Near the back of the garage, there was a short hallway that led to a bathroom and the back door. Tayyib spotted a fat man standing guard at the back door. Gripped in his beefy tattoo-covered fingers was a black submachine gun. They stopped in front of a steel-plated door and the escort clanged away with Tayyib's.45-caliber pistol. Metal could be heard scraping on metal and a second later the door opened. Tayyib followed the man into the room. A fifty-inch plasma TV dominated the nearest wall. Two men sat in recliner chairs playing video games. Behind the only desk a man had his back to them and was talking on the phone in Spanish. He slowly turned the chair around and Tayyib recognized the man as Anibal Castillo.

"My old friend," Castillo said, "you are back again." He made no effort to stand.

"Yes," Tayyib said. He had a serious expression on his face.

"What can I do for you?"

Tayyib looked around the room. "Would it be possible for us to talk in private?"

The man who had escorted the Saudi back to the office placed the briefcase on his boss's desk. Castillo looked at it. "Is it locked?"

"Yes," Tayyib said.

Castillo motioned for it to be opened. Tayyib spun the case toward him and went to work with his thumbs. When all six dials were in the right position he pushed the clasps and lifted the lid. Inside was a letter-size manila envelope and neatly stacked packets of $100 bills and a cell phone. Castillo moved the envelope out of the way and focused on the cash. His brow furrowed as he estimated the amount of money in the case. After a long moment he looked up and jerked his head toward the door. The other men left in silence. Castillo pointed to a chair and Tayyib sat.

"A hundred thousand?"

Tayyib nodded.

"You must really want someone dead this time."

"Yes."

"Who?"

The Saudi grabbed the envelope and extracted a photograph of Rapp. "Have you ever seen this man before?" Castillo shook his head and Tayyib silently thanked Allah. "He is in federal custody at a house not far from here."

"And you want me to kill him?"

"Yes."

"What did he do?"

Tayyib shook his head.

Castillo grinned, and responded, "Fine…it will cost you more."

"Before we get that far, I need to know something." The Saudi thought about what he'd seen so far. "How well are your men armed?"

Castillo laughed. "Better than the police. I will tell you that."

"Explosives?"

The Salvadoran nodded.

"What kind?"

"Some C- 4, a lot of hand grenades…hell, we even have a few antipersonnel mines."

"Rocket-propelled grenades?" Tayyib asked.

"RPGs…sure. We have plenty."

Tayyib was pleased. "I assume you have no problem killing federal agents?"

"No problem. But that will drive the price up a lot." Castillo placed his hand on the briefcase. "I'm not sure this will even cover the down payment."

"I only brought the money to show you I am serious."

"Well, you have my attention."

"Good. Let me show you the plan, and then we will discuss the price."

Both men stood and Tayyib extracted several satellite photos from the envelope as well as a map of the area. Tayyib pointed to the fence and explained in detail the perimeter security of the property.

"How many people outside?" Castillo asked.

"Usually four."

"Inside?"

"I don't know. I assume at least two plus the man I want you to kill. The difficult part will be getting in the house."

"Four guards are nothing."

"It's not the guards I'm worried about. The house itself has an extra layer of security…reinforced doors…bulletproof glass…you'll have to blast your way in. You'll have to hit them with everything you've got. Start with the RPGs, and if that doesn't work use the C-4. Burn the whole house down…I don't care."

Castillo smiled. "What about the police? This is going to make a lot of noise."

Tayyib had anticipated this. "I will keep the police busy. You take care of the house. I don't care how many people you kill…just make sure this man is dead." Tayyib picked up the photo of Rapp and held it up in front of the Salvadoran.

Castillo smiled and said, "For the right price I will kill him myself."

51

Physical injury and mental anguish brought with them uniquely different problems. Individually, each can cripple. A physical injury immobilizes a person, whereas psychological trauma incapacitates by inflicting fear or taking away an individual's desire to live. Separately, they are bad enough, but together they are almost always devastating. The last two days had been the worst of Rapp's life. His mind bounced back and forth between overwhelming despair and vengeful rage. As much as he wanted to leave the house and begin the hunt he was unsure of himself. Physically, he needed to recuperate, mentally he was a basket case. Having spent years in the field operating by himself, Rapp was a master at self-assessment. The searing hatred that he felt toward whoever was responsible for Anna's death would drive him to do whatever it took to find the culprits, and while Rapp understood the importance of motivation, he also understood the danger of being overly zealous. It caused people to take foolish risks that did not match the rewards. He would have to be smart about this. There would be times when extreme violence would be needed, but there would also be moments when he would need to be careful and judicious.

His body would heal soon enough. It had before and from worse injuries, but it was his mind that was the chief concern. Never before had he been so frightened to be alone with his thoughts. The black bottomless hole that his life had become was terrifying. He had done and seen terrible things, but nothing had so thoroughly unhinged him as the murder of his wife. It had gotten so bad that he actually asked to be given sedatives. It was the only way to turn off his mind and escape the horror of her death and the unending what-ifs.

But when he awoke it all came flooding back. The emotions had raged back and forth between hatred and complete despair. One moment he was swearing to himself that nothing would stop him from avenging her death and making the bastards pay, and the next moment he was curled up in a ball longing to touch her face one more time. And then came the inevitable-he blamed himself for her death. It was this lack of emotional steadiness, the ability to remove himself from the situation and think about the dilemma logically, that gave him great concern. If he couldn't get control of his emotions, he would fail.

Failure was unacceptable. The thought of them getting away with it, the knowledge that the longer he stayed cooped up in this room, the more likely it was that the killers would simply disappear, was what stopped his descent into darkness and depression. Ultimately, though, it was the thought of how pathetic he must look, curled up in a ball sobbing, that forced him to throw back the blankets, ignore the aches and pains, and swing his feet onto the floor.

As soon as he was upright a stabbing pain hit him in the temple and he realized it was the sedatives. It was time to take a complete physical inventory. He was wearing a pair of pajama shorts. He briefly wondered where they'd come from and then it occurred to him that he no longer had any clothes. The house, the car, all of his possessions, they were gone. He assumed even Shirley, his dog, had gone up in the explosion. Compared to the loss of Anna it was all trivial. He looked down at his leg and examined the deep purple bruise on his right thigh and then the small surgical marks on his left knee. The thigh looked far worse than the knee. His broken right arm felt fine, but his ribs were tender. He pushed himself off the bed and stood. The first step was more of a shuffle. His left knee was stronger than he would have thought. There was a robe on the back of the door and he hobbled over and grabbed it.