Pike was responsible for three different groups of journalists that day, so he split his crew, giving the Jublaban run to Lonny, Frank, Colin Chandler, and an ex-French Foreign Legion trooper named Durand Galatoise. Two Land Rovers, two operators per Rover, the journalists divided between them. A fast thirty-two miles over the mountains, leave in the morning, back after lunch. Durand Galatoise packed two bottles of Chablis because one of the journalists had a nasty smile.

They left at eight that morning, Lonny and Frank in the lead truck, Chandler and Galatoise in trail, and reached Jublaban without incident. There to do a story on rural medical care, the journalists were interviewing Jublaban’s only physician when an incoming RPG hit the second Rover, flipping it onto its side. The operators and journalists immediately came under small-arms fire.

Galatoise was killed within the first sixty seconds, the remaining Rover was hit, then Lonny Tang caught the piece of shrapnel that tore him inside out. Frank and Chandler realized they were facing eight or ten men, then noticed an approaching nightmare: Four armored vehicles and two full-sized battle tanks were rumbling toward them across the desert. With both Rovers disabled, the operators and their journalists were trapped.

Frank pushed Lonny Tang’s intestines back into his body, then wrapped him with pressure bandages and belts to keep him together. While Chandler laid down cover fire, Frank ran to his burning Rover for radios, more ammunition, and a.50-caliber Barrett rifle they used for sniper suppression. The Barrett, a beast of a rifle that weighed over thirty pounds, could punch through engine blocks at more than a mile.

Chandler herded the journalists to a more defensible location, but Lonny Tang could not be moved. Frank stashed him in a stone hut, then moved forward with the Barrett gun. Frank later said he was crying during the entire firefight; blubbering like a baby, he would say, running, then firing, then running again.

Pike heard much of it through his radio, with Chandler broadcasting a play-by-play as Pike coordinated a rescue mission with a British air controller.

Frank Meyer fought on like that for almost thirty minutes, running and gunning with the Barrett even when the tanks and armored vehicles crunched into the village, Frank banging away like a lunatic to draw them from Lonny Tang.

Everyone later assumed the big boomers turned back into the desert after they picked up their troops, but Colin Chandler and the BBC journalists reported that a young American named Frank Meyer had shot it out toe-to-toe with four armored vehicles and two heavy tanks, and driven the bastards away.

Frank’s contract expired five days later. He wept when he shook Pike’s hand for the last time, boarded an airplane, and that had been that, changing one life for another.

Pike officially retired from contract work sixty-two days later, and maybe Frank’s decision had something to do with Pike’s decision, though Pike never thought so. Pike had told Frank to do it. Build the family he wanted. Leave the past. Always move forward.

PIKE WAS STILL AT Frank’s desk when his cell vibrated, there in the cool blue light.

Stone said, “All right, listen. They’re watching a guy named Rahmi Johnson. Been on him for almost a month. I’ve got an address here for you.”

“If they’re on him, he didn’t murder Frank.”

“Rahmi isn’t the suspect. Cops think his cousin might be involved, a dude named Jamal Johnson.”

“Might be, or is?”

“Gotta have proof for it, but he looks pretty good. Check it out. Jamal was released from Soledad two weeks before the first score. He crashed with Rahmi when he got out, but moved out three days after the score. Four days after the second score, Jamal dropped by with a sixty-inch plasma to thank Rahmi for putting him up. A week after the third score, Jamal tools up in a brand-new black-on-black Malibu with custom rims. He gives the car to Rahmi, too. Can you imagine? My guy’s telling me this, I’m thinking, shit, I wish this asshole was my cousin, too.”

Stone broke out laughing, but the laughter was too loud and too long. Stone had been drinking.

Pike said, “Where’s Jamal?”

“Nobody knows, bro. That’s why they’re sitting on Rahmi.”

“Maybe Rahmi knows. Have they asked him?”

“They did, and that’s where they fucked up. Rolled by something like two months ago, when Jamal was first identified as a person of interest. Heard he was crashing with Rahmi, so they went by. Rahmi played stupid, but you know he warned Jamal the second those cops were out the door. That’s when Jamal dropped off the map.”

Pike thought about it. Thought how he would play it.

“They should ask him again.”

Stone laughed.

“Well, they’re cops, not you. That timeline business, that’s not proof, but it’s convincing. They don’t want to arrest the guy, they want to follow him. They want to catch him in the act or clear him, one way or the other.”

“So SIS is covering Rahmi, hoping Jamal will come around again.”

“They got nothing else, man. Jamal’s their only good suspect.”

Pike grunted. SIS was good. They were patient hunters. They would shadow their target for weeks like invisible men, but Pike didn’t want to wait that long. Stone was right. The police were trying to build a case, but Pike didn’t care about a case. His needs were simpler.

“What’s that address?”

Stone cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Okay, now listen, we can’t have any blowback here. You go barging in and it comes back to me, the SIS guys will know who gave them up. You ruin their play, my guy is fucked.”

“No blowback. They’ll never see me.”

Stone laughed again, still too loud and too long, and now more than a little nervous.

“Only you could say that, Pike, talking about SIS. Jesus Christ, bro, only you.”

Stone was giving Pike the address when light exploded into the office, so bright the walls and furniture were white with glare. Pike, still in the chair with his back to the window, did not move. The patrol car had returned.

Pike said, “Sh.”

“What’s wrong?”

An enormous blue shadow crossed the office wall as if someone had moved in front of the light. Pike heard faint radio calls, and listened for approaching footsteps.

Stone’s tiny voice came from the phone.

“You sound weird, man. Where are you?”

Pike whispered, as still as a fish at the bottom of a pond.

“Frank’s. The police are outside.”

“You break in?”

“Sh.”

The light swung away, moving to another part of the house like an animal tracking a scent.

“What the fuck are you doing at Frank’s?”

“I wanted to see what his life was like.”

“You’re a strange cat. I mean, really.”

The light snapped off. The yard plunged into darkness. The radio chatter faded. The patrol car rolled on.

Pike said, “Okay.”

“Hey, is it nice?”

“What?”

“Frank’s house. Does he have a nice place?”

“Yes.”

“Fancy?”

“Not like you mean. It’s a good family home.”

Pike heard Stone swallow. Heard the glass tink the phone.

“You think it’s true, he went bad?”

“Chen thinks the people who did this got the wrong house.”

“Like, what, they got confused about which house they wanted to rob?”

“It happens.”

“What do you think?”

“ Doesn’t matter.”

“No. No, it surely doesn’t.”

Stone made a deep sigh. Pike thought it might have been a sob, but then Stone had another sip of whatever he was sipping, and went on.

“Assholes like this, they go in these houses, right house, wrong house, murder people like they were nothing, probably sleep like a baby after it’s over. How many times have they done this?”

“Frank was the seventh.”

“You see? This is my point. Six times before, they got away clean. Murdered some poor bastard, and there have been no consequences. Hence, these people do not fear the dead. They LOVE the dead, Joe, because the dead-and I apologize if my assessment here seems harsh-but, the dead have not been effective when it comes to consequence and retribution.”