Two weeks earlier he had dispatched a pair of gunners to eliminate the leader of a ring that was importing flake direct to Washington from Bogota. His soldiers had been missing for three days before a jogger was attracted by the odor rising from the trunk of an abandoned Chevrolet in Hyattsville. Authorities had found a human jigsaw puzzle inside the trunk, bits and pieces severed, trimmed and rearranged with what appeared to be a chain saw.

It was time to teach the Indians a lesson, and the only question left in Frankie's mind concerned the where and when of the instruction. There had never been a question in his mind concerning how to do the job. Such foolish insolence could not be cured, it could only be annihilated, and the problem now was pinning down the clique, securing an address, a location, where his gunners could surprise a group of them. Nicky wouldn't like the bad publicity, but once he had a chance to think it over, he would realize that there had been no other choice. So sure was Frankie in his mind, that he had already decided to proceed without the capo's blessing.

But in the meantime there was business, product to be moved and money to be made. The world kept turning in spite of the Colombians or anybody else, and Frankie Scars was not about to let life pass him by.

Phase one of his campaign to purge the Indians was economic. In the short run he could undercut their prices, take a loss on street sales while he waited for phase two, the military phase, to coalesce. He had connections in Bolivia, and while their product couldn't hold a candle to the pure Colombian cocaine, its lower quality allowed for lower prices on the street. When the Peruvian was advertised as pure Colombian, the budget rates were even more astounding, and the customers were lining up from Constitution Avenue on back to Arlington with hands out, nostrils flared. He could supply them at the discount rates for two or three more weeks before the costs became prohibitive, and in the meantime he had spies and gunners scouring the city, searching for a target that would put them on the map.

He was expecting a delivery tonight, in fact, and had arrived an hour early at the warehouse to ensure security. The flake was coming in by truck, a dozen hefty plastic bags sewn into the upholstery of tacky furniture, three loaded chairs concealed within a shipment of two dozen. On arrival, Frankie's men would strip the chairs, retrieve the bags of crystal, stuff the chairs with pre-cut foam and ship the whole lot off to one of Frankie's discount shops in Delaware. The flake would stay behind, and by this time on Monday it would be fulfilling fantasies for congressmen and bureaucrats across the city.

Frankie checked his watch and nodded to the lookouts posted on the loading dock. The truck was due, and he would give them fifteen minutes more before he closed the warehouse, rerouting to the backup drop.

A sudden glare of headlights cut across the loading dock, and Frankie heard the truck now, engine growling, air brakes hissing as the driver put it in reverse and backed it in. The stevedores, all armed in case of unexpected trouble, were proceeding toward the dock, and Frankie followed, one hand wrapped around the roll of cash he carried in the pocket of his trench coat. He was passing through the giant doors, had one foot on the concrete apron, when the world exploded in his face.

The moving van appeared to swell before his eyes, as if it were inhaling monstrous breaths somehow, and then it detonated, roof and sidewalls peeling back along the welded seams, a fireball rolling outward and sizzling across the dock. The flames consumed his lookouts and a couple of the stevedores before the rest could scatter, left them dancing on the platform like burning puppets wreathed in flames. He was driven backward by the shock wave and the sudden heat. Automatic-weapon fire erupted from the firelighted darkness of the parking lot, precision bursts dispatching fiery dancers.

It would be the Colombians, he knew, and Frankie Scars was cursing, digging for his side arm, searching for a target in the firelight. From the shadows of the warehouse, several of the stevedores were firing blindly from the cover of a forklift, spraying useless rounds. Frankie Scars was braced to make a run for their position, take his chances with the unseen gunners in the darkness when a larger weapon coughed out there, beyond the margin of the firelight, and the forklift suddenly exploded into flames. He saw two bodies airborne, others wallowing across the pavement in a lake of fire, and something snapped inside of Frankie Scars.

He bolted, giving up his meager cover, and pounded back into the warehouse toward the distant sanctuary of his office and the weapons hidden there. He would surprise the bastards yet, if only he could get his hands on some of the artillery he kept in case of an emergency.

Before he made a dozen strides, the mobster's legs were cut from under him. He did an awkward belly flop and felt the pistol skitter from his fingers, lost before he could react. It took a moment — too damned long — for Frankie to regain the feeling in his legs, and when it hit him, there was nothing he could do but scream.

From out of nowhere one of the attackers loomed above him, reaching out and rolling Frankie over with his foot. From where he lay, the big bastard didn't look like a Colombian, all dressed in black that way, but you could never tell. The mobster's full attention focused on the cannon in his hand, and Frankie recognized it at a glance. It was a frigging M-16, with something like a stovepipe mounted underneath the barrel. He didn't have to ask the bastard what it was — not after sitting through selected clips from Scarface seven times.

"What the hell..."

He knew precisely what the gunner wanted, but he was intent on buying time. One of his own hitters might emerge from hiding, pop the bastard where he stood.

But no one came to rescue Frankie Scars.

The man in black crouched beside him with the muzzle of his cannon smack in Frankie's face.

"Somebody has a package that belongs to me," he said. "Somebody should deliver while they can."

"A package?"

"Spread the word."

The guy was rising, leaving. Frankie Scars could not believe that he was going to survive. He didn't understand a fucking word the guy had said, but he would spread the word, yes. They would be hearing him from hell to Sunday once somebody got him out of there, tried to save his legs. He had no wish to spend the rest of his forsaken life as Frankie Stumps.

It was eternity before he heard the sirens, heralding the swift approach of fire trucks, with an ambulance, and at the sound of their arrival, Frankie Scars wondered where he went wrong in his life.

Susan Landry had tried Brognola's office first and had been advised that he was "on holiday," but she could not let it go that easily. She had his private number, legacy of her encounter with "John Phoenix" and the Stony Man debacle, and she dialed it from a roadside booth, surprised when Hal had answered on the second ring. His voice was tense and strained; he fairly snapped at her before she had a chance to speak. Afraid that he would deny the interview immediately, she had mumbled something incoherent, hastily apologizing for her error, hanging up and racing for her car.

The address had required more effort than Brognola's private number, but she had a contact with Ma Bell, and she had marked Hal's street for reference on her map before she left the office. He would be surprised to see her, certainly; he might demand to know how she had found him. Long experience had taught her that it was more difficult for men to dodge an interview in person. Even if he slammed the door in Susan's face, there was a decent chance that some remark would point her toward another source of information. Susan Landry recognized her personal effect on men, and she was not ashamed of using any means at her disposal to secure a story. She had never bargained sex for information, but if femininity could open certain doors, so much the better.