscus, a black SUV had nosed into a lot where boats were racked, most covered by tarps. A man wearing coveralls and a tool belt was standing there. He pretended to inspect a boat but was actually eyeing Rivera’s cottage—the cottage on stilts above the floodplain, so Ford was able to slip underneath the cottage into the garage unseen.

The same Suburban? He wasn’t sure, couldn’t see the license. Above him, through the floor, came music and a muffled bearish voice: the general talking, but a one-sided conversation . . . a phone call.

Talking to whom?

Ford moved to the window. The man in coveralls, no phone in hand, was crossing backyards toward the cottage. He was dressed like a cable installer, but cable guys drove vans, not black Suburbans.

FBI? An undercover detective, possibly.

When Cable Guy was closer, Ford decided, No. Feds and local pros don’t mount sound suppressors on their weapons. This man had. From his coveralls, he’d produced a pistol with a lethal-looking tube on the barrel, now close enough to thump his shoulder against the garage while he paused and took stock.

Ford, on the other side of the wall, felt that thump, separated by half-inch particleboard, and knew this wasn’t a stakeout. Cable Guy was a killer. At the very least, he was prepared to kill as quietly as ballistics allowed.

A pro—or too many movies.

It was the way Ford’s mind worked.

Overhead, Rivera, still on the phone, turned the music louder, which proved the conversation was important, and began to pace. His weight sprinkled dust onto a floor that was packed shell, not cement, junk piled everywhere. The particleboard was slick like moldy bread. Spongy enough to put a fist through. But then what?

Ford’s brain shifted from spy games to protocol.

There were two options: remove the asset (Rivera) from harm’s way or neutralize the threat. Training didn’t allow a third, which was to run like hell, although he was tempted. This was Rivera’s problem, damn it. On the other hand, they shared a history, and “neutralize” didn’t necessarily mean “kill.”

In every garage are weapons: clubs and cutting edges and fire accelerants. He chose something milder, a can of Raid Wasp & Hornet Killer, and put an eye to the window. Cable Guy had rounded the corner and was opening a utility box. Part of his act or he was actually doing something, no way to confirm. Ford, an analytical man, went to the door, dropped to a knee, and waited. A lot could be learned from how a gunman entered a room.

Cable Guy was pretty good. Came through textbook-fashion: empty hand up as a shield, the pistol at high ready while his eyes scanned what is called the fatal funnel. Then stepped through to confront the room’s unseen wedge, his shooting arm not fully extended, but enough. Also, he pivoted too slowly.

Ford, from his knee, grabbed the pistol, clamping hard enough to freeze the slide, and used the wasp spray while forcing the barrel down and away. Jetted the man’s eyes and mouth as they wrestled for control, Ford thinking, Pull the trigger, damn you. That’s what he wanted: freeze the slide until one muted shot emptied the chamber without cycling another round. With both hands free and the weapon disabled: end of story.

Instead, the pistol tumbled free. Cable Guy, rather than diving for it, charged blindly. Ford sprawled, spun behind, and used the wasp spray again, but sparingly: one blast in the mouth to silence the man, that’s all. Gagging, the man crawled a few yards and pawed at his eyes.

Ford empathized. Spray had slipped under his glasses, and his left eye was tearing. The damn stuff was oily; it burned. He retrieved the pistol, and used a rag that wasn’t too grimy. The pistol was a .22 Beretta with a mag full of subsonic hollow-points—a favorite of the Mossad and assassin pretenders.

Above them, Rivera was still yakking, oblivious. Outside, no sign of movement within the Suburban. Ford dropped the rag near Cable Guy’s hand, saying, “Use this and keep your voice down. So far, this is just between us. Who sent you?”

The reply was emphatic but garbled, while Cable Guy scrubbed at his eyes.

“Any other weapons?”

A shake of the head.

Ford would have checked anyway. No billfold, no cell phone, but a mini Sig Sauer in an ankle holster, which he pocketed after clearing the chamber. The tool belt had a pocket—two tiny gel transmitters with alligator clips. In the breast pocket of the coveralls, a batch of freshly minted business cards: Ace Cable & Utility / Largo, Florida. No logo, but an 800 number. At the bottom: Hector Spalding / Your Installation Specialist.

Ford almost smiled. A fake name on a cheap card, yet it meant something to him. Since the 1930s, when the U.S. Marines introduced baseball to Nicaragua and Masagua—Cuba much earlier—spies, spooks, and hit men from Latin countries often deferred to their baseball gloves when choosing an American pseudonym. Wilson or Rawlings was a common fake name; Spalding, MacGregor, and Louisville considered more creative. In esoteric circles—the fifth-floor embassy types—“José Wilson” had become a euphemism for “Latino spy,” an inside joke.

Ford, voice low, said, “This is a piss-poor cover story. Come to do a hit while the sun’s still up, people around? That’s stupid. Or whoever sent you is stupid. Do yourself a favor and talk.”

Cable Guy, inhaling fumes, croaked, “Shit . . . how can I? This rag, man, it just makes it worse,” yet continued to rub his eyes while toxic oil constricted his throat. The accent was Spanish—Cuban, possibly—but faint. A man who’d spent most of his twenty-some years in the States.

Ford said, “Don’t do anything stupid,” and went out the door. He returned with a hose, kinked, dripping water. He flushed his own eyes, then told the man, “Sit up—sit on your hands—and cross your legs. Now tilt your head back. No, damn it, keep your eyes open.”

That didn’t work very well, so he held the Beretta and watched Cable Guy wash his face, gargle and spit, repeating the process several times, before Ford kinked the hose again and jammed it under the door. “What’s your name?”

“It’s right there, man. You can’t read?”

“Your real name.”

“Hector. I need more of that hose, then maybe my throat’ll work better.”

“I’m not going to play question-answer.”

“You got a problem, call the cops. You ain’t no cop, and this shit in my eyes ain’t mace, so we both go to jail. What you think about that?”

Ford said, “Not so loud,” and picked up the wasp spray, which scared Hector more than the gun. After two false starts, Ford looked at his watch to show impatience. Didn’t say a word—silence, the ultimate threat—even when Rivera turned the salsa music louder and clomped toward what might have been the bathroom.

Hector, listening, decided to strike up a conversation with his raspy voice. “You’re wrong, what you said. I ain’t stupid. A customer wants his ESPN working when he gets home. Nothing stupid about a repairman walking through yards, going into a house, while it’s still light.”

Ford waited.

“Assaulted me, doing my job.”

He listened to more of this before pointing upstairs. “The guy you came to kill? If he finds out, he’ll glue your eyes shut and cut off an ear. You still don’t talk, he’ll make you eat it. Your own ear. Super Glue or sometimes tape, that varies, but not cutting off an ear. It’s what he does.”

Hector sat at attention. “You actually seen him do that? I heard something similar, man, but figured it was bullshit.”

“It’s not.”

“You were actually there?”

“I walked away. Why would I stick around? But I heard it happen at least twice.”

“Guys screaming, you mean, then he makes them swallow, huh? Shit . . . they’d have to do some chewing first.”