tely deafening.
     After two or three seconds I could hear Kelly's  screams rebounding off
the walls. At least she was  still somewhere in the building. She sounded as
though she was throwing a fit.
     All I could hear was a high-pitched continuous scream. I was too fucked
up to do anything about it. I was too busy trying to cough up McGear's skin.
     I'd find her later. I pulled myself  up. I was  in pain. The back of my
neck felt as if it could no longer hold my head.
     He  writhed on the ground, bleeding  and begging, "Don't kill me,  man!
Don't kill me! Don't kill me!"
     I got hold of the pistol and did  to him as  he had done to me, jumping
astride him, ramming it deep into his mouth.
     For  several  seconds  I just  sat  there trying  to  catch my  breath.
McGear's body might be dying, but his eyes were alive.
     "Why did  you kill  the  family?" I  said, pulling the pistol  from his
mouth so he could speak.
     "Tell  me and you'll live." i He was looking at  me  as if he wanted to
say something but didn't know what. I "Just tell me why. I need to know."
     "I don't know what the fuck you mean."
     I looked into his eyes and I knew he was telling the truth.
     "What is on that computer?"
     There was no slow reaction this time. His lip curled and he said, "Fuck
you."
     I jammed  the  weapon  back  into his mouth and  said  quietly, firmly,
almost sort of fatherly, "Look at me! Look at me!"
     I looked back into his eyes. No point carrying this on. He wouldn't say
anything. He was too good for that.
     Fuck it. I pulled the trigger. I took a deep breath and wiped away the
blood that had splattered onto  my  face when he  took the round. I tried to
regain  some form of composure. Stop, just take that couple of  seconds take
another deep breath, and try to work out what the fuck to do next.
     The shots would have been  heard and  reported. At least, I had to plan
as  if  they  were.  I  could  still hear  Kelly screaming in  the  distance
somewhere.
     First priority was the equipment. I pushed myself up off McGear's chest
and staggered  back into the small office.  I ripped  the cable and electric
cord from the PC, took the sniffer software out of the floppy drive, and put
it  in my  top pocket.  I packed everything  in  the bag and returned to the
large office.
     I went  over  to McGear. He  looked like Kelly  when she was  sleeping,
except this starfish had a face like a  pizza and a large exit wound  in the
back of his head oozing gray stuff onto the plush carpet.
     I picked up the bag, slung it over my left shoulder, and moved into the
corridor  to  pick  up my pistol.  I had to find Kelly.  Easy I  just had to
follow the screams.
     She  was  fighting  with  the  fire-escape door, the  back  other  coat
splattered  with  blood.  She  was  right  up  against  the  door  trying to
manipulate the handle, but she was in such a state that her fingers couldn't
do it. She  was jumping from  foot  to foot, screaming and beating her fists
against the door in  frustration and  fright. I came up behind her, got hold
other arm, and shook her.
     "Stop it! Stop it!"
     It wasn't the right thing to do. She was hysterical.
     I  looked  into her eyes  under the  tears and said, "Look,  people are
trying to kill you. Do you understand that? Do you want to die?"
     She tried to shake me off. I put my hand over her mouth and listened to
her blocked-up nose fighting for oxygen.  I got  her  face  right up against
mine.
     "These people  are trying to kill  you. Stop crying, do  you understand
me? Stop crying."
     She went quiet and limp and I let go of her.
     "Give me your hand, Kelly."
     It was like  holding lettuce. I  said, "Be quiet and just listen to me.
You've got  to listen  to me,  OK?"  I  was looking at  her eyes and nodding
away.
     She just stared through me, tears still  running  down  her cheeks, but
she was trying to hold them back.
     I pushed the  fire-exit bar and cold, damp  air hit my face. I couldn't
see  anything because  my night  vision  was fucked. I dragged Kelly by  the
hand, and the clunks of our footsteps echoed down the metal stairs. I didn't
give a fuck about the noise; we'd made enough already.
     Running toward the fence, I slipped in the mud.  Seeing  me fall, Kelly
let out a cry and  burst into tears again. I  shook her and told her to shut
up.
     As we  got  to the fence I  could already hear sirens on the highway. I
had to  assume they  were coming for us.  After  a moment I  could hear more
noise coming from the parking lot area.
     "Wait here!"
     I climbed up the chain-link  fence with the equipment, dropped  it over
the other  side, and  jumped. They were getting closer,  but I couldn't  see
them yet. Kelly was looking at me from the other side of  the fence, bobbing
up and down, hands on the wire.
     "Nick--Nick... Don't leave me here."
     I didn't even look where I was digging. My eyes were  fixed on the  gap
between the  two  buildings.  Coming  from my  right to left, flashing  blue
lights on the highway lit up the sky.
     Kelly's whimpers turned to sobs.
     I said, "We'll be all right, we'll be all  right.  Just stay where  you
are. Look at me! Look at me!" I got eye-to-eye.
     "Stay where you are!"
     The  lights  and noise  were  now  on  Ball Street. I  got  hold of  my
documents and put them in my pocket.
     All  the vehicles had stopped, their sirens dying. The blue lights were
still flashing, reflecting on Kelly's face, wet with tears.
     I looked at her through the fence and whispered, "Kelly!
     Kelly!"
     She was in a daze of fear.
     "Kelly, follow me now. Do you understand? Come on!"
     I  started  moving along  the fence. She  was whining and  wanting  her
mommy. She sounded more and more desperate.
     As her feet slapped  the ground  it  made her pleas sound like somebody
talking in a helicopter. I said, "You've  got to keep up,  Kelly, you've got
to keep up. Come on!"
     I was moving fast. She slipped and fell into the mud. I wasn't there to
pick her up this time. She lay there sobbing.
     "I
     want to go home, I want to go home so bad. Please take me home."
     By  now there were three police cars on the scene. We weren't  even two
hundred yards away yet. Very soon they would use their searchlights and spot
us.
     "Get up, Kelly, get up!"
     The target  now seemed surrounded by a haze  of  blue and  red  lights.
Flashlights were already jerking in the darkness at the rear.
     We carried on until  we got level with the alley. The sound  of  sirens
again filled the night.
     I climbed over the fence,  the bag nearly landing on top of Kelly as  I
let  it fall. I grabbed  her right hand with my left and started toward  the
alley.
     I needed to find a car that was parked in the shadows and old enough to
have no alarms.
     We emerged from the alley and turned left, following a  line  of parked
cars. I found an early nineties Chevy. I put the bag down and ordered Kelly,
"Sit by this."
     I opened the bag and got out the picks. Minutes later I was in. I wired
up the ignition and the engine fired. The digital clock said 3:33.
     I  let the engine  run and put the windshield wipers and heater on full
blast to clear  the morning dew.  I got hold of Kelly  and the bag and threw
them both in the back.
     "Lie down, Kelly, go to sleep." No argument from her on the lying down.
She might have trouble sleeping, though. Perhaps for the rest of her life.
     I  drove to the  road and  turned  left,  nice  and slow. After just  a
quarter of  a  mile  I spotted flashing  lights coming  toward  me. I got my
pistol out and put it under my right  thigh. If  these boys stopped me,  I'd
have  to take them on. There was no way  I was going to let the fuckers take
us.
     I shouted back at Kelly, "Stay down, do not get up, do you understand?"
     There was no reply.
     "Kelly?"
     I got a weak "Yes."
     If I had to kill these policemen, it would be unfortunate, but when all
was  said and done this was  the sort of thing they got  paid for. I made my
plan. If they stopped me, I'd wait until  one or both came within range. The
pistol was where my hand would naturally go, and I'd draw down on them.
     The flashing blue and red  came closer. I just drove on toward them. My
mind-set was  that I was a  shift worker, on my  way to  earn my living. Now
their lights were making me screw up my eyes so I could see beyond.
     I wasn't worried. I felt very calm.  Just  wait and see. They sped past
at more than sixty.
     I looked  in the rearview mirror.  They  hit  the  brakes;  now  I  was
sweating. I watched and made distance at the same time.
     The  brake  lights went off.  Either they'd just been slowing  down  or
they'd changed their minds.
     I needed to dump  this  car before first light, which was  probably the
earliest the owner would discover it missing.  I also had to get both  Kelly
and me a change of clothes, and we had to get into another hotel.
     Kelly started yelling, "I want to go home! I want to go home! I want my
" "Kelly, we are going home! But not yet!" I had to shout to cut in.
     I couldn't see her, so I tilted the mirror. She was curled  up with her
thumb in her mouth. My mind flashed  back to the times  I'd  found her  like
that and I said, quietly, "We will, don't worry."
     We  were following a road that seemed to parallel  the  Potomac, on its
west side.  After about  half  an hour I found an all-night  supermarket.  I
parked. There were maybe  twenty or thirty vehicles outside; at that time of
the morning most of them probably belonged to employees.
     Kelly didn't  ask why we were  stopping. I turned around and said, "I'm
going to get us  some  more clothes. Do you want anything? Shall  I  see  if
they've got a deli and we'll get some sandwiches?"
     She whimpered, "Don't go,  don't leave me!" She looked as if she'd been
slapped. Her face was bright red, with puflfy eyes and wet hair stuck to her
face. You  don't  take  a beaten-up seven-year-old with blood on her clothes
into a store after four in the morning.
     I  leaned over  into  the back,  unzipped  the  bag,  and  took out the
coveralls. I  said, "I've got  to leave you  here.  I need somebody to  look
after everything." I pointed to the bag.
     "Can you do that for me? You're a big girl now, a great spy."
     She nodded reluctantly.
     I started to get the coveralls on while still sitting in the car seat.
     "Nick?"
     "What?" I was busy fighting with a leg.
     "I heard shooting. Is that man dead?"
     "Which  man is that?" I didn't want to turn around, didn't want to face
her.
     "No, he's not.  I think he made  a mistake and thought we  were someone
else. He'll be OK."
     I was now arching my back to get the top half on.
     "The police will take him to the hospital."
     That was enough of that. I quickly got out of the car and poked my head
back in.  Before  I even started to  outline the  routine  she said, "You're
coming back, aren't you? I want to go home and see Mommy."
     "Definitely, I will  come  back,  no problems, and  you will see  Mommy
soon."
     I turned the interior light on and moved the rearview mirror so I could
see my  face. The deep cuts on  my forehead and under my eye were still wet,
the plasma trying hard to get a scab going.  I spat on my hand and  used the
cuff of the coveralls to wipe the rest of the  blood  off, but there  wasn't
much more I could do. Industrial accident.
     I  signaled  Kelly to lock  the  door  and lie  down.  She  nodded  and
complied.
     I grabbed a cart and went through  the electric door. I got money  from
the ATM, then  two sets of everything for Kelly  and  me, plus a washing and
shaving  kit and a box of baby wipes,  and  some painkillers for my neck. It
was hurting bad now.  I could  look left or right only  by turning my  whole
body.
     I must have  looked  like a  robot. I threw in  some Coke,  chips,  and
cookies.
     There weren't many shoppers. My cuts drew the odd glance but no stares.
     I got back to the  car and tapped on the window. I didn't say anything.
Kelly stared up; the windows were now covered in condensation, so she had to
wipe it with  her sleeve. I  could see she'd  been crying. I pointed  at the
lock, and she opened it.
     I was all big smiles.
     "Hiya, how's it going?"
     There  wasn't much of a reply. As I dumped  all the purchases onto  the
passenger seat,  I said, "Look, I've got a present for you." I showed  her a
Snickers bar. There was a reluctant smile. She took it and opened it.
     I  looked  at the car clock.  It was nearly  5 a.m. We  started driving
toward the Beltway, then headed west.
     I  saw the sign for Dulles International and slowed down for  the exit.
We had to  dump  the car soon; I had to assume that  the driver was an early
riser.
     Kelly was lying in  the back, staring at  the door. Either she was in a
dream world, or she had  been  damaged mentally by what she had seen. At the
moment I didn't really care which.
     We were  about eight miles from Dulles. I started to keep a lookout for
hotels. I saw the sign for an Economy Inn.
     Absolutely perfect but first, we had to get ourselves cleaned up.
     As we continued on toward the airport I could see the wing lights of an
aircraft making  its approach about four miles away. I followed the signs to
the economy parking, having stopped just  short to check for cameras at  the
entrance. There weren't any; they  must  register on the way out.  I took my
ticket and parked among thousands of other cars.
     "Kelly, we're going to get you dressed in some new clothes," I said.
     I showed her what I'd bought, and as she was getting un dressed, I  got
out the baby wipes and cleaned her face.
     "Here, let's get rid of all those tears, let's clean  you all up,  here
you are, here's a brush." I brushed her hair too quickly; it hurt her.
     "OK, let's  get this sweatshirt  on  you.  Here you go.  There,  you're
looking good. Here's another wipe blow your nose."
     While she was doing that, I got myself changed as well, then dumped all
the clothes in the passenger foot  well Kelly was still looking miserable as
the  shuttle took us to the terminal. We  walked into the  departures area.
The terminal was busier than I'd been expecting at this time of the morning.
People were  checking in all along the lines of desks, hanging around in the
shops, or sitting in the cafes, reading newspapers.
     I wasn't saying much to Kelly, just  holding her hand as I moved along,
bag  on my  left shoulder, looking for the Ar rivals  sign, then to the taxi
stand.  An escalator showed me the  way  down. We were nearly at the  bottom
when Kelly announced, "I need to go to the bathroom."
     "You sure?" I just wanted to get out of there.
     "I'm really sure."
     "OK." After the last time I'd learned my lesson.
     I followed signs  to the  rest rooms. They  were  to the left, near the
large exit doors from international arrivals. You went in through one of two
large openings in  the  wall and immedi lately came across a row of seven or
eight  disabled  toilets, all unisex,  and on either  side of this  were the
entrances to  the  men's and  women's rooms. I  stayed  outside  in the main
concourse, watching all the people who were  waiting for the automatic doors
to open and their loved ones to be disgorged.
     You always know when you're being stared at.  I'd been standing there a
minute or two  when  I  became aware.  I  looked up.  It was  an  old woman,
standing against the rail facing me on the opposite side of the channel made
by the barriers, Obviously waiting for somebody to come through. There was a
silver-haired man with her, but her eyes were fixed on my face.
     She looked away, turning her back to the exit doors, even though people
were streaming out with their carts.  Every few seconds I heard a  scream of
joy as people were reunited.
     What had she been looking at? The  cuts on my face? I hoped it was just
that. There  was nothing I  could  do about it anyway. I would just shake it
off, but keep an eye on her all the same.
     Then I saw her start talking  to her  husband.  She wasn't passing  the
time of day. Her body language looked urgent and agitated. He looked over in
my direction,  then back at her;  he gave her a  shrug that  said, "What the
hell are you talking  about, woman?  " She must have seen Kelly and me going
into  the rest rooms and said to herself, "Where do I know those two from? "
I wasn't going to move.  I  wanted to see what she was doing. The moment she
started to walk away, I'd have to take action.
     I could  tell she was still trying to figure it  out. I felt  my  heart
pumping. I avoided eye contact, but I knew she was staring. Any  moment  now
she'd remember the news report where she'd seen Kelly's face.
     The seconds  ticked by.  At last Kelly came out and stood by  me, a big
smile on her face.
     "Shall we go now?" I said, grabbing her hand before she could answer.
     As  I turned with her  for  the exit,  I  could clearly  see  the woman
tugging  her husband's arm. She recognized us. How ever, the husband had now
seen whoever it was they were meeting and was looking the other way.
     She pulled his arm more urgently.
     I  wanted to  run, but that would confirm it for her. We walked,  and I
talked crap to Kelly with the actions of a happy dad.
     "Look at those lights,  aren't they  nice? This is  the  air port I fly
into every time I  come here, have  you been here before?" Kelly didn't have
time to answer any of my stupid questions.
     I had to fight the urge to  turn around and  look. I started to  think,
what if? If I got the police on me here, I was fucked.
     There was nowhere to  go, just more of the airport, with  more security
than  you  could shake a nightstick at. My eyes were darting around.  We had
about  thirty or forty yards to go  to  the  exit  sign.  With  each step  I
expected to hear a cop shouting for me to freeze. All I  could hear was  the
general hubbub and the occasional squeal of greeting.
     We reached  the exit, turned  left, and started walking  downhill on  a
wide ramp that led down to the pickup points and the  taxis. The moment we'd
made that angle I started to move faster and chanced a look behind.
     There was a  fine drizzle  in the air  as we exited  and looked for the
stand.
     Kelly said, "What's up?"
     I said, "There's the taxis, let's go."
     We had  to  wait for three other people in  the line  before it was our
turn.  I  felt like a child who desperately wants a toy and cannot wait  any
longer. Come on, come on!
     At last we jumped into a cab and drove off. I  turned and looked behind
me. Nothing. I still couldn't  relax.  Kelly could obviously sense the drama
but didn't say another word.
     I tried to block it out of my mind. Look  hard enough and you'll find a
positive in even  the worst situation--that was what I'd always told myself.
But I couldn't get a silver lining out of what had just happened. If the old
woman  did make the connection and told the  police she had  seen us heading
for the taxis, it was negatives all the way.
     I looked at Kelly and yawned.
     "I'm sleepy," I said.
     "What about you?"
     She nodded and put her head in my lap.
     I gave  the driver  directions. Once off  the  freeway  we  drove a few
blocks, then I  got him to pull in. I  watched him drive away as we stood in
the  parking  lot  of the Marriott. We  would walk  to  the Economy Inn from
there.
     "We're going to a hotel now," I said.
     "Usual  story. I'll be saying a lot of things that aren't true, and all
you've got to do  is be  quiet and look really  tired,  OK? If  you  do what
you're  told  and  it  works out,  we can  go  home." We  walked toward  the
reception.
     There was a young guy on the desk,  his head buried  in  a textbook. We
went through all  the same routine, only this time I'd been beaten up during
the robbery. He  looked embarrassed. "All of America's not  like this,  you
know.  It's beautiful." He  started  talking about the  Grand Canyon;  after
making a promise that  I'd make a point of visiting it  this trip, I  turned
and walked out.
     When we  got to  the room, I started  helping her off with her coat. As
she turned so that her  other arm came out  of the sleeve, she asked without
warning: "Are we going to see Mommy and Daddy now?"
     "Not yet, we've still got things to do."
     "I want my mommy. Nick. I want to go home. You promised."
     "We will go soon, don't worry."
     "Are you sure Mommy and Daddy and Aida will be there?"
     "Of course they will be."
     She didn't look convinced and sat on the edge of the bed. It was crunch
time.  I couldn't  carry  this on  anymore. If we got  out  of this mess,  I
couldn't  bring  myself to let her be dumped on her grandparents  or whoever
and find out what a lying bastard I'd been all this time.
     "Kelly.. ;' I sat next to her and started stroking her hair as she laid
her head on my lap.
     "Kelly, when you get  home,  Mommy, Daddy,  and Aida will not be there.
They've gone to heaven. Do you know what that means?"
     I said it as almost a throwaway, not  really wanting to get into it any
deeper. I wanted her to say, "Oh, I see," and then ask me  if we could  have
Mickey D's.
     There was a pause while she thought about it. All I could hear  was the
hum of the air-conditioning.
     Her face creased into a frown.
     "Is it because I didn't help Daddy?"
     I  felt as if somebody  were stabbing me. But  it  wasn't  too  hard  a
question; I felt OK. answering that one.
     "Kelly, even  if you had tried to  help  Daddy, they still  would  have
died."
     She was crying quietly  into my leg. I  rubbed  her back and  tried  to
think of something to say.
     I heard: "I don't want them to be dead. I want to be with them."  "But
you are." I was fumbling for words.
     She lifted her face and looked at me.
     "You are with them. Every time you do something  that you did with them
means they are with you."
     She was trying to work  this  one out. So  was I. "Every  time I  eat a
pizza with  mushrooms I  think of your mommy and daddy, because  I know your
mommy liked them.
     That's why they are never  far away from me--and  why Mommy, Daddy, and
Aida will be with you all the time."
     She looked at me, waiting for more.
     "What do you mean?"
     I had to think quickly.
     "I mean,  every time you put plates on  a table  Mommy will be with you
because she showed you how. Every time you catch  a ball,  Daddy is with you
because he taught you. Every time you show someone how to do something, Aida
is with you--that's because you used to show her how to do things.  You see,
they are always with you!"
     I didn't know  how good it was,  but it was the  best  I could come  up
with. She was back on my leg; I could feel the heat of her tears and breath.
     "But I want to see them. When will I see them. Nick?"
     I hadn't gotten through. I didn't know who was more upset, me or Kelly.
A  large lump  was  swelling  in  my throat. I had gotten into  something  I
couldn't get out of.
     "They  aren't coming back, Kelly.  They  are dead. It's  not because of
anything you did  or  didn't do. They  didn't want to leave  you.  Sometimes
things happen that even grownups can't fix."
     She lay there listening.  I looked down. Her eyes were open, staring at
the wall. I stopped stroking her and put my arm around her.
     People need to show sadness and loss. Maybe this was the time for Kelly
to do that. If so,  I wanted  to  reach  out, not  cross the street.  I just
didn't know if this was how you did it.
     "You will be with them one day, but not for a long time. You will have
children first, just like Mommy. Then your  children will  be  sad when  you
die, just like you are now. They all loved you very much, Kelly. I knew your
mommy  and  daddy for only a few  years. Just think--you knew them all  your
life!"
     I saw a small smile moving across her face. She pressed her body closer
into my legs.
     "I want to stay with you. Nick."
     "That would be nice but it wouldn't work. I travel  a lot. You have  to
go to school and learn how to be a grownup."
     "You can help me do that."
     If only she knew.  I hadn't even a garage to keep a  bike in, let alone
somewhere to look after a child.
     Your  weapon, your  kit,  and only then yourself--that's  the  order of
things. I wanted  to ease my magazine springs; it wasn't strictly necessary,
but I felt that I  needed  to do it  to  mark the  end of  one phase and the
beginning of a new one.
     By now Kelly was sound asleep.
     I plugged in the telephone to recharge it. It was my lifeline.
     Then I tipped  all the supplies out of the bag and sorted them out. The
new clothes were put  to one side, and I packed the CTR stuff  back into the
duffel. I was pissed off about having to leave the video camera on the roof;
it would  be  found  and  a  connection  inevitably made between us and  the
shooting.
     Plus,  the  videotape  was lost,  and that might have  been of  use  to
Simmonds--it might even have been enough to guarantee me a future.
     I  repacked  the  kit and lay back  on  the bed, hands behind  my head.
Listening to the low drone of the air-conditioning, I started to think about
this whole fucking game and how people like me and McGear were the ones that
got used time and time again. I was starting to feel sorry for myself. I cut
it. McGear and I both had a choice; this was what we chose to do.
     There  were a few good  things that had come out of last night's drama.
At least I didn't have to worry about dumping all the blood-and piss-stained
clothes  that  were  in the blue duffel. The cops would no  doubt match  the
blood to the Browns',  but that was  nothing compared with the trouble I was
already in. And best  of all, I had  confirmed a definite connection between
Kev, PIRA, the  building,  and  whatever it  was  that I'd copied  from that
computer.    I  wasn't going to attempt to get  the  laptop  out  and start
messing around  with it now.  I was  too  tired; I'd make  mistakes and miss
things. Besides, the  adrenaline had  gone,  and the pain across my back and
neck was even more intense.
     I had a hot shower and tried  to shave.  McGear's bite marks on my face
were scabbing nicely. I left them to sort themselves out.
     I dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, and running shoes and reloaded my mags.
I needed rest, but I had to be ready for a quick move. The  plan was to have
a couple hours' sleep and  something to eat, then sit down and see  what was
on the laptop, but it didn't work  out. I tossed and turned, snatched  a bit
of sleep, woke up.
     I turned the TV on and flicked through the channels to see ifMcGear was
news yet. He was.
     The cameras  panned the front of the PIRA building, with the obligatory
backdrop of police  and  ambulance  crews,  then  a man faced the camera and
started rattling on.  I didn't bother turning the volume up; I knew the gist
of what he'd be saying.
     I was half-expecting to see  my piss-covered homeless friend describing
what he had heard or seen.
     Kelly was starting to toss and turn, probably with pictures ofMcGear in
her head.
     I lay there  looking  at her. The girl had done well, without a  doubt.
The last few  days had been chaos for her, and I had really started to worry
about it. Seven-year-old kids shouldn't  be exposed  to  this sort of  shit.
Nobody should. What would happen to  her? It suddenly occurred  to me that I
was worrying more about her than I was about myself.
     I woke with the TV  still on. I looked at  my  watch: 9:35. At noon Pat
would be calling me. I hit the  Off button. I wanted to start working on the
laptop.  I started  to get up and found I could  hardly move. I felt like  a
very  senior citizen as I lifted myself off the bed, my  neck as stiff  as a
board.
     I  made a  racket getting  the laptop  out  of the duffel  and plugging
everything in. Kelly  started to wriggle around. By the time I'd  got  it up
and  running  and connected  to the backup  drive, she was propped up on one
elbow  watching me. Her  hair looked  like an  explosion. She listened for a
while as I cursed the laptop for  not accessing the backup drive, then said,
"Why don't you just reboot  and then look  at the program?" I looked at her
as if  to  say.  You  fucking  smartass!  Instead, I  said, "Mmm,  maybe." I
rebooted,  and it worked.  I turned around and smiled  at her and got one in
return.
     I  started to  scroll  through the files. Instead  of the business like
file  names  I'd been expecting, the documents had code  words  like Weasel,
Boy, Bruce. A lot of them turned out to be spreadsheets or  invoices I could
see  what they  were,  but I didn't know  what they meant.  To me, the whole
forty or so pages could just as well have been in Japanese.
     I  then opened  up the file called  Guru. It was just  dots and numbers
across the screen. I turned to Kelly.
     "What's that then, smart guy?"
     She looked.
     "I'm only seven, I don't know everything."
     It  was  five minutes to noon.  I turned the  phone  on and  carried on
flicking through the files, trying to make sense of them.
     Twelve o'clock came and went.
     By a quarter past, the call still hadn't come in. I  was sweating. Come
on. Pat,  I  need to  get out  of the US and back to Simmonds. I have enough
information maybe. The  longer I  stay now, the higher the risk. Pat, I need
you!
     For Slack to miss an RV there must  be a major  drama; even when he was
high, he'd  managed  it  before. I tried  to block dark  thoughts by telling
myself  that he'd  call  at the  next arranged window. But  as I  carried on
halfheartedly on the laptop, I started  to  feel almost physically  sick. My
only  way out  had  been  lost.  I  had  that awful,  sinking  feeling  that
everything was going to go horribly wrong. I needed to do something.
     I closed down the laptop and put the  backup  disk in  my pocket. Kelly
was half-buried under the covers, watching TV.
     I joked, "Well,  you know what  I'm going  to have to  do in  a minute,
don't you?"
     She jumped out of bed and threw her arms around me.
     "Don't go! Don't go! Stay and  watch TV with  me. Maybe I can come with
you?"
     "You can't do that, I want you to stay here."
     "Please!"
     What could I do? I felt her pain at being scared and alone.
     "OK, come with me but you've got to do what I say."
     "I will, I will!" She jumped up and went to get her coat.
     "No, not yet!" I pointed to the bathroom.
     "First things first.
     Get in that bath, wash your hair, come out and I'll dry it, then you'll
get changed into your new clothes, and then we'll go out. OK?"
     She was trembling like a dog about to go for walkies.
     "Yeah, OK!" She skipped to the bathroom.
     I sat down  on the bed  and  shouted  into  the  bathroom as  I flicked
through the news channels.
     "Kelly, make sure you brush your teeth or they'll all  fall out and you
won't be able to eat when you're older."
     I heard, "Yeah, yeah, OK."
     I found  nothing more  about McGear.  After a  while I  walked into the
bathroom. The toothpaste tube hadn't been squeezed.
     "Have you brushed your teeth?"
     She nodded, looking guilty.
     I said,  "Well, let's have  a smell." I bent down and  put my nose near
her mouth.
     "You haven't. Come on, do you know how to brush your teeth?"
     "Of course I know how to brush my teeth."
     "Show me then."
     She picked up the toothbrush. It was way too big for her mouth, and she
was brushing from side to side.
     I said, "That's not the way you've been taught, is it?"
     She said, "It is, too."
     I  slowly shook  my  head. I  knew  that  she  would have  been  taught
properly. I said,  "All right, we'll do  it together." I put some toothpaste
on the brush and made her stand in  front of the mirror. I stood beside her,
and she watched as I pretended to brush. Looking after  kids  was easy after
all. It  all  came down to EDI: explanation,  demonstration, imitation. Just
that  instead of doing  it with a weapon  to a room full  of recruits, I was
doing it with a seven-year-old girl.
     "Now with me, like this, then brush around in little circles. And let's
make sure we do the backs."
     And  then it  got silly.  She  started  to laugh  at  the  sight of  me
pretending to brush my teeth, and as she laughed, all the toothpaste sprayed
from her mouth and onto the mirror. I laughed with her.
     She got on with her bath and changed into her new jeans and sweatshirt.
I'd  also bought  us matching baseball hats at the  supermarket, black denim
with the words Washington,
     D.C.
     I wet my hair and washed, and we both looked sparkly clean. She  put on
her new blue coat and  sneakers and we were all ready  to go. My plan was to
get to the vicinity of Pat's apartment. When he rang at six o'clock, we'd be
able to meet right away.
     What  was I going to do with the backup  disk?  I decided to hide it in
the room, because  I  was  going to split my gold; if the backup stayed here
and Kelly came with  me and we  were lifted, at least they wouldn't have the
whole enchilada. The long,  dark wood sideboard with the TV on top covered a
third of the room; it was about two feet high and rested on little half-inch
legs.  I  lifted  one  corner, gaffer-taped  the  disk to the underside, and
positioned a couple of telltales. One last look around the room and we left.
     It was drizzling and slightly colder than earlier in the morning. Kelly
was  on  cloud nine; I gave her  the same smiles  and happy noises  back but
underneath I  was  sweating about Pat. As we crossed  the grass to avoid the
lobby, I wondered about phoning Euan. I decided  not to. Not yet,  anyway. I
might need him later. He was a card to keep up my sleeve.
     The whole area was dotted with hotels. We walked across the road to one
about four hundred yards away, and I went into the lobby and ordered a taxi.
Kelly waited outside under the awning.
     As  I came out again I said,  "When we get  into this taxi I'm going to
put  your  hood up and I  want  you  to rest against me as if you're sleepy.
Remember, you promised me you'd do exactly what I said."
     The taxi turned up and took us to Georgetown. Kelly  leaned against me,
and I got her nuzzled in on my lap with her hood up so it hid her.
     We got out on Wisconsin. It was four o'clock,  and every body around us
looked  so normal as  they  chatted,  strolled, enjoyed  their shopping. Two
hours to go  before Pat rang.  By five-thirty  the Georgetown  mall where we
were sitting was quite warm and we were both feeling sleepy.
     I was having a coffee,  Kelly was having a milk shake, which she wasn't
touching because by now she was  full of burger. I  looked at the display of
my watch every half minute until it  was five to  six. Then  I switched  the
phone on. Good battery level, good signal strength.
     Six o'clock came.
     Nothing.
     A minute past.
     Two minutes past.
     I sat there almost paralyzed  with  disbelief. Kelly was  absorbed in a
comic she'd picked out for herself.
     Four minutes past. This was  desperate. Pat wouldn't let me down unless
he couldn't help it. He  knew as well as I did that on operations, if you're
a minute late, you might as well be an hour or a day  late, because people's
lives might depend on it. The attack might have gone in, unsupported by your
covering fire.
     There must be a problem. A major problem.
     I kept the phone switched on. Finally, at six-twenty, I said, "Come on,
Kelly, we're going to visit Pat."
     Now the normality stopped. There was serious shit coming down. All hope
had evaporated. As we came out of the mall, I flagged down a cab.
     Riverwood turned out to be  a  well-established, upscale area,  rows of
weatherboarded houses  with neat  lawns  and two European cars in the drive,
and smart apartment buildings with underground parking. The  shops reflected
its wealth, with good bookstores, expensive-looking boutiques, and small art
galleries.
     I stopped the cab a block past Pat's street. I paid the  driver, and he
left us in the light rain. It was getting dark, a bit earlier than it should
have, but the  cloud  cover made everything gloomy.  Some  cars  already had
their headlights on.
     "Let's hope Pat's in," I said.
     "Otherwise  we'll  have to  go  all the  way back  to the hotel without
saying hello!"
     She looked excited about meeting him. After  all, this was the  man I'd
said  would help  her go  back home. I couldn't be sure if  what I  had said
about her family had sunk in. I didn't even  know if kids her age understood
that death was irreversible.
     Looking up the hill, I could see that Pat's street  was pure Riverwood,
broad  and elegant,  with  houses and shops that had been  there for  years.
Above the  skyline one or two new  apartment buildings seemed to  be  taking
over, but  even  they  looked  very ordered, clean,  and  wealthy.  I wasn't
entirely sure which one  Pat lived in, but it was  easy enough to count  the
numbers and figure it out. We  walked past, and I had a clear view  into the
secure  rear parking lot. I saw the red Mustang, redder than  Satan's balls.
It was a quarter past seven. If he was there, why the fuck hadn't he phoned?
     We  went into  a coffee  shop across the way.  The waft of newly ground
beans and the blare of rumba music inside La Colombina took me straight back
to Bogota;  maybe  that  was  why  Pat had  chosen to live here. We wanted a
window  seat, which  wasn't a problem. The  glass was misted up; I cleared a
circle with a paper napkin and sat and watched.
     Kelly was doing what she had been told, keeping quiet  until I told her
not to be. Anyway, Girl! magazine seemed the thing to  shut kids  up with. I
checked the phone. Good signal, plenty of power.
     A waitress came over to take  our  order. I was going to  ask for  food
even though I didn't  really want any because it would  take time to prepare
it, and then it would take time to eat it, and that  way we could spend more
time here without it looking unnatural.
     "I'll take a club sandwich and a double cappuccino," I said. "And what
do you want, Josie?"
     Kelly beamed at the waitress.
     "Do you do Shirley Temples?"
     "Sure we do, honey!"
     It sounded like a  cocktail to me,  but the waitress  went  away  quite
happily to order it. Kelly returned to her magazine, and I just kept looking
out the window.
     The drinks arrived. When we were alone again, I said, "What is that?"
     "Cherries and strawberries, mixed with Sprite."
     "Sounds disgusting. Can I have a sip?"
     It tasted to me like bubblegum,  but it was obviously what  kids liked.
She was guzzling it down almost frantically.
     The sandwich  mountain arrived. I didn't need it, but  I ate it anyway.
In my days in the  SAS and since, I'd  learned to think of food  the way  an
infantryman thinks of sleep: Get it down you whenever you get the chance.
     Things were running their natural course in the coffee shop; it was now
coming up to three-quarters of an hour that we'd been sitting there, and you
can stay in a place only  for so long without arousing suspicion or drowning
in coffee.
     Kelly made the decision for me as she spoke.
     "So now what are we going to do?"
     I put some cash on the table.
     "Let's zip you up and see if Pat is home."
     We went out and walked past Pat's apartment once again.
     The car  was still there. I was desperate  to know one way  or  another
what was going on. If it was just that  he didn't want to play anymore, that
was fine. But I  couldn't  really see that;  I knew that  he wanted to help.
There was a  problem,  without a  doubt. But I  needed it  confirmed; then I
could reassess and make a plan without him in it.
     As  we walked back down the hill,  Kelly  asked, "Do you  actually know
where Pat  lives?"  "Yes I do, but I know  he's not  there  yet. We've just
walked past his place and I couldn't see him."
     "Can't you phone him?"
     I couldn't contact him directly; if the phone was tapped, I didn't want
anyone to make  the connection between us.  I'd  promised not  to compromise
him. But she'd just given me an idea all the same.
     "Kelly, do you want to help me play a trick on Pat?"
     "Sure!"
     "OK, this is what I want you to do."
     We kept  on  walking  and started to  do a circuit around  the area. We
practiced  and practiced until she  said she was  ready  to go. We got  to a
phone booth  about three blocks away, an open booth attached to the  wall. I
brought the receiver down to Kelly's level.
     "Ready?"
     She gave me a thumbs-up. She was excited; she thought this was great.
     I dialed 911, and about three  seconds later Kelly  was shouting, "Yes,
I've  just  seen  a  man! I've  just seen a  man on the second floor, eleven
twenty-one Twenty-seventh Street and and he's got a gun and the  man's shot,
and and and he's got a gun please help!"
     I put my hand on the hook.
     "Good one! Now, shall we go and see what happens next?"
     I  picked a different route back. This time we  were going  to approach
from the top of the hill and walk down toward the apartment building. By now
it was properly dark, and still very wet. Heads bent in the rain, we made it
to Twenty-seventh Street, turned right, and started walking slowly  down the
hill.
     I heard its siren  first, louder  and louder,  then the  flash  of  its
emergency lights as a police cruiser sped past us. Then I saw other blue and
red lights, all flashing in the darkness in the area of the apartment.
     As  we got closer I made out three police cars. An  unmarked car turned
up, a portable light flashing on the roof, just above the driver.
     We walked  farther down and  came  to a bus stop. All I  was doing  was
watching  and  waiting--much  like  everybody  else--as  a small  crowd  had
gathered.
     "Are they all coming for Pat?" Kelly asked.
     I was too busy feeling  depressed to answer; the  sight of an ambulance
arriving had pole axed me. I stroked her head over her coat hood.
     "I'll tell you  about  it  in  a  minute.  Just  let  me  watch  what's
happening."
     A quarter of an hour went by. Local TV news crews were in sight. I then
saw them come out: two guys with a gurney, and on top was a corpse in a body
bag. I didn't have to see  the face to know who  was inside. I only hoped it
had been quick for him, but  judging by the  condition of the Browns I had a
terrible feeling that it hadn't.
     I  said quietly,  "We're  going  to  go  now,  Kelly. Pat's  not  there
tonight."
     I felt as if my most treasured possession had been stolen from under my
nose,  and  I  knew  that I'd  never  get it back. Our friendship  had  been
rekindled after all these years, and this was the price Pat had paid for it.
I felt lost and desperate, as if I'd got detached from the rest of my patrol
in hostile territory, without  a map, or a weapon, and no hint  of which way
to go.
     He was a true friend. I would miss the man with no ass.
     As Pat was being loaded into the ambulance, I forced myself to cut away
from the emotion. I turned and started to walk back down the  way we'd come,
to avoid the police. One  of the cars had now left with its  siren going and
the ambulance was  just about to. I imagined the crime  scene  people inside
the apartment,  putting on their coveralls and unpacking their gear. Again I
tried to make myself  look at the situation logically. Pat was gone; now all
I had left was Euan.
     We took the first left to get off the  main drag, and I listened as the
ambulance siren twice went off to maneuver through traffic.
     We kept going along the road. It wasn't a main thoroughfare;
     it  was  residential  on  both  sides,  large  houses  with wide  stone
staircases leading up to the front doors.
     I had Kelly's hand. We were walking without talking.
     Feelings about Pat had no place in my mind at the moment.
     What  mattered was  what information about  us he could  have given  to
whoever had zapped him. PIRA or Luther and Co." who could tell? It had to be
one or the  other. If it was connected with  me, of course.  Fuck knows what
else he  could have been up to.  However, I had  to  work on the  basis that
whoever killed him  wanted to know where we were. All Pat knew was the phone
number,  and that  I was going  into  the  PIRA office.  OP SEC  operational
security might have saved our lives.
     I was thinking so hard that  at first the voice didn't really register.
Then I thought it  was Kelly,  so I was  going to give  her hand a bit of  a
squeeze and tell her to be quiet and  let me think. But then it spoke again,
a  man's  voice, low, resolute,  and this  time there was no  mistaking  the
words.
     "Freeze. If you move, I'll kill you. Stay exactly where you are. Do not
move."
     It wasn't a druggy voice, it wasn't a young nervous voice;
     it was  a voice that was in total control. I  kept my hands where they
were.
     Kelly flung her arms around my waist.
     "It's OK, it's all right. They aren't going to hurt you," I lied like a
cheap watch.
     His footsteps moved from behind me and to  the left. He must  have come
from the service alley that ran behind the houses we'd just passed.
     He said, "You have two choices. Get smart by keeping still.
     Get  dead  by moving." The voice  was  late  twenties,  early thirties,
precise, well drilled.
     It was pointless trying to draw on him. He would  kill me the instant I
made a move.
     I decided to take choice one.
     More footsteps came from the other side, and somebody was tugging Kelly
away.  She cried out, "Nick! Nick!" but  I couldn't help.  Her  grip was  no
match  for  theirs.  She  was dragged  behind me and out  of sight.  I still
couldn't  see anything of  the guys who'd caught us. I made myself calm down
and accept what was happening.
     The voice  started to give me commands in the same no-nonsense,  almost
pleasant voice. He  said, "I  want you to raise your hands  slowly, and  put
them on top of your head. Do that now."
     When I'd complied, he said, "Now turn around."
     I turned and saw a short, dark-haired man aiming a pistol at  me  in  a
very professional manner.  He  was standing  about  ten yards  away  at  the
entrance  to  the  alley. He was  breathing heavily,  probably after running
around the streets to find us both. He was wearing a suit, and I saw Velcro.
I now knew who had gotten to Pat.
     "Walk toward me. Do it now."
     I couldn't see Kelly.  She must have already been taken down the alley.
They  had  got her at last. I pictured Aida's savaged little body as I  came
toward him.
     "Stop. Turn left." Very low, very calm and  confident. As he said it, I
heard a car pull up to my right, and out of the corner of my eye I could see
it was the blue Caprice from the first motel.
     "Walk." I moved into the alley. Still no sign of Kelly.
     I heard, "Get on your knees."
     I  knelt down. I'd never been particularly  worried about dying;  we've
all got  to check out sometime.  When it did happen I just wanted it  to  be
nice  and  quick.  I'd  always  hoped  there  was an afterlife, but  not  as
reincarnation back on Earth.
     I'd hate to find myself back here as something low down the food chain.
But  I  wouldn't  mind a  spiritual thing where  you  just  become aware  of
everything from the truth about the creation of humankind to the recipe  for
Coca-Cola. I'd always known  I was going to die  early, but this was just  a
bit too early.
     Nothing was happening and  nothing was  said. Then  what must have been
that Caprice drove into the alley behind me, its headlights illuminating the
rears of the houses. Each had facing garages  and three or  four cars parked
along the sides of the alley. I could see my kneeling shadow against the wet
asphalt.
     The engine was still running, and I heard the doors being opened. There
was radio traffic from a different voice;
     this one had an accent that  should have  been selling hot dogs  in New
York. He was giving a location.
     "Affirmative, we're in the service road  for  Dent and Avon.  We are on
the south side. You'll see our lights. Affirmative, we have both of them."
     I stayed on my knees with  my hands  on my head  in  the rain  while we
waited for the others to arrive. I heard footsteps coming toward me from the
car. I clenched my teeth and  closed my eyes, expecting to be given the good
news. They walked slightly past me to my right and stopped.
     I didn't  hear the second one  come up behind  me. I  just felt a heavy
hand grip my own firmly on my head as the other felt for my weapon. The hand
pulled out the Sig, and in front of my  face I watched him  check the safety
catch  as  he  released  his  grip  on my  hands and, in the  same movement,
produced a clear  plastic bag. I  could smell coffee on his slightly labored
breath.
     Nothing happened  for a moment or two, apart from  the rustling  of the
bag behind me.  Into view  on my right came  a man who  looked  a bit like a
fashion seeker, dressed in a black suit with a mandarin jacket.  Fuck me, it
was Mr. Armani. He was maybe late twenties,  very  clean-cut, and  dark  and
smooth.  He  probably glided over the ground  so his shoes never got wet. He
was covering me.   I  heard  Kelly crying in the background. She must  have
been in the car. Fuck knows how she got there, but at least I knew where she
was. The man behind me continued with  the search and placed my stuff in the
bag.
     The hot-dog seller was being quite good with her;  he didn't  sound too
aggressive or rough. Maybe he had kids of his own.
     "It's OK, it's OK," he said.
     "What's your name?"
     I couldn't  hear her reply, but  I heard him say, "No, little  lady,  I
don't think your name's Josie, I think your name is Kelly."
     Good one, mate, at least you tried!
     Car lights stopped  on the  main road about 150  yards farther down, at
the end of  the alley. Then the red lights of a car  in  reverse were coming
toward me.
     By now all  my  stuff was in the  plastic bag and being held by whoever
was  behind  me.  I was still  on my knees, hands on head, with  Mr.  Armani
hovering to my right.
     There  were  noises  of  more people  behind me.  Hopefully  they  were
passersby who would report  us. But to whom? My hopes collapsed as  I  heard
the driver get out of the Caprice and start to speak.
     "That's OK,  folks, everything's  under control. There's nothing to see
here."
     I was confused. How could they just move people on unless they were law
enforcement? Maybe there was a glimmer of hope; maybe I'd be able to talk my
way  out of  this  one. I still had  the  backup disk hidden. Maybe  I could
bargain with it.
     The reversing  car stopped  about five yards away and three people  got
out the driver  from the left-hand side, and two  out of the  back. At first
they were in shadow and I couldn't see their faces, but then one walked into
the glare of the other car's headlights. And then I knew I was really in for
it.
     Luther was looking a  little the worse for  wear, and he wasn't blowing
me kisses. He looked like a pissed-off devil with a large gauze dressing. He
was still in a  suit,  but he wouldn't be wearing a tie for a while. I could
tell  by the smile on his face that he had a few tricks saved  up for me.  I
guess I'd earned them. He  walked toward me. I thought he was going to make
a  point.  I  closed  my  eyes and  got ready to take the hit, but he walked
straight past. That scared me even more.
     Luther started to talk as he got to the car.
     "Hi, Kelly, re member me? My name's Luther."
     There  were  some mumblings  in  reply.  I  was straining  to hear  the
conversation, but only the adult voice was audible.
     "Don't you remember me?  I came to pick your daddy up for work a couple
of  times. You have to come  with  me now, because  I have been sent to look
after you."
     I could hear protests from the car.
     "No, he's not dead. He wants  me to collect you. Now come on,  move it,
you little bitch!"
     Kelly  screamed,  "Nick,  help!  I  don't  want  to  go!"  She  sounded
terrified.
     Luther walked back to his car with her. He had his arm around her tight
to stop her from bucking and kicking. It was all over in a few seconds. Once
Kelly was secure in the  back of the car, all  three drove off. I felt as if
I'd been taken down by the fire extinguisher again.
     "Get  up." My  hands  were still on my head,  and I felt someone's hand
grip onto my right triceps and lift me up. I heard the car behind me move.
     I looked to my right. The short guy had  hold of me with his left hand;
in his right he  had the plastic bag  with  Kev's mobile, my weapon, wallet,
passport, ATM card, and loose change.  He turned me  around to face the car,
which had  just finished parallel parking in the  road, pointing  toward the
right. Mr. Annani had me covered.
     I'd stayed calm so  far. But  I had to get out of this shit now. I  was
going to be killed, it was as easy as  that.  The engine  was running, and I
had about ten yards in which to do something.
     Whatever I did, there would have to be  a lot of speed, aggression, and
surprise. And it must work the first time; if not, I was dead.
     The guy who was holding me was right-handed or he wouldn't be  dragging
me along with his left, and therefore, if I started fucking around, he would
have to drop the bag and draw his pistol. If I was wrong about that, I would
soon be dying. But I was dead anyway, so fuck it why not go for it?
     There were  about three yards left between me and the  car.  By now Mr.
Armani had glided to  the rear door to open it and, as his eyes glanced down
for the door handle, I knew it was time.
     YAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
     Screaming  at the  top of my lungs, I  brought my right hand down hard,
half-turned my hips, and hit his left shoulder as hard as I could.
     I had surprise on my side.  All three now had to take in what was going
on and make an assessment.  It would  take them little more than a second to
turn that assessment into reaction.
     As I hit him, I started  to push in an attempt to spin  him to his left
so that his  right  side would come toward  me. We were  both screaming now.
He'd already made his assessment. He  dropped the bag and  was going for his
weapon.
     I knew that for him also it was happening in  slow motion.  I could see
the saliva  spray out of his mouth  as he  shouted a warning to the  others.
There  was nothing to worry about with the other two at  the moment; if they
were quicker than me, knowing about it wouldn't make it any better.
     Looking down on his belt, I  could see the pistol moving  slowly toward
me  as  he spun around. Nothing else mattered. I kept my eyes on it. I heard
the other two screaming. We were all at it.
     The  Colt  .45 is a  single-action  weapon, which  means  that  all the
trigger does is release the hammer. To cock  the hammer  in the  first place
and  chamber the  first  round, you  must  first rack back the top  slide by
pinching  in with the fingers  and  thumb  of  the  left  hand  against  its
serrations,  pulling  it  back firmly to the rear, and releasing. The pistol
can be  carried "cocked  and locked" hammer back and safety on, with a round
in the breech. The Colt  has both a manual safety and a grip safety. Even if
the manual safety is off, your  hand must be firm enough on the grip to keep
the grip safety depressed or the weapon won't fire.
     I grabbed the pistol with my left hand, I didn't care where.
     At  the same  time  I brought my right hand  down,  with  four  fingers
together and my thumb stretched out to present a big re cess for the weapon.
I pushed onto it with the web of my hand, taking the manual safety catch off
with my thumb and using the  web  of my hand to release the grip  safety  by
holding the weapon correctly. I couldn't see if the  hammer was back. And I
had no way of knowing if the weapon had a round in the chamber. With my left
hand, I racked the top slide back to cock  it. It had already been cocked. A
brass  round spun out of the ejection  port, glinting as  it tumbled in  the
street lights. It didn't matter losing one round;  at least I wouldn't get a
dead man's click.
     I knew the first threat was Mr. Armani. He had a weapon in his hand.
     I kept turning in the direction the shoulder hit had taken me, and as I
did I  came up  into the aim,  firing low because these  fuckers wore armor.
Armani went down. I didn't know if he was dead.
     I  kept  on spinning  and  dropped the short  guy, moved for ward,  and
looked at the  driver. He was still in his seat, but in a crouched position,
screaming and writhing.
     I ran to his side of the car, pointing the pistol.
     "Move over!
     Move over! Move over!"
     I pulled the door open  and, keeping the pistol on him, kicked him with
my  right foot. I wasn't going to  start dragging him out; it would take too
long.  I  just wanted to get in the car and go. I shoved the muzzle into his
cheek and pulled out his weapon, kept it,  and threw mine out--I didn't know
how many rounds were left.
     The injury was to his  upper right arm. There was a small entry hole in
the material, but not much blood around the site.
     He must have taken one of  the rounds aimed at Armani as I spun around.
His  hand, however, was red and dripping from where  blood was coursing down
his  arm. The .45 round is big and heavy and doesn't fuck about. The massive
exit wound would have blown away most of the underside  of his arm.  I would
be having no problems from this guy.
     As I drove off I screamed at him, "Where are they going?
     Where are they going?"
     His answer was half a cry, half a shout.
     "Fuck you! Fuck you!" His dark-gray suit was turning brown with blood.
     I jabbed his leg hard with the pistol.
     "Where are they going?"  We were on a narrow residential  road. I tore
off both side mirrors in the  process of turning to question him. He told me
to fuck off again, so I fired. I could feel  the air  pressure change as the
gases left the barrel, and  then the  smell of cordite filled the air. There
was an explosion of material and flesh  as  the  round plowed a  twelve-inch
furrow along and down into his leg. He howled like a stuck pig.
     I didn't  know  where  I  was heading.  The  driver's  screams  quickly
subsided, but he kept thrashing about. His convulsions left him on his knees
in the  foot well  with his head  on  the seat. He  was starting  to go into
shock. He was probably wishing he did sell hot dogs in New York.
     "Where are they going?" I demanded again. I didn't want him to pass out
before I got the information.
     "They're heading south," he moaned.
     "Route ninety-five south."
     We were speeding on the elevated section of the highway that led to the
interstate.
     I looked across.
     "Who are you?"
     His face screwed up in pain as he fought for breath. He didn't reply. I
hit  him on the temple with the  pistol.  He gave  a low moan  and moved his
fingers sluggishly from his leg to his head. We passed the  Pentagon, then I
saw the sign for the Calypso Hotel. It seemed like a bad dream.
     "Who are you? Tell me why you're after me!"
     I could barely hear his reply. His  mouth  was  dribbling blood, and he
was finding it hard to breathe.
     "Let me go, man. Just leave me here and I'll tell you."
     No way was I falling for that one.
     "You're  going  to  die  soon.  Tell me and I'll help you.  Why are you
trying to kill us? Who are you?"
     His head lolled. He didn't reply because he couldn't.
     I  found  them  just short of the Beltway, in  the  middle of the three
lanes. It was easy to pick them out in my headlights. I could see they were
still three  up; one  in the  front, two  in the back. No sign of Kelly  but
there  was  enough space between the two in  the back  to  have another body
between them. She was only a little fucker; her head wouldn't be showing.
     I couldn't do anything on the freeway, so now was the time to calm down
and get my head  around the next plan.  What was I  going to do? Whatever it
was,  it had to  be soon, because I didn't know  their destination, and 1-95
goes  all the  way  to Florida. Much  nearer, however, about thirty  minutes
away, was Quantico, the FBI and DEA academy. It  was starting to make sense.
Luther  and  the other guy coming to  the house, both knowing Kev; they were
all the  same  group. But  why would they kill  Kev? And  if they  were  the
killers, what connection then did "bad DEA"  have  with my "friends over the
water"? Was there something happening here between these two groups that Kev
had discovered and got fucked over for?
     I thought again of Florida and it gave me an idea. I tucked it away for
later.
     I  looked  down at  the  driver.  He was in shitty  shape, still losing
blood. He was sitting in  a pool  of it because  the rubber  mat in the foot
well stopped the  carpet from soaking  it up.  I  could  see his face as the
lights from  the opposite side of the freeway hit us now and again; all  the
agitation had drained from  it and he looked ashen, like an old  fish;  life
was slowly  going  out of his  eyes, which were staring into  space. He  was
going to die soon. Tough shit.
     I reached over,  flipped  open his jacket,  and took the two  magazines
that were  in a holder on  his shoulder  holster. He was oblivious to what I
was  doing; he  was  in  his own place  now, perhaps reflecting  on his life
before he died.
     I had surveillance on the  target car. My wipers  were on high-speed as
the trucks and  cars  splashed more water onto the windshield than the  rain
itself. I put the defroster on full blast. The driver's leaking blood and my
own sweating body were misting the car up big-time.
     A freeway  was perfect  for my  purposes; I  could just drive along and
even allow  a bit of distance to develop to the point of letting another car
get in between  me and the target. As an exit came  up I'd just get a little
bit closer; if he was going to turn off,  I could then fall in naturally and
come up behind him.
     After  about  another five minutes I saw a sign  saying lorton  1 mile.
They started to indicate that they were getting into  the right lane to make
the exit. They weren't going to Quantico after all. This would be  the  time
to  hit them. I glanced down,  changed mags, and checked chamber. As I came
across to  get  into the right lane,  I realized for the first time that  we
were driving through heavily wooded terrain.
     The  tires throbbed rhythmically as they hit the joints in the concrete
freeway.
     By now the driver  had slumped completely into  the foot well  with his
back  against the door. It was only the body armor under his shirt that gave
him posture. He was dead.
     I was now in the exit lane, just twenty yards behind them, close enough
to be on top of them,  but  far  enough away so that  if they looked behind,
they'd just see headlights. Nobody turned their head; they didn't seem to be
aware of me. I started to take deep breaths and spark myself up.
     The Lorton exit ramp went slightly  uphill with  a gentle curve  to the
right. The tall trees on  each  side  gave  the  impression of a  tunnel.  I
planned  to do it at the  first  intersection.  My  brain was  in overdrive,
getting me into a mind-set, trying to take the fear away.
     I  could see traffic lights in the middle distance  and put my  foot on
the gas to close up even  more. Their brake lights came on, then their right
turn  signal.  A truck thundered past from left  to right. It looked like it
was a wide major road ahead.
     The car  started its right  turn.  Pushing myself back into the seat, I
put my foot down hard on the accelerator and braced my arms  on the steering
wheel.
     I  must  have been doing about  forty-five and still accelerating as  I
drew level and yanked the wheel hard to the right.
     My right fender hit the front of theirs. There  was a massive jolt.  My
air bag exploded as the car slewed around into the main drag.  The other car
spun sideways. I heard glass shattering and the screech of tortured rubber.
     The  moment the vehicle came to a halt I jabbed at the seatbelt release
and  opened the door. The air  felt freezing.  At first all I could hear was
the hiss of  the  radiator and the ping ping ping warning that  the door was
open and the lights on; then came  the sound  of muffled shouts  from inside
the other vehicle.
     The first priority was the driver. The car had to be immobilized.
     He was still fighting his seat  belt. I fired through the windshield. I
didn't know where I hit him, but he was down.
     As I looked into the back I could see Kelly, or at least her shape. She
was low down in the foot well hands over her ears.
     Luther was getting his first rounds off at me. His door  was half open,
and he was starting to roll out. I'd have been doing the same  because a car
draws fire--so you need to get out  of  the  way.  As he  rolled  I kept  on
firing,  just  below the  level of  the door.  He  screamed. I'd got  him. I
couldn't tell whether it was a direct hit or the splash of the round off the
asphalt, but it didn't matter, the effect was the same.
     I moved from behind the hood of my car to take on the third guy. He was
out  now  but had had a change  of heart.  He  put his hands up and  yelled,
"Don't do it, don't do it!" His  eyes were like saucers. I double-tapped him
in the head.
     Kelly was still curled up in a ball  in the  foot well She wasn't going
anywhere.
     I searched the two bodies for wallets and magazines. I  left Luther for
last.
     He was on the ground behind his car, hands clutched to his chest.
     "Help me... help me... please..."
     He'd  taken a  round in the armpit as he rolled on  the ground,  and it
must have continued on into his chest cavity. I thought of Kev, Marsha,  and
Aida and kicked. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that  came out was a
gurgle. He was on his way out. Good. Let it happen slowly.
     I ran back for  Kelly and lifted her out  other hiding place. I  had to
shout at her above her screams.
     "It's OK, Kelly. I'm here, it's OK."
     I held her tight in my arms. She was nearly deafening me.
     "It's all over now! It's OK!"
     It wasn't.
     The police  would be here soon. I looked around.  The inter section was
with a main road, two lanes in each direction. To my left and  downhill  was
1-95, crossing the road  by a bridge, with a  Texaco gas  station about four
hundred yards away on the other side of it on  the  right. Uphill  and about
the same distance away a Best Western hotel cut the skyline.
     Lights were coming from the exit road toward us. Luther was lying there
softly  moaning  to himself.  He wasn't dead, but it  wouldn't  be long. The
lights came closer.
     Kelly was still  hysterical. Grabbing her  to conceal my pistol, I went
behind the two cars.  The lights were nearly level  with us. I moved out and
waved the vehicle down.
     The good  Samaritans  were in  a  Toyota  Previa, man  and woman in the
front, two kids  in the  back. I played the traumatized victim for all I was
worth, shouting, "Help! Help!"  as I rushed to the driver's side. The  woman
was at the wheel; she opened her door.
     "Oh my God, oh my  God!" Her husband already had his cell phone  out to
call for an ambulance.
     I put the safety catch on and held the gun against her face.
     "Everybody out now! Get out, get out now!" My other arm was windmilling
like a madman's. Hopefully they'd think I was one.
     "Get out! I'll fucking kill you! Get out!"
     The one thing  I did  know  about  families is that  no one  will  risk
theirs. The husband started to lose it.
     "Please don't, please don't!" Then he started to cry.
     Kelly had quietened down, listening to my act.
     It was the mother who kept her cool.
     "OK, we are getting out. Dean, get the kids out. Out!"
     Dean  got  his  act together. I yelled at him, "Throw your  wallet back
inside!"
     I pushed Kelly through the sliding door, slammed it shut, ran around to
the driver's side, climbed up, and we were off.
     I  wanted  to get away  from the  initial danger area, then sort myself
out. The freeway was out because it would be too easy for the police to pick
me up. I drove up  onto the intersection and turned left  under the  bridge,
past the  garage.  The road  became a  normal two-lane highway, and I put my
foot down.
     This was no  time to be explaining stuff to Kelly. She was curled up in
the backseat, sobbing. My adrenaline rush was slowing down, but my face  was
soaked with sweat and I was lathering up. I took deep breaths, trying to get
more oxygen into my body and calm everything down. I felt unbelievably angry
with myself for losing control back there. I should have killed Luther right
off the bat, not fucked around.
     I realized we were heading south, away from the airport.
     I'd have to stop and get my shit together instead of just running in  a
blind panic. I pulled over and checked the road atlas.
     Kelly didn't look  good, but I  didn't have too much of a clue what  to
say to comfort her.
     "It's OK now," I tried.
     "I told you I was going to look after you, didn't I?"
     She looked up at me and nodded, her bottom lip quivering.
     I made a decision. Fuck it,  let's just go straight to  the  hotel, get
the  backup  disk, and clear  out. I swung the Previa around  in  a  U-turn,
heading for the freeway. We stayed on it until we hit the Beltway.
     Blue  lights flickered toward us. There  must have been ten of  them. I
wasn't  worried.  Even  if  they did ID  me, they'd  have to get  across the
median.
     It took  us  just under an  hour  to get to the  Economy Inn. We  drove
straight into the parking lot, and  I told Kelly  to wait where she  was. If
she did hear me, there was no reaction. I tried again and got a nod.
     I  went upstairs,  got out my pistol,  and went  inside.  I pulled  the
bureau onto its side,  the TV crashing onto the floor,  and ripped  the disk
away from the tape.  If Luther and  company were connected  with  PIRA, they
must know  I had a disk they had to  assume it, anyway. Retrieving the black
bag, I went into the  bathroom and threw two hand towels  into the bath  and
ran the  water. While that was happening I got the plastic  laundry bag from
the drawer. I put in the wet towels and some soap. I walked out of the room,
keeping the do not disturb sign on the handle.
     Kelly was still curled up  in the backseat. We  drove straight down the
road  to the  Marriott. I parked up  alongside  a  line of cars  and pickup
trucks and grabbed the towels. The  moment I opened the door, Kelly ambushed
me, throwing her arms around my  neck and clinging  hard. Her whole body was
shaking.
     I lifted her head off  my shoulder. Blood from the guy  I'd head-jobbed
had gone all over my jacket, and now some of it was on her face, too, mixing
with her tears. I whispered in her  ear,  "It's OK now, Kelly,  really it is
it's all over."
     She held on even harder. Her tears were warm and wet on my neck.
     I  said,  "I've  got  to go and get another  car, so I want you to stay
here. I won't be long."
     I started to  lift her away from me to put her back on the seat but she
resisted, burying  her face into  my  shoulder. I could feel the heat of her
breath through the material of my jacket.
     I put my hand on the back of her head and rocked gently.
     For a moment I didn't know who was clinging to  whom. The  idea of what
was  happening and who  might  be  behind it  scared  me  shitless. I had to
confirm what Luther had said, and now was as bad a time as any.
     "Kelly, do you know Luther?
     Was it true what he said about him coming to pick up Daddy?"
     I could feel her head nod slowly against my shoulder.
     "I'll never leave you alone again, Kelly. Let's just clean ourselves up
a bit, shall we?"
     I tried to sound happy as I used one of the wet hand towels to wipe her
face.
     "If  you're  going  to come with  me,  I'd  better  give  you a  really
important job. I want  you to look after the  bag while I go and get  a car,
OK?"
     "OK."
     As  she  dried herself  I checked  the wallets.  Just  over two hundred
dollars in all.
     The parking lot surrounded the whole hotel and was lit only by borrowed
light from the street.  The area dividers that made it easier  for people to
find their  cars were waist-high bushes and shrubs,  with small trees around
the main perimeter. There was plenty of  shadow.  I  positioned Kelly  in a
clump of shrubbery with the bag.
     "Don't come out until I stop the car and get out to fetch the bag,
     OK?"
     "Will I be able to  see you?" she whispered as she put her hood up. Her
coat was already wet from the leaves.
     "I want to see you."
     I  had my eye on  a  family-size  Dodge among the long lines of cars. I
said, "See  that big blue car over there? That's the one  I'm  going to pick
up." I didn't  actually  want to tell her  I was going  to  steal it,  which
seemed crazy after what had just happened.
     It   took  about  five  minutes  to  break  in.  The  vehicle   started
immediately. I put the  windshield wipers and defroster on high, rubbing the
inside of the screen with my sleeve. I backed up to the bushes, stopped, and
got out. Kelly climbed  into the front with a big smile, and we started off.
I stopped.
     "Seat belt!"
     She put it on.
     We headed south on 1-95.  About twenty miles before the Lorton exit  we
came  across temporary traffic signs warning us that the junction was closed
off.  As  we crossed  the  bridge,  I  looked  down to my  right  and  got a
bird's-eye  view of the shooting. Police cars  dotted the area, red and blue
lights  flashing. I didn't slow down with the rest  of the traffic to take a
closer look.
     The  gas  gauge showed three-quarters full,  so we could gain  a decent
distance before refueling. I turned  on the  radio,  surfing the channels to
find some news.
     There was quite a  lot of traffic, which  was good because  it  made us
just  one of many, but the highway itself was mesmerizingly boring. The only
variant was that  sometimes it was two lanes, then  three, then back to two.
At least it had stopped raining.
     After  a hundred miles  or so I was exhausted and my eyes were starting
to sting. I stopped for gas just over the Virginia-North Carolina border and
continued on south.
     Kelly was asleep in the back.
     By 1 a.m. we had traveled about 170 miles, but at least the speed limit
was higher now, up from sixty miles an hour to seventy. I kept seeing large
billboards featuring a  cartoon of  a Mexican,  advertising  a place  called
South of the Border. That would be our next stop in two hundred miles' time.
     We crossed into  South Carolina  at about 5  a.m. South of the  Border,
just a  mile or two farther down  the road, turned out  to  be a mixture  of
service area  and amusement  park. It was probably a great hit with families
going to and from the beaches of North and South Carolina. It covered a huge
area  and included beachwear shops, grocery  stores, drugstores,  even a bar
with dancing. It looked as if it  was still open,  judging by the  number of
cars parked outside.
     I started to fill up with gas. The weather was only a little bit warmer
than in D.C."  but I could hear the crickets; it definitely felt  like I was
going south.  I was still standing there  watching the  numbers spin  on the
pump  when a brand-new four-wheel-drive Cherokee rolled up. Rap music blared
out  as the doors opened.  Inside were four white college-age kids, two boys
and two girls.
     Kelly  had  already  been  awoken by the strong white  light under  the
filling station's canopy and now  took an interest in  the mobile  disco.  I
motioned with my  hand through the window to ask her if she wanted a  drink.
She nodded, rubbing her eyes.
     I went inside, picked up some drinks and sandwiches, and went up to the
counter. The cashier,  a guy  in his late fifties,  started totaling  up  my
stuff.
     The  two girls came in, followed by  one of  the boys.  Both girls  had
dyed-blond shoulder-length  hair.  The lad was skinny,  pimply,  and  had an
unsuccessful attempt at a goatee.
     The  cashier winked  and said  quietly,  "Love  is  blind." I smiled in
agreement.
     The girls were talking to each other, making more noise  than the music
system. Maybe they'd blown their eardrums. I looked outside at the other boy
filling  up. All  were in the same uniform:  baggy T-shirts and shorts. They
looked as if they'd been to the beach. You could tell they had money-Daddy's
money.
     They lined up behind me. One of the girls was going to pay.
     "That  was a totally cool day," she  shouted. I was meeting a real-life
member of the  cast  of Clueless. By the  sound  of  the  conversation their
parents were  total assholes who never gave them  enough money,  even though
they were loaded and could easily afford it.
     The cashier gave me my change and leaned over to me.  "Maybe getting a
job would help!" His eyes twinkled.
     I grinned back and started  to pick up  my stuff from the counter.  The
girl came up to pay and opened her purse. Clueless Two, still behind me with
the boy, was pissed off by the cashier's comment, and at me for agreeing.
     "Look at that face, guys!" she stage-whispered behind my back.
     "What's bitten you, mister?" The lad guffawed.
     Daddy was very generous by the look of it, no matter  what she  said. I
saw a wad  of cash and  enough cards for a bridge tournament. The other  two
were holding  the beers they'd gotten  from  the fridge and were giggling. I
left.
     Our vehicles were facing each other at the pumps.  Sitting in the front
of the Cherokee was  the fourth member of the group,  who'd finished filling
up and was now air-drumming along to whatever shit was on the
     CD.
     Kelly was stretched out across the backseat. I  went over to her window
and tapped. Kelly sat up, startled, and I held out her Coke.
     The other three were now coming out of the shop. Clueless Two was still
pissed  off. As  they  got  in  their car  I heard one of the  girls shriek,
"Fucking asshole," and they closed the doors to gales of laughter.
     I got into the Dodge and drove over  to the air pump. The story was now
being told to the driver, and I  could see them all getting  worked up about
it. The boys had to show how hard they were, and the girls didn't like being
shown  up in front of their beaus. There was a lot of chemistry driving  out
of the garage.
     As  the  Cherokee  rolled away from  the  pumps,  it caught  me  in its
headlights, chatting away  with Kelly  as I  checked the tires.  They slowed
right  down and looked at us.  Clueless One must have  made a crack about my
appearance, because they  all laughed  and the driver gave me  the finger to
make him look good, then zoomed off into the night.
     I gave it about a minute, backed out, and followed.
     I didn't want to do it on the highway unless I had to. Sooner or  later
I knew they'd turn off the main drag so they could drink those beers  out of
sight of highway cops and maybe spread a couple of blankets on the ground.
     After just five  miles  we  followed the big Jeep onto a potholed  road
that seemed to go through the middle of nowhere.
     "Kelly,  see that car ahead?  I have to stop and  ask them something. I
want you to stay in the car, OK?"
     "OK." She was more interested in the Coke.
     I didn't want to force them off the road or do anything drastic. It had
to look natural in case another car drove past.
     We  passed a roadside store that  was closed, then  a large truck stop,
then a trailer park and a  big stretch of dark nothingness, then an isolated
house. I was  beginning to  think I'd fucked up when at last it  happened. I
saw a stop sign four  hundred yards ahead; accelerating,  I got a bit closer
and checked for other car lights.
     I  drove up on their  left-hand side.  Beeping my horn, I waved at them
with  the road map and  gave a big smile.  They all  looked  over,  and as I
turned  the interior  light  on  they saw first me, then  Kelly in the  back
half-asleep. They looked worried, then recognized me as the asshole from the
gas station, Jokes were exchanged, and their beer cans came back up to their
mouths from their hiding places.
     I  got  out.  The crickets  were  louder out  here than at  the filling
station. I kept looking  at them, smiling. The map was for Washington, D.C."
but they couldn't see that, and by the time they did, it would be too late.
     The driver was making a comment to the rest, probably proposing driving
off as soon as I got to the door.
     I  said, "Hiya!  Can you help me? I'm trying to get  to Raleigh"--which
was a place I'd seen signs for on the freeway, way back in North Carolina.
     As the electric window  rolled  down farther,  I  could hear  whispered
giggles  from the backseat ordering  the  driver to tell me  to fuck  off. I
could see he had other ideas, maybe to send me anywhere but Raleigh.
     "Sure, man, I'll show you."
     I offered the map through the open window.
     "I don't know  how I got lost. I must have taken the wrong exit after I
got gas.
     He didn't need the  map. He started  to give directions, pointing  down
the road.
     "Hey, man,  just turn left and go for about  twenty miles until you see
..." The girls were liking this one, working hard to stifle their sniggers.
     I got  hold  of  his head with  my left hand, pulled  my pistol up, and
stuck it into the young flesh of his cheek.
     "Oh shit, he's got a gun, he's got a gun!"
     The  other three  went  silent, but the  driver's  mouth went into free
wheel
     "I'm sorry, man, it was a joke, just a joke.
     We're drunk, man. It's the bitch in the back who started it.
     I've got nothing against you, man."
     I  couldn't even be  bothered  to answer him. I shouted  into the back,
"Throw your purses out! Now!"
     My Southern drawl was quite good, I thought. I just hoped I was looking
scary enough. The girls passed over their handbags.
     By  now the  driver  was trembling,  and  quiet tears  rolled down  his
cheeks. The girls huddled together.
     I looked at the front passenger.
     "You."
     He looked at me as if he were one of a hundred I could be talking to.
     "Yes, you. Give me your  money, out this window." It  took all  of  two
seconds for him to comply.
     It was the driver's turn. He beat his pal's  record. I reached in, took
the keys,  and  put them in my  pocket. He didn't seem too clever now. I had
another look around for lights. All clear.
     The pistol was still against the driver's skin. I said quietly into his
ear, "I'm going to kill you now."
     Everyone else heard it and wanted nothing to do with him.
     I said, "Say whatever prayer you need to say, and be quick."
     He didn't pray, he begged.
     "Please don't kill me, man, please don't."
     I  looked  down and  saw that  his  shorts,  made  of  gray  sweatshirt
material, were  rather  darker now.  Daddy would not  be  impressed with the
stains on his nice beige leather.
     I  was quite enjoying it, but knew I  had to  get going. I stepped back
and picked  everything off  the road. I glanced at Clueless Two. She  looked
like she'd swallowed a wasp.
     "What's bitten you?" I said.
     I got in the car, did a one-eighty, and drove off.
     Kelly said, "How come you made those  people give you their money?" She
sounded confused.
     "Because we need loads of money, and we're much nicer than they are, so
they wanted us to have it."
     I  looked at  her in the rearview  mirror. She knew  damned well I  was
lying.
     I said, "You want a job?"
     "Like what?"
     "Count this money."
     She opened up the bags and wallets and piled all the bills in her lap.
     "At least a million dollars," she said at length.
     "Maybe count it once more to check."
     Five minutes later I got the more realistic figure of $336.
     The clueless girls were wrong. Daddy was a diamond.
     We started seeing signs for Florence. That would do me fine.
     The town was  about sixty miles away, and it  was about  five-twenty in
the morning. It would be getting light by sevenish, and if possible I wanted
to be in a town before dawn. I'd dump the  Dodge, and we'd have to find some
other form of transport. We had to get to Florida if I was to get the help I
needed.
     About ten miles short,  I saw a sign for a tourist information area.  I
pulled in  and  took a free map of the town and surrounding area.  Kelly was
half-awake as  we  parked.  I  opened the door and got  out. The birds  were
singing,  and I could just make out first  light.  There was a little nip in
the air,  but you could tell  it  was going to be a  nice warm  day. It felt
great to have a stretch. I  stank of sweat and  had a layer of grease  on my
skin; my eyes were stinging and no  doubt bloodshot and swollen from lack of
sleep. The pain in my neck still made  me walk as if  I had  a plank of wood
strapped to my back.
     The  map  showed a train station  in the town; not necessarily helpful,
but it was a start. I got back into the car and  started to get the bags and
wallets  together  to dump. All  were  expensive leather. A couple were even
monogrammed. Inside one of them I found coke and  a lump of pot in a plastic
bag.  The  spoiled brats had  obviously been on spring  break,  college kids
using  up all  their hormones before the end of the semester.  Mom  and  Dad
worked  their  asses off and provided  for these  kids and they  thought the
world owed them a living.
     Fuck 'em, I was glad I'd  robbed  them. I laughed;  they were  probably
still sitting  there blaming each other, trying to think of a way of getting
piss stains off leather upholstery. There  was a good chance  they'd be  too
embarrassed to even report it. I dumped everything in the trash cans.
     We drove toward the train station. It looked as if the town center were
terminally ill, but big efforts had been made to keep the patient alive; the
old  historical part  had  been rejuvenated, but  it seemed that every store
sold candles, perfumed soap, and potpourri. There was nothing there for real
people, no life in it at all.
     We got to the station, which could have  been any station  in any town,
mil of the homeless who stay there because it's warm.  It reeked  of  bodies
and decay. Drunks were sprawled on benches that nobody  in their  right mind
would go near for fear of getting their head bitten off.
     I looked at the departure signs. It seemed  we could get to  De Land by
train,  with a bus transfer to  Daytona Beach.  It was just before  six; the
train would be arriving at seven.
     The ticket office was already open and looked as if it had been modeled
on an  urban  7-Eleven, wire mesh everywhere, painted  white but chipped.  I
could just  about see the  large face  behind it that was  demanding to know
where I wanted to go.
     An hour later we got on the  train, found our seats, and collapsed. Our
car was no more than half full. Kelly cuddled into me, dog-tired.
     "Nick?"
     "What?"
     I  was busy looking at the other passengers.  They all looked  like me,
frazzled grown-ups looking after kids.
     "Where are we going?"
     "To see a friend."
     "Who's that?"  She  sounded happy at the idea. Probably  she was fed up
with my company.
     "He lives near the beach. His name is Frankie."
     "Are we going on vacation with him?"
     "No, Frankie's not that kind of friend."
     I decided to  keep the conversation going, as she would be asleep in no
time at all. The rhythmic sounds and motion of the train would soon send her
off.
     "Who is your best friend? Is it Melissa?"
     "Yes."
     "How come she's your best friend?"
     "Uh  we ride bikes together, and  go to each other's houses  a  lot. We
have secrets."
     "What kind of secrets do you have?"
     "Silly, that would be telling! Who's your best friend?"
     That was easy, but I wasn't going to say his  name.  If we were  lifted
again,  I would hate it if he was mentioned  and  put in danger. The sun was
starting to burn through the windows;
     I leaned across her and pulled down the blind.
     "My best  friend is called  ... David." It was  about  as far away from
Euan as I could think of.
     "Just like you and Melissa, we tell each other things that no  one else
knows. In fact, he has a daughter who's just a little bit older than you.
     No one else knows about her apart from David and me and now you!"
     There was no reply. It seemed she was starting to doze off. I continued
anyway, I didn't know why.
     "We've known each other since we were seventeen, and we've been friends
ever  since." I started to stroke  her  hair. I was going to talk  more  but
found  it really hard to  tell her. I couldn't put it into words. Euan and I
were just there for each other and always had  been. That was it,  really. I
just didn't  have  the  tools to  describe it.  Frank de  Sabatino had been
crossed off the Christmas-card list of LCN La Cosa Nostra  in Miami  and for
his own  protection  had been sent over to  the  UK as part of  the  federal
witness protection program. I had been one of the team  charged with looking
after him for the three months he spent in Wales before returning to the US.
I remembered  Frankie as about five-foot-five and seedy; he had  very black,
tight,  curly hair that looked as if it  had been  permed in the style of  a
1970s pop star.
     The FBI had been  investigating LCN in South Florida they don't use the
word "Mafia"  and had  discovered that de  Sabatino, a  thirty-four-year-old
computer nerd who worked for one of the major players, had been skimming off
hundreds of thousands of dollars from their drug operations.  The government
agents  coerced de Sabatino into gathering  evidence for the prosecution. He
had no choice if  he were arrested, LCN would  be told what he'd been up to.
LCN  members in prison would have done the rest. Pat had had a good relation
ship with him during the  job, and  we'd later joked that maybe that was why
he'd got out right afterward. I now  knew  that  Pat had liked to sample the
goods a bit too much.
     Frankie's clothing had been anything but low profile; to him, "subdued"
meant a pale orange shirt with purple pants and alligator skin cowboy boots.
Whatever he was wearing,  his fat would push up against his  shirt. The last
I'd  heard of him, he'd been given a new identity after the trial  and, very
surprisingly, had  opted  to stay in  the States  and, even  more weird,  in
Florida. Maybe the shirt selection wasn't so good elsewhere.
     I'd thought again about calling  Euan,  but what could he  do for me at
the moment?  I decided against  it;  better  not use up all my  resources at
once.  Frankie would help  decrypt  the PIRA stuff,  then Euan could help me
once I was back in the UK.
     We got  to  De  Land station just before 2 p.m. The bus was waiting  to
take us to the coast. After so many hours of air-conditioning on  the train,
the Florida afternoon hit  me as if I'd opened the door  of a blast furnace.
Both of us were blinking like bats under the  clear, oppressive sky. We were
surrounded  by  people  wearing  tans and  summer  clothes.  The  electronic
information scroll at the station told us it was ninety-one degrees.
     We boarded the hot bus, sat  down, and waited for the PVC  to stick  to
our backs as we chugged along the highway to the Daytona Beach bus depot.
     It was  an uneventful trip. Occasionally from behind us would  come the
sound of rolling thunder, and a blur of chrome, leather, and sawed-off denim
would  flash past  with  the  distinctive,  explosive bubbling  gurgle  of a
Harley-Davidson. I'd forgotten  Daytona Beach  was a mecca for bikers. From
the bus window, the roadside diners looked black with them.
     Two hours later we trundled across the bridge  over the inland waterway
into  downtown  Daytona  Beach.  We peeled ourselves off  the  seats,  and I
reclaimed  our bag.  The first thing  I  did  was buy  us two fresh-squeezed
orange  juices, and as we walked  from the shelter of the  bus depot I could
feel the sunlight burning through my shirt.
     At the taxi stand I asked the driver to take us to an ordinary hotel.
     "What kind of ordinary?" he asked.
     "Cheap"  The  driver  was  Latino. Gloria  Estefan blasted  out of  the
cassette player; he had a little statue of the Virgin Mary on the dashboard,
a  picture  of  his  kids hanging off the mirror,  and he was wearing a big,
loud, flowery shirt de Sabatino would have died for. I rolled my window down
and let the breeze hit my face. We turned onto Atlantic Avenue, and I  found
myself staring at a massive white ribbon of hard-packed  sand that stretched
to  infinity. We  drove past  diners,  beachwear and biker  stores,  Chinese
restaurants, oyster houses, 7-Elevens, parking lots, tacky hotels, then more
diners and beachwear stores.
     The  whole place was  built  for vacations.  Everywhere I turned  I saw
hotels with  brightly  colored murals.  Nearly  all  had signs saying spring
breakers welcome. There was even a cheerleaders convention going on; I could
see scores of girls in skimpy outfits  strutting their stuff on a ball field
outside the convention center. Maybe Frankie was there, sitting in a corner,
ogling.
     "Are we there yet?" Kelly asked.
     The driver said, "Two more blocks on the left."
     I saw all the usual chain hotels, and then ours--the Castaway Hotel.
     Standing  on  the  sidewalk  outside,  listening  to  Gloria's  singing
disappearing  into  the  distance, I  looked at  Kelly  and said,  "Yeah,  I
know--crap."
     She grinned.
     "Triple-decker crap with cheese."
     Maybe,  but it looked  perfect  for us.  What  was more,  it  was  only
twenty-four dollars a night,  though I could  already tell  from the outside
that we'd get only twenty-four bucks' worth.
     I came out with the same old story,  plus  us being determined still to
have our Disney vacation. I didn't  think  the woman at the desk believed a
word I was saying, but she just didn't care, as long as I gave her the  cash
that went into the front pocket other dirty black jeans.
     Our room was a small box with a pane of glass in one wall.
     The floor had a layer of dust that it would have been a shame to clean,
and the heat bouncing off the cinder block made  it feel like the black hole
of Calcutta.
     "Once the air-conditioning is on it'll be OK.," I said.
     "What air-conditioning?" Kelly asked, looking at the bare walls.
     She flopped  onto  the  bed. I could swear I  heard  a thousand bedbugs
scream.
     "Can we go to the beach?"
     I was thinking the same, but the first priority, as ever, was the kit.
     "We'll go out soon. Do you want to help me sort every thing out first?"
     She seemed  happy at the suggestion. I gave her the  .45 magazines from
the Lorton exit shooting.
     "Can you take  the bullets out and put them in there?" I pointed to the
side pocket of the bag. The mags didn't fit into my Sig, but the rounds were
the same.
     "Sure" She looked really pleased.
     I didn't show her how to do it because I wanted to keep her busy. I hid
the  backup disk inside the bed,  using one  of the screwdrivers to rip  the
mattress lining. I got the  washing kit  out, had a shower and a shave.  The
scabs were a dark color now and hard. I got dressed in my new jeans and gray
T-shirt.
     Then I got Kelly cleaned up too.
     It  was 4:45. She was still getting dressed in black pants  and a green
pullover as I leaned over to the cabinet between the two beds and pulled out
the telephone book.
     "What's this?"  I pointed a thumb at the TV " The Big Bad Beetleborgs."
"The who?"
     She started to explain but I wasn't really listening; I just nodded and
agreed and read the phone book.
     I was looking for the  surname DeNiro. It  was  a crazy name for him to
have chosen, but I remembered that was what he'd renamed himself: Al DeNiro.
For somebody who was supposed  to  spend his  life keeping a low  profile it
wasn't exactly the  most secure, but he was Al and Bob's  biggest  fan.  The
only reason he'd got involved in the drug  scene in the first place was that
he'd seen Al Pacino in Scarface. His whole life had been a  fantasy. He knew
all the dialogue from their films;
     he'd even entertained us in Wales with passable impressions.
     Sad, but true.
     There  was no  listing  under  De Niro, A. I tried directory assistance
They  couldn't  help, either. The next step would  be to  start phoning  all
around the state or to get a private eye on it with some story, but that was
going to take a lot of time and money.
     Scratching my butt until I realized  Kelly  was watching, I walked over
to the  curtains, and pulled  them back. We  were  two bats in the bat  cave
again, exposed to the deadly sunlight.
     Craning my neck around to the left, I  could just about see  the  ocean
view I'd  paid an extra five dollars for.  People were  strewn all over  the
beach;  there  was  a young couple who couldn't  keep their  hands  off each
other, and families, some with tans and others like us, the lily-white ones,
who looked like uncooked trench fries. Maybe they'd come on the same train.
     I turned to Kelly. She was happy enough that the Beetle-borgs had saved
the world again, but looked bored.
     "What are we going to do now?" she said.
     "I've got to find my friend, but I'm not sure where he lives.
     I'm just wondering how to go about it."
     "The computer geek you told me about?"
     I nodded.
     All  very nonchalant, she said, "Why don't you try the Net?" She wasn't
even looking at me; she was now  back  to watching  the shit  on the  TV  Of
course--the bloke is a computer  freak,  there's no way he's not going to be
on  the Internet,  probably surfing the  porn pages  for pictures  of naked
teenagers. It  was as good a starting  point as any. Better than  my private
eye idea, anyway.
     I walked over to the bag.
     "You can use the Net, can you?"
     "Sure. We do it at school."
     I  started  to get  the laptop out, feeling  quite  excited  about this
girl's genius.
     I  suddenly realized  that  even  if  there was  an internal modem  and
Internet software on the  laptop, it  would  be no good to me. I didn't have
any credit cards I could use to register with, and I couldn't use the stolen
ones because they'd need a billing address. I put the laptop on the bed.
     "Good idea," I said, "but I can't do it on this machine."
     Still looking at the TV, she was now drinking a warm  Minute Maid  that
had been in the bag, using both hands  on the carton so she  didn't have  to
tilt her head and miss anything.
     She said, "We'll  just have to go to a cyber cafe--when Melissa's phone
was out of order, her mommy used to go to the cyber cafe for her email."
     "Oh, did she?"
     * * * Cybercino  was  a coffee  shop  with  croissants,  doughnuts, and
sandwiches, with the addition  of office dividers  to create small cubicles.
In  each  was a PC, with  a little table  for food and drink. Pinned on  the
dividers were  notices  about  session  times, how  to  log on,  and  little
business cards advertising various sites.
     I bought coffee, doughnuts, and a Coke and tried to log on.
     In the end I handed the controls to a more skilled pilot. Kelly  zoomed
off into cyberspace as if it were her own backyard.
     "Is he on AOL, MSN, CompuServe, or what?" she demanded.
     I didn't have a clue.
     She shrugged.
     "We'll use a search engine."
     Less  than a minute later we  were visiting a site  called  Info-Space.
Kelly hit the e-mail icon and a dialogue box appeared.
     "Last name?"
     I spelled out De Niro.
     "First name?"
     "Al."
     "City?"
     "Better leave that blank. Just put Florida. He might have moved."
     She hit Search, and moments later, up came his e-mail address.
     I couldn't believe it. There was even a Send Mail icon, which she hit.
     I sent a message saying I wanted  to  contact Al  De Niro-or anyone who
was a  Pacino/De Niro  fan and knew "Nicky Two" from the UK.. That  was  the
nickname de Sabatino had given me. There were three Nicks on the team. I was
the second  one he'd  come  in contact with. When  we  met  he would do  his
Godfather thing, holding out his arms, saying, "Heyyy, Nicky Two" as he gave
me a kiss and a hug. Thankfully, he did that to everyone.
     The cafe  would open  the next  day at 10 a.m. Our session fee included
the use of the Cybercino address, so I signed off by saying that I would log
on  at 10:15  tomorrow morning to retrieve  any messages. The  risk that his
e-mail was being monitored and somebody could make a connection with  "Nicky
Two" was minimal.
     By  now  I was hungry  for more  than  doughnuts, and so  was Kelly. We
walked back toward the main strip and stopped at our favorite restaurant. We
ordered to go  and ate our Big  Macs  on  the walk back. The temperature was
still in the seventies, even at this time of the evening.
     "Can't w