"I've arranged for a ride for you to Fayetteville, and made reservations for you in the Airport Motel, and on the Delta feeder flight to Atlanta leaving at eight forty-five in the morning. You'll connect in Atlanta to San Antonio. I'd like to get off the ground as soon as possible. What's the fuel aboard?"

"Enough for another nine hundred miles, maybe a thousand."

"There's an Army captain inside base operations. Name of Brewster. He'll take care of you from here on. If you'll ask him to send the others out, I'll talk to the pilot."

"Okay, thanks," the copilot said and walked toward the base operations building.

Castillo went in the airplane and walked to the cockpit.

"Wow, don't you look spiffy in your soldier suit!" Fernando Lopez said from the pilots seat.

"Jesus, you didn't have to come, Fernando."

"Yeah, I did, Gringo. I seem to recall you saying it was important."

"I made reservations for two at the motel, plus two Delta tickets back to San Antonio."

Lopez shrugged. "So now it's reservations for one. Where do we go from here, Gringo? And when?"

Castillo stared at his cousin, considered the options, then nodded slightly. "Washington, Philadelphia, and then back here. Now."

"Just you and me?"

"Three guys-figure six hundred pounds-and another four hundred in gear."

"There's enough fuel remaining to make Washington-Ronald Reagan-I know those approaches and it's a good place to refuel. Okay?"

"Sounds fine."

"I don't suppose you remembered to check the weather and file a flight plan?"

"Weather's fine, and, yeah, they're holding our clearance to Washington with a fuel stop at Raleigh-Durham. I didn't know what your fuel remaining would be."

"We can change Raleigh-Durham once we're up," Fernando said.

"Did you remember to give the copilot some cash?"

"Indeed, I did. Which reminds me:"

He handed Castillo an envelope.

"What's this?"

"A thousand dollars."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Thank Abuela."

"Abuela?" Castillo asked, surprised.

"Like she says, she's old but not brain-dead," Fernando said. "She's got a pretty good idea of what you do for a living. You wouldn't believe how long that money-and that's not all of it-has been in my bedside table waiting for you to need it. There's also a couple of pistols in my Jepp case."

"You didn't tell her about this, for Christ's sake?"

"Yeah. I promised her if anything ever happened I would tell her and I did. She said to tell you she's praying for the both of us."

"Jesus H. Christ!"

"Are you going to stand there blaspheming," Fernando lisped, "or are you going to see if our passengers are comfy, their seat belts fastened, and the NO SMOKING light is on?"

He pointed out the side window.

Castillo bent over and looked out.

The three Delta Force communicators, all dressed in sports jackets and slacks, were almost to the airplane, dragging enormous, wheeled, hard-sided civilian suitcases behind them.

"You told Abuela?" he repeated. "Jesus H. Christ!"

Then he turned and went into the cabin and helped the communicators load their enormous suitcases aboard.

"Raleigh area control," Castillo said into his microphone. "Lear Five-Oh-Seven-Five."

"Seven-Five, Raleigh."

"Lear Seven-Five passing through flight level twenty-five, on a course of twenty true, indicating five hundred knots."

"I have you on radar, Seven-Five."

"Request change in flight plan to skip fuel stop at Raleigh. Request permission Ronald Reagan direct at flight level three-zero."

"Raleigh area control accepts change of flight plan for Lear Five-Oh-Seven-Five. Proceed on present heading. Report to Washington approach control on reaching flight level thirty. Raleigh hands over Lear Five-Oh-Seven-Five to Washington approach control at this time."

"Understand maintain present course, report to Washington approach when at flight level thirty. Thank you, Raleigh."

Castillo turned to Fernando and gave him a thumbs-up. Then he looked at the altimeter and spoke into his microphone again.

"Washington approach control, Lear Five-Oh-Seven-Five."

"Seven-Five, Washington."

"Seven-Five is at flight level three-zero, on heading of twenty true, indicating 530 knots. Request approach to Reagan."

"I have you on radar, Seven-Five. Maintain present course and flight level. Report over Richmond."

"Seven-Five understands maintain present course and flight level, report over Richmond."

Castillo touched a small button on his headset which switched his microphone and earplug from TRANSMIT to INTERCOM.

"Okay, Fernando," he said. "Tell me about Abuela being old but not brain-dead."

"I wondered how long it was going to take you to get around to asking me about that," Fernando said, smiling at him.

"Come on," Castillo said, not pleasantly.

"It started right after we buried Grandpa:" Fernando began.

[FIVE]

Hacienda San Jorge

Near Uvalde, Texas

2130 15 November 1998

There were still almost a dozen cars packed in the drive of the Big House when Fernando returned from San Antonio and he remembered his grandfather saying that the only thing Spanish people liked better than a wedding or a christening was a funeral.

Well, he had a big one. A heart attack is a classy way to go and the funeral had been spectacular. They'd actually run out space to park airplanes at the strip, and even the Texas Rangers had sent an official delegation. Great-great-grandfather Fernando Castillo had been one of the original Texas Rangers.

There were lights on in his grandparents' bedroom, which meant Abuela was still awake, and he went there, through the kitchen, so he wouldn't have to deal with the hangers-on in the sitting room.

"How you doing, Abuela?" Fernando asked as he bent over his grandmother and kissed her forehead.

She was sitting in one of the two dark red leather-upholstered reclining armchairs facing a large television set.

"Holding up, I guess," she said, touching his cheek. "Carlos got off all right?"

"Yes, ma'am. I guess he really had to go; the minute we walked in base operations at Kelly and he gave his name, a pilot came up-a major-and said his plane was on the tarmac. An Air Force Lear. Pretty spiffy for a lowly lieutenant, huh?"

"Carlos is a captain now," she corrected him. "And what he's doing is very important."

That doesn't sound like just the doting opinion of a loving grandmother.

"Do you know something I don't?" Fernando asked.

"I heard you two talking last night," she said. "You know as much as I do. So stop it. I don't want to spar with you, Fernando: your grandfather was always saying that, 'I don't want to spar with you,' wasn't he?"

"Yes, ma'am, he was." He paused and then went on, "Abuela, the Grin: Carlos had a couple of drinks last night. Maybe a couple too many."

"He had more than a couple too many," she said. "It's a family tradition, Fernando. When Jorge was killed in Vietnam, your grandfather was drunk for a week. And then, when we finally could bury Jorge, he was drunk for another week."

"He loved Grandpa, Abuela."

"You don't have to tell me that," she said, then added, "Why don't you fix yourself a drink and then sit in your grandfather's chair?" When she saw the mingled surprise and confusion on his face, she further added, pointing to a half-full brandy snifter on the table between the chairs, "I poured that when you drove away. I've been waiting for you to come back to drink it."

"Anything you say, Abuela."

"We have to talk about Carlos," she said. "This is as good a time as any."