"Kestrels only take prey on the ground," Cross said. "He'll wait until the pigeon touches down. Then its Kaddish for him."

Urban scenery flew past the windows of the shark car as Cross continued to give directions to Buddha in person and to Fal over the phone.

"What's his name?" Buddha asked.

"Who?"

"The bird, chief. The…kestrel or whatever you call it."

"Name?" Cross asked, puzzled. "It's a bird."

Buddha shrugged, tracking the big car expertly.

He's heading for the fiats," Cross said into the phone. "No place else he could be going. You got visual?"

"Locked on," Fal said. "He's sitting right above the pigeon. Just hovering. Ready to dive."

"When he drops, that's it," Cross said. "Stay tight."

I got him," Fal's voice barked. "It's a three–story, bar on the first floor. Says Los Amigos on the door. Right on the waterfront, at the end of Pine Street."

"You sure?" Cross asked.

"Dead sure. The pigeon's dropping down, heading for home. And your bird, he's just waiting."

"Cars in front?"

"Just one. A white…Lincoln it looks like. I can see…yeah! There's a coop on the roof. Whole bunch of birds up there. It's gotta be–"

"Move in," Cross said, breaking the connection.

The shark car's nose shot into the air from the sudden acceleration as Buddha mashed the pedal. The target building came into view as they saw Fal's blue Montero heading toward the back. "Here he comes!" Rhino squeaked as the kestrel went into a power–dive. The pigeon may have seen the kestrel's shadow or it may have been alerted by its primitive sensors–it fluttered its wings rapidly, seeking the shelter of the coop. As the pigeon touched down, the kestrel struck, its tiny talons balled into fists, stunning the pigeon, which staggered away, wings flapping. Muñoz ran toward the pigeon, waving his arms to scare off the intruder, but the kestrel calmly mounted its prey, tearing at the flesh of the pigeon's chest. Muñoz slashed at the kestrel with a machete, but the kestrel danced away, its baleful unblinking eyes trained on the new enemy. Muñoz thrust his body between the pigeon and the kestrel, frantically clawing at the pigeon's courier pouch. A series of explosions sounded below–flash grenades thrown through the glass windows of the bar. Muñoz heard machine–gun fire. A thin smile crossed his lips. With one mighty swipe of the machete, he chopped off the lower portion of the pigeon, scrambling on his hands and knees to recover the courier pouch as the kestrel tore the other half of the pigeon apart–a pair of professional predators, each doing his work.

Downstairs, Rhino swept the ground floor with a long blast from his Uzi, screaming "Princess!" at the top of his lungs. Two men charged down the stairs–they were immediately cut down by a blast from Ace's shotgun. Fal pointed at Buddha, who was working his way along the wall, his Glock out and ready. When Buddha nodded, Fal pointed at an open door. As soon as Buddha started to move, Fal started to climb up the stairs, chest fiat against the wall, gun arm extended as a probe.

Buddha stepped carefully down the darkened stairway. He saw Princess in a far corner, the bodybuilder's chest crossed with heavy chains like bandoliers. Princess's head lolled against his chest–Buddha could only see the top of his shaven skull. Buddha holstered his pistol, his eyes sweeping the room for any sign of a key to the chains. A shot rang out, catching Buddha in the left shoulder. The pudgy man went down, whipping out his pistol and returning fire in the same smooth motion. He heard a muffled grunt of pain from the deep recesses of the basement and kept crawling until he was next to Princess. Then he stood up suddenly, Bring a burst from his Glock at the same time. With all his remaining strength, Buddha braced one foot against the chair Princess was strapped into and shoved, toppling the bodybuilder to the floor just as more shots peppered the wall behind him.

Buddha crawled until his body was covering most of the fallen Princess, then he calmly ejected the clip from his Glock and snapped in another, waiting.

Muñoz pocketed the microchip and started down the stairs, machete at the ready. On the third floor landing, Muñoz catfooted his way toward the rearmost room. He stepped inside, satisfied himself that the escape rope was still anchored to the floor. Muñoz had a car waiting below–he could be gone in minutes if his luck held. As he gathered the rope in two hands, Cross stepped into the room, a .45 in his fist.

Muñoz turned to face his enemy, legs spread apart, the machete back in his hand. Cross held the .45 in two hands, aimed at Muñoz's chest.

For a few seconds there was silence.

"So, hombre," Muñoz said. "I guess it always comes to this, yes?" He fired the machete at the floor where it stuck, quivering. Then he moved toward Cross, Fists clenched. "I guess you always wanted to see who is the better man, didn't you?" he snarled, crouching.

Cross fired the .45–the bullet took Muñoz in the stomach, knocking him to his knees. "No," Cross said, standing over Muñoz. He pulled the trigger twice more, one for the head, one for the chest.

In the basement of Red 71, Buddha lay on a cot, an IV running into his arm. He blinked his eyes rapidly a few times, finally recognizing Cross.

"Everybody made it out?" the pudgy man asked.

"You were the only one who took a hit," Cross said.

"Where's Humberto?" Buddha asked.

"He's with Muñoz. Ramón, too," Cross said. "It's done."

"You're a real man, Buddha," Rhino squeaked. "The way you covered Princess…"

"I still don't see why that crazy fuck should get a share," Buddha mumbled as he drifted back to sleep.

Date Rape

There is a wire twirled in my head. A coil of razor wire. I can feel it. I have to be very quiet or it will tear my brain.

I have to decide. Even though my sister is older than me, I am the man. Ever since I was a little kid, my father explained this to me. He knows everything about the way to do things. The right way.

He's a policeman. He was a patrolman, back in the days when you had to be a man just to put on the badge. He walked around by himself in neighborhoods where they patrol in two-man cars today. He was shot twice, on the job. After the last time, he was made a detective.

Everybody lies, my father says. He explained it to me. Everybody lies if lying makes it better for them. You have to get the facts. You have to get things straight before you act.

There's ways to tell, my father told me. If a nigger is lying, you can tell by the way he breathes…his stomach kind of shakes. And a Jew, when a Jew lies, he always rubs his hands together. Like he's washing them, but with no soap.

You can't always tell who's a Jew, though, because they look white.

He caught me when I lied to him. Down the street, one of our neighbors, a big blonde woman, she told my father she caught me peeking in her window. At night, when she was getting ready for bed. He punched me in the stomach, very hard. I didn't cry. I told him it wasn't me. He smiled then, told me he was proud of me. You couldn't tell if a real man was lying by beating on him, he said. He made me feel good. He told me about women. How they trick you, lead you on, tease you. Like that blonde woman, parading around in her bra and panties with the shades up, just asking for it. I told him it was worse than that–she didn't even have a bra on…and then I realized what I said. He just smiled. He told me, there's always a way to tell if a man's lying.