The brakes of a train screeched on the other side of the blackened stone walls. The subway was down here, just parallel to us. There was a stench of garbage and waste that kept getting worse the farther we walked.

I knew that street people lived in some of these tunnels. The NYPD had a Homeless Unit to deal with them.

“Anything there?” Groza muttered, fear and uncertainty in his voice. “You see anything?”

“Nothing.” I whispered. I didn’t want to make any more noise than we had to. I sucked in another harsh breath. I heard a train whistle on the other side of the stone walls.

There was dim light in parts of the tunnel. A scrim of garbage was underfoot, discarded fast-food wrappers, torn and grossly soiled clothing. I had already seen a couple of oversized rats scurrying alongside my feet, out food shopping in the Big Apple.

Then I heard a scream right on top of me. My neck and back stiffened. It was Groza! He went down. I had no idea what had hit him. He didn’t make another sound, didn’t move on the tunnel floor.

I whirled around. Couldn’t see anyone at first. The darkness seemed to swirl.

I caught a flash of Soneji’s face. One eye and half his mouth in dark profile. He hit me before I could get the Glock up. Soneji screamed-a brutal, primal yell. No recognizable words.

He hit me with tremendous power. A punch to the left temple. I remembered how incredibly strong he was, and how crazy he had become. My ears rang, and my head was spinning. My legs were wobbly. He’d almost taken me out with the first punch. Maybe he could have. But he wanted to punish me, wanted his revenge, his payback.

He screamed again-this time inches from my face.

Hurt him back, I told myself. Hurt him now, or you won’t get another chance.

Soneji’s strength was as brutal as it had been the last time we met, especially fighting in close like this. He had me wrapped in his arms and I could smell his breath. He tried to crush me with his arms. White lights flickered and danced before my eyes. I was nearly out on my feet.

He screamed again. I butted with my head. It took him by surprise. His grip loosened, and I broke away for a second.

I threw the hardest punch of my life and heard the crunch of his jaw. Soneji didn’t go down! What did it take to hurt him?

He came at me again, and I struck his left cheek. I felt bone crush under my fist. He screamed, then moaned, but he didn’t fall, didn’t stop coming after me.

“You can’t hurt me,” he gasped, growled. “You’re going to die. You can’t stop it from happening. You can’t stop this now.”

Gary Soneji came at me again. I finally raised the Glock, got it out. Hurt him, hurt him, kill him right now.

I fired! And although it happened fast, it seemed like slow motion. I thought I could feel the gunshot travel through Soneji’s body. The shot bulldozed through his lower jaw. It must have blown his tongue away, his teeth.

What remained of Soneji reached out to me, tried to hold on, to claw at my face and throat. I pushed him away. Hurt him, hurt him, kill him.

He staggered several steps down the darkened tunnel. I don’t know where he got the strength. I was too tired to chase him, but I knew I didn’t have to.

He fell toward the stone floor. He dropped like a deadweight. As he hit the ground, the bomb in his pocket ignited. Gary Soneji exploded in flames. The tunnel behind him was illuminated for at least a hundred feet.

Soneji screamed for a few seconds, then he burned in silence-a human torch in his cellar. He had gone straight to hell.

It was finally over.

THE JAPANESE have a saying-after victory, tighten your helmet cord. I tried to keep that in mind.

I was back in Washington early on Tuesday, and I spent the whole day at home with Nana and the kids and with Rosie the cat. The morning started when the kids prepared what they called a “bubba-bath” for me. It got better from there. Not only didn’t I tighten my helmet cord, I took the damn thing off.

I tried not to be upset by Soneji’s horrible death, or his threat against me, I’d lived with worse from him in the past. Much worse. Soneji was dead and gone from all of our lives. I had seen him blown to hell with my own eyes. I’d helped blow him there.

Still, I could hear his voice, his warning, his threat at different times during my day at home.

You’re going to die. You can’t stop it from happening.

I’m coming for you, from the grave if I have to.

Kyle Craig called from Quantico to congratulate me and ask how I was doing. Kyle still had an ulterior motive. He tried to suck me into his Mr. Smith case, but I told him no. Definitely no way. I didn’t have the heart for Mr. Smith right now. He wanted me to meet his superagent Thomas Pierce. He asked if I’d read his faxes on Pierce. No.

That night I went to Christine’s house, and I knew I had made the right decision about Mr. Smith and the FBI’s continuing problems with the case. I didn’t spend the night because of the kids, but I could have. I wanted to. “You promised you’d be around until we were both at least in our eighties. This is a pretty good start,” she said when I was leaving for the night.

On Wednesday, I had to go to the office to start closing down the Soneji case. I wasn’t thrilled that I had killed him, but I was glad it was over. Everything but the blasted paperwork.

I got home from work around six. I was in the mood for another “bubba-bath,” maybe some boxing lessons, a night with Christine.

I walked in the front door of my house-and all hell broke loose.

NANA AND the kids were standing before me in the living room. So was Sampson, several detective friends, neighbors, my aunties, a few uncles, and all of their kids. Jannie and Damon started the group yell on cue, “Surprise, Daddy! Surprise party!” Then everybody else in kingdom come joined in. “Surprise, Alex, surprise!”

“Who’s Alex? Who’s Daddy?” I played dumb at the door. “What the hell is going on here?”

Toward the back of the room I could see Christine, at least her smiling face. I waved at her, even as I was being hugged and pounded on the back and shoulders by all my best friends in the world.

I thought Damon was acting a little too respectful, so I swooped him up in my arms (this was probably the last year I would be able to do it) and we hollered assorted sports and war cries, which seemed to fit the party scene.

It’s not usually a very charitable idea to celebrate the death of another human being but, in this case, I thought a party was a terrific idea. It was an appropriate and fitting way to end what had been a sad and scary time for all of us. Somebody had hung a droopy, badly hand-painted banner over the doorway between the living room and dining area. The banner read: Congratulations, Alex! Better luck next lifetime, Gary S.!

Sampson led me into the backyard, where even more friends were waiting in ambush. Sampson had on baggy black shorts, a pair of combat boots, and his shades. He wore a beat-up Homicide cap and had a silver loop in one ear. He was definitely ready to party, and so was I.

Detectives from all around D.C. had come to offer their hearty congratulations, but also to eat my food and drink my liquor.

Succulent kabobs and racks of baby-back ribs were arranged beside homemade breads, rolls, and an impressive array of hotsauce bottles. It made my eyes water just to look at the feast. Aluminum tubs overflowed with beer and ale and soda pop on ice. There was fresh corn on the cob, colorful fruit salads, and summer pastas by the bowlful.

Sampson grabbed my arm tight, and hollered so I could hear him over the noise of joyful voices and also Toni Braxton wailing her heart out on the CD Player. “You party on, Sugar. Say hello to all your other guests, all your peeps. I plan to be here until closing time.”