McMichael had long ago noted that when the situation got tight, Hector's voice rose and he seemed to fret more.

"No," said McMichael. "Once that Mack gets in line, there's no turning around. Even if Bland sees one of us, it's going to be too late."

"That's him in lane two, man. Slow down."

McMichael coasted and Hector called Rawlings. He told the captain the score, said yessir twice, punched off.

"He said the same thing you did. Said they got good disguises. Whatever that means."

They tailed, comfortably back, to the South Bay Parkway. Then onto Interstate 5, headed for the border.

"Yeah," said Hector. "He wants to watch. I still don't like this, Mick. I don't like Bland close enough to recognize our guys, then calling the brothers. Goddamned costumes or not. If they know they're blown, man, anything could happen."

McMichael veered off on San Ysidro Boulevard, took the side streets toward the commercial vehicle gate.

They parked behind a liquor store, grabbed the binoculars and hustled into the shadows. When the traffic got thin they ran across Virginia Avenue and ducked around the corner of a closed carneceria. Looking around the building McMichael could see the commercial gate and the big floodlights up on the scaffolding, the INS and Customs vehicles parked in apparent disarray, the uniformed agents moving in and out of the booths, one line of trucks southbound and another coming back north into the bright lights of America.

McMichael watched as the vehicle exhaust roiled up into the lights then dissipated into the darkness. The walls of the Customs building threw sharp shadows across the tableau. The gunmen on the catwalks looked down with lazy alertness and McMichael had the unwelcome, illogical premonition that they were Axelgaard people, not theirs.

Bland's white Ford emerged from the darkness, glided alongside a chain-link fence topped with concertina wire, stopped forty yards in front of them and thirty yards to the left, directly between the detectives and the border crossing.

"Perfect," whispered Hector, retreating behind the corner.

"Plenty damned close," McMichael whispered back.

They giggled dryly and leaned around the wall again, McMichael standing and Hector kneeling, two half faces peering around the plane of the building like cartoon characters. McMichael saw that Bland had gotten out to lean against the Crown Vic, his elbows propped on the roof and a pair of binoculars snug to his face.

McMichael stepped away from the building just far enough to get his own binoculars up and focused. He could see the breeze moving the hair on Bland's head. Beyond Bland, McMichael barely recognized Rawlings, a black cowboy hat pulled low, a gray corduroy jacket with a yoked back, and scuffed black cowboy boots. He stood with his fists on his hips, watching the drug dogs sniff his pickup truck in the inspection area. The truck had a magnetic sign on the door that said BOB MCGUANE CUTTING HORSES- TEMECULA, CA, and a bed filled with alfalfa bales. McMichael spotted Hatter slouching on a bench, wrapped to his ears in a serape, looking dirty and disconsolate. Bent next to him, similarly dressed against the January chill, her face charcoaled to a black mask of neglect, was Barbara Givens. McMichael noted that her disguise failed to hide her hopeful blue eyes.

Hector pulled him back behind the corner. "You see Barbara and the captain?" he whispered excitedly. "Where the hell is Hatter?"

"Right next to her," said McMichael.

"Oh, too good."

Hector smiled and peered around the corner again. McMichael checked his watch, made sure- for the third time- that his cell phone was on vibrate and not ring, then leaned back out over Hector.

He focused his glasses on the northbound Mexican Customs lane and saw the big red Mack idling three vehicles back. Mason Axelgaard of the Imperial Beach Police was at the helm, and Victor Braga sat next to him, headphones over his ears, gazing out the window and bobbing his head. McMichael lowered the binoculars just slightly, picking up Bland's backside and noting the cell phone now lying on the roof of the Ford, just inches from Bland's right elbow. Too late, he thought. Even if he spots one of them, it's too late now.

But Bland gave no air of recognition or worry. He set his binoculars down on the roof and let his arms drop to his sides, shaking his hands to get the circulation going. He swung around slowly and McMichael stepped behind the wall of the butcher shop, pulling Hector with him.

For the next twenty minutes they took turns at the corner. At eleven-forty the Auto Leather International rig, laden with new Fords, lumbered forward through the hovering exhaust and onto United States asphalt.

McMichael checked Bland: still on point, leaning against his car, field glasses up and aimed. Then the rest of Homicide Team Three- Rawlings looking puzzled as a U.S. Customs agent showed him a clipboard, Hatter and Barbara still on the bench, huddled in their serapes. He could see the gunmen high on the catwalks and the INS patrolmen loitering outside the Customs booth.

A moment later, curly-haired Martin Axelgaard walked from the booth and into the ferocious white light, giving the Mack a hard, accusatory look. He went to the driver's side and said something up to his brother. Mason handed down a slip of paper. Victor leaned over and pulled a headphone away from one ear. Two more Customs men came from the booth, one moving along the trailer and looking up at the new cars. The other came around the front, looked at the license plate and entered something on a handheld device. The dog handlers walked their animals up one side of the trailer and down the other, but didn't bother to get up near the cars.

Martin Axelgaard handed the slip back up to his brother and waved him through.

McMichael thought: here we go.

Rawlings sauntered toward the Mack. Hatter and Barbara stood, loosened the serapes and fell in behind him, heads down.

The Mack's engine groaned and a blast of fresh exhaust spilled from the pipe and into the air. A white panel van moved away from the inspection area and cut a slow angle across the asphalt, stopping a few yards in front of the Mack. Mason Axelgaard hit the horn. The van didn't move and nobody got out of it. He hit the horn again- a nerve-rattling airhorn that made McMichael flinch even this far away. The gunmen on the catwalk unshouldered their carbines.

Golden-haired Martin Axelgaard strode from the Customs booth toward the panel van while Rawlings rounded the front of the Mack, headed for the driver's side.

The back of the van flew open and three FBI men spilled out, sidearms drawn at Mason Axelgaard in the truck. Rawlings drew from under his corduroy jacket and backed off, holding his badge up high with one hand and his automatic at his side with the other, yelling something up at Mason as Barbara and Hatter shed their serapes, drew their weapons and ran to the front of the rig.

Bland's head quickly vanished from the bottom of McMichael's round, binocular view. He was in the Crown Vic and rolling. McMichael stepped away from the building as the Ford sped down the street, Bland's cell phone bouncing to the pavement, and when he got the glasses back up McMichael saw Mason step down from the cab with his hands submissively behind his head while Rawlings shouted something up at Victor.

Out on the driveway Martin raised his hands as the FBI men swarmed him.

Victor tumbled down out of the Mack, trying to keep hold of his CD player. Mason looked back sharply at him, then turned again to Rawlings, and at the same time his hands came together in front of him and a comet of orange flame flashed from his weapon a full second before McMichael even heard it.

Rawlings went down hard, his badge holder suspended for a split second in midair before it dropped to the ground beside him.