"Shit," said Kurtz. He'd forgotten to call Arlene to tell her to forget the Aysha pickup. Something didn't feel right about that rendezvous, although Kurtz couldn't think what.

Whatever it was, it wasn't worth risking Arlene for. He'd figure out this little puzzle without the Yemeni girl.

It was 11:23 when he rang Arlene's cell phone, and he got a busy signal. That wasn't like her. He kept hitting redial until they reached their destination, a large industrial and storage complex near the tracks less than two miles from Brie County Medical Center. Gonzaga owned the complex and Kurtz had asked for the proximity to the hospital. They'd humored him.

Waiting Gonzaga guards opened no fewer than three gates before the two SUVs drove into the center of the complex—a rain-slickened loading area a hundred yards across, flanked on three sides by the dark factory buildings.

Arlene's line was still busy. "Shit," said Kurtz and put the phone away.

"That's why I like traveling with you, Kurtz," said Angelina. "The conversation."

Toma Gonzaga rolled in next in a black Suburban. He had three of his men with him, but only one—the heavy-lidded but obviously alert bodyguard Kurtz had seen in the limo with Gonzaga—was going on tonight's raid with the don. Kurtz reached through his headache to find the man's name… Bobby. Everyone was wearing black trousers and turtlenecks. It was like some formal event for manosa. People began unloading things from the various SUVs when yet another pair of the big vehicles showed up. These were Baby Doc's men and they had the largest number of crates and metal boxes to unload. Everyone was armed, most with automatic weapons, and the boxes being unloaded from Baby Doc's vehicles were mostly army-stenciled ammunition and weapons containers.

It's beginning to look like some sport-utility commercial from hell here, thought Kurtz. He almost chuckled out loud before he realized that his headache had faded about as far as it was going to, most of his early aches and pains were gone, and he felt great—alive, alert, eager, ready to fly to Neola under his own power and take on the Major and his men with his bare hands if he had to.

I've got to ask Angelina for the recipe for those blue pills, thought Kurtz.

Then, a few minutes before midnight. Baby Doc himself arrived in a Long Ranger helicopter. The thing buzzed in from the north, circled the enclosed compound twice, and set down next to the gaggle of SUVs. Kurtz was astounded at how large the helicopter was—and at how much noise it made. We're supposed to sneak up on the Major and his men in this fucking thing? was his first thought.

Well, this had all been Kurtz's idea. He stepped back with the others as the dark-green Bell Long Ranger settled onto its skids amidst a cyclone of dust and whirling debris. It looked like Baby Doc, in the front right pilot's seat, was the only one aboard. He killed the jet turbines, the howl lowered itself to a whine and became a whisper, the big rotors slowed, and Baby Doc pulled off headphones and a mike, disappeared for a second, and then slid the big side cargo door back and to the side. He gestured impatiently for his men to begin loading some of the boxes.

The interior of the Long Ranger had its six seats pushed aside against the outside bulkheads or fuselage or whatever. The central floor was empty and had been covered with a plastic tarp taped down all around.

I wonder why… Kurtz's thoughts began and then ended with an Oh, yeah. This chopper was a rental, and Baby Doc certainly didn't want to return it with blood and gore everywhere. He'll probably lose his damage deposit, thought Kurtz and had to hold back another snicker.

Baby Doc stood in the doorway and looked at Angelina and Gonzaga. "You folks have anything for me?"

Campbell went back to his SUV and carried a flight bag to the chopper. One of Gonzaga's men did the same thing with a nylon backpack. Baby Doc nodded to one of his men, who opened the bag, counted the three-quarters of a million dollars, nodded to his boss, and carried the bags back to their vehicle. Kurtz wondered idly where even mafia dons found three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars in cash lying around on a Sunday evening.

"Listen up," said Baby Doc. "Here's what you're getting for your money tonight." The Lackawanna longshoreman and mob boss was wearing his old green Army flight suit—the velcroed-on name badge read Lt. Skrzypczyk—and it still fit him after twelve years. He wore a regulation-issue pilot's tan shoulder holster and what looked to be a service.45 tucked in it. Baby Doc began opening the olive green boxes and handing out gear, beginning with canvas shoulder bags to stow the loose crap in.

One of his men pulled automatic weapons from the longest carton—Mp5s Kurtz saw, guessing from the tubular stocks, although his familiarity with Army weaponry started and ended with being qualified on M-16s and sidearms. His weapon of choice as an MP so many years ago was the baton. Baby Doc's man offered one short rifle to each person going on the raid.

"Keep your army toys," said Toma Gonzaga. He and his man, Bobby, held up sawed-off 12-gauge shotguns.

Angelina's bodyguard, Campbell, took an Mp5 for himself and one for his boss, slinging both of them over his shoulder.

"The smaller clips hold thirty rounds, the larger ones a hundred and twenty rounds each," said Baby Doc. "Carry as many as you can stuff into the ditty bag I gave you…"

"Holy Mary, Mother of God," whispered Angelina as the larger banana clips were handed out and stowed. "We're really going to war."

"It seems that way," muttered Toma Gonzaga. The handsome don appeared to be amused.

Kurtz waved off the automatic rifle. If the 9mm Browning and two extra magazines didn't prove adequate for the evening, he was in deeper shit than he could imagine.

Baby Doc's men carried the extra Mp5s back to their SUV and opened another olive-green box and began handing out what appeared to be thick, cylindrical grenades.

"Flash bangs," said Baby Doc, still standing in the chopper's doorway. "They're not going to blow anything up, but they'll blind and deafen anyone in a room for a few seconds. Just remember to roll them in before you go through the door." He gave quick instructions on how to activate and throw the things.

Kurtz stowed three of the flash-bang grenades in his new little ditty bag.

They opened another container and offered flexcuffs.

"Hey," said Toma Gonzaga. "I'm not going down there to arrest these people." Angelina had Campbell grab several. "We'll want someone to talk to us," she said.

Kurtz took several. Baby Doc's men opened another large crate and began handing out black Kevlar vests. Everyone going took one of these.

It's like Christmas morning in downtown Baghdad, thought Kurtz. He set his ditty bag and other gear down, pulled off the windbreaker, and began tugging and velcroing the thin but heavy vest in place around him.

"Here, I'll help," said Angelina's bodyguard, Campbell. The man securely adjusted and fastened the side straps for Kurtz.

"Thanks."

"These aren't military spec," Baby Doc was saying. "But they're up to SWAT specifications. In fact, they were stolen from a SWAT supply house."

When everyone was a little bulkier and warmer and less comfortable, Baby Doc himself unlatched the last metal box. He held up a bulky fistful of optics and straps. "State-of-the-art military night vision. Each pair weighs two-point-two pounds, has digital controls and an infrared mode that you won't want to fuck with. They also have five-times magnification that you also won't want to fuck with."

"What will we want to fuck with?" asked Gonzaga's man, Bobby.

Baby Doc told them how to get the straps adjusted and to power the things up. The bodyguards tried them on. Gonzaga, Angelina, and Kurtz slipped theirs into their already bulging ditty bags.