"What?"

"He's in a rental car, parked right across the street." Rhino's voice, even squeakier than usual, lowered to a whisper.

"You got him tight?"

"In a box. He tries it today, he's going down."

"Stay on him," Cross said, breaking the connection.

"What's with all this stuff" Princess asked, indicating the pile of clippings.

"We're making a bomb," Cross told him. "Want to tell Ace to come downstairs?"

16

The delicate–featured black man's hands matched his face. His fingers were long, tapered, the nails immaculately manicured and covered with clear polish. He sat at the makeshift desk under a powerful lamp, working with a straight razor, his hands covered with membrane–thin surgeon's gloves.

"Got it," he finally said, carefully applying a last drop of paste to the back of a piece of newsprint.

Cross laid the artwork out in long row, nodding his head. "You got the touch, brother," he said admiringly. "This'll do it."

17

McNamara stood in one corner of the boxing ring, wearing a loose pair of pants and no shirt, modified boxing gloves on his hands, with footguards that left the soles of his feet bare…kick–boxing gear. His handler dipped a black rubber mouthpiece in the bucket, started to place it in McNamara's mouth, but the cop shook it off, took one step forward, shaking a fist.

"I'm warning you, Princess. You try and head–butt me this time, I'm gonna stop your goddamned heart!"

Princess stood in the other corner, devoid of makeup and earring, his grotesque torso rippling under a sheen of oil. He shrugged his shoulders in a "Who, me?" gesture, grinning, as Cross kneaded the back of his shoulders, waiting for the bell.

"Fucking fag," one of the watching spectators mumbled.

Buddha nudged the spectator with his shoulder. "Say what?"

"What's it to you?" the spectator challenged.

"That's my brother," Buddha said, an ugly grin on his pudgy

face.

"Fags can't fight," the spectator snarled, holding his ground.

"Never stopped me," Rhino squeaked, shoving his massive bulk against the spectator from the other side.

The spectator looked up at Rhino, then rapidly decided he had better things to do.

The bell rang. McNamara glided forward into a cat–stance, one leg pawing the air a foot or so off the ground. Princess stepped to him, firing a jet–stream left hook at the smaller man's midsection. McNamara spun inside the hook so his back was against Princess's chest, whipping an elbow at the bodybuilder's face. Princess locked McNamara's arm, holding him close. He leaned down, whispered urgently into the cop's ear, "Cross says he needs your RI. Tonight, at ten."

McNamara broke the hold, spun away gracefully. They sparred three full rounds, Princess never seeming to fully connect with any of his punches…McNamara landing blow after blow without apparent effect.

Cross wrapped a robe around his tired fighter as McNamara bowed to close the match.

18

McNamara was at his desk at ten when the call came in on his private line.

"Detective Bureau, McNamara."

"You know who this is," a muffled voice said. "Listen good–I'm not gonna say this again, okay?"

"Go," McNamara said, flicking on a cheap tape recorder he had connected to the phone.

"There's a guy who's gonna do a snatch. He's been stalking, waiting. This ain't no job for you, McNamara, I give you the dope, you better call the federales, okay? Now listen up…"

The voice went on for a couple of minutes, uninterrupted. Then the line went dead.

McNamara sat for a few minutes, staring at the cigarette–discolored acoustic tile ceiling of his cubicle. Then he stepped away from his desk and shouted down the hall. "Hey, Trikowski, you still got the number of the Secret Service?"

19

The next morning, McNamara was in the chambers of Judge Byron Blake, arguing his own case.

"Your Honor, I know this is an extraordinary application, but…"

Judge Blake was a large black man with an even larger head of graying curls. His intelligent eyes were a deep, rich chocolate, unwavering. "I know, I know….You have this Reliable Informant, right?"

"He's never been wrong before, Your Honor. And this gentleman–"

"Agent Cooper, Your Honor," the slim man with the blond crewcut introduced himself. "United States Secret Service. We realize this is a federal matter, and we're prepared to execute the warrant ourselves. But we asked Detective McNamara to make the application personally rather than rely on pieces of paper…as a matter of respect."

"I'll bet," the judge sighed. "Well, on the facts you've sworn to in this affidavit, detective, I don't see where I have much choice," he said, signing the papers on his desk with a flourish.

20

Wieskoft stepped out the door of his building, video camera in one hand. He walked past a brightly colored florist's van when he heard a voice yell "Hey you!" He turned to see what was going on and walked smack into a homeless man stumbling along, half drunk. He raised one hand to protect his camera when he felt a circle of steel close around the back of his neck. Wieskoft cried out in pain as the bum pushed the button on an aerosol can, discharging a mini–cloud of greenish gas into the dangling man's face.

Wieskoft woke up in the back of the van, bound, gagged and blindfolded. Terror drove him back into unconsciousness.

21

I

t was a long ride. If Wieskoft could have looked out the windows, he would have recognized the route.

They carried the terror–stiffened man inside. When the blindfold came off, he saw two things: three men, each wearing a red ski mask with a white pentagram symbol on the forehead, gloves on their hands…and that he was inside his remote rural cabin.

One of them pulled off the gag, a piece of duct tape. Wieskoft shrieked in pain. He knew nobody would hear–that had been part of his own plan.

"Your Lincoln is outside," one of the men told him. "Keys in the ignition. When we're done, you just drive yourself back home."

"Why did you–?"

"Shut up, weasel," another of the men said. "We're just soldiers, doing a job. What we promised, see, is that you wouldn't bother that girl anymore."

"What…girl?"

"You know what girl. Angel. Now there's two ways to do this, okay' One is we kill you and leave you here. That ain't no big thing…probably nobody'd even find the body for months. The other thing is, you disappear. Got it? Get in the wind. Get yourself gone. That way, we still get paid. What do you say?"

"I'll go! I'll go tonight!"

"Yeah, we kind of figured that. But, see, we got this problem. You know what our problem is, buddy? Our problem is…what's in it for us? See, we got paid, and we always keep our word. That's our stock–in–trade. Now we didn't promise to snuff you, but it is easier…you understand?"

"I have money!"