The more the colonel thought about how she had completely ignored his charisma, the more confused he had become. Did she not realize that he literally held life and death in his hands or at his command? No one ever refused him. Not in Panama and not here in the United States. She was only an FBI agent. He was the head of the national police narcotics unit and one of the richest men in all of South America.

He thought back to his betrayal by the first and only woman he ever thought he loved. The day he found that whore with his father, doing the same things she had done with him. This was close to that feeling. Not a rage, but more of a determination. An urge to dominate her and anyone like her. He could do things to her she couldn't imagine. But he could. A good beating with a leather strap or riding crop would go a long way to showing her what an error she had made by rebuffing him.

He stood up from the bed and realized he was sweating though his shirt and his face was drenched in salty moisture.

He stepped into the bathroom and wiped his face with the towel on the rack. Looking in the mirror, the first thing he noticed was that the twitch in his left eye was going off like a car's turn signal. What had this woman done to him?

He looked at his face and shoulders in the mirror, mystified that any woman would be able to resist him. Even if she didn't know about his wealth, he didn't see how she had backed away from his advances. He was so angry he had to spit into the sink.

She'd pay. The only question was, who would go first? The troublesome ATF agent or the silly female FBI agent?

Now he had a real reason to stay in the U.S. until his missions in life were complete.

Alice Brainard had puzzled about the fact that the shipping notices had given off such a strong signal to the fireman's Geiger counter and was now concerned enough to have moved them into the lab. Not that she thought she'd get sick from it, but why take chances? Working in a lab with chemicals and other things had taught her that being careful was a real plus.

She had looked on the Internet and spoken to one of the other forensic scientists about the possibility of something being contaminated by a cargo. No one seemed to know the answer.

She started checking and learned that U.S. Customs used small radioactive "pagers" that would set off an alarm if they came in contact with a ship that was carrying anything radioactive. She called over to the customs office in the Port of Palm Beach and couldn't get anyone but a machine on the phone.

Finally it started to bother her enough that she decided to take one of the shipping notices over there herself.

She had already slipped it into a plastic evidence bag and now into an old metal box that had been sitting unused for years in the crime scene room. She lugged the box to her Honda and decided today she would eat lunch in Riviera Beach, conveniently right next to the port. She had her sheriff's office ID and hoped she'd be more successful talking to someone in person.

ALEX DUARTE OPENED THE DOOR TO THE HOTEL ROOM A CRACK and tried to see inside. The bright sunlight made it difficult to see into the gloomy room. For a reason unknown to him, he slid his right hand to the butt of his pistol. He leaned into the door and opened it a little farther.

The room still remained too dark to see anything. He went ahead and pushed the door inward, feeling it catch slightly on something. For a moment, he thought he might be finding another dead body. That was starting to get old.

As the door opened all the way, with his hand still resting on the knob, he looked into the room and saw the white propane gas tank. Then he thought about the slight catch in the door and saw the loose curtain strings on the floor.

His mind just reacted and he pulled the door to him, hoping to contain the blast he knew would come.

He saw the flash in the crack of the door and heard the blast just as the door was about to close.

Orange flames peeked out all around the door, and the window next to him blew out.

At the same time, he felt the door fly loose from its hinges and lift horizontally off the ground, with him still holding on.

He flew across the breezeway and into the parking lot like he was riding a magic carpet instead of a propane gas-powered door.

He made no sound as the explosion filled his eyes and vision.

He caught a glimpse of Félix instinctively ducking as he passed by him on the floating door.

Pelly smiled when he saw the old lady give Duarte the key and then go back to minding her own business. He couldn't have planned it more precisely. It was almost like the ATF agent was following his script.

Then Pelly saw him hesitate at the door. He opened it a crack and paused. Had he detected the trap?

Pelly thought back over his actions and tried to see if he could determine what he might have done to give away his plan.

Then Duarte pushed the door open.

Pelly let out his breath, knowing the pins had just been pulled from the grenades, and when they detonated so would the propane. He involuntarily squinted his eyes.

Duarte jumped back outside, but it was too late. The flash of the explosion reached Pelly before the sound.

That was one less problem as far as Pelly was concerned. The ATF man wouldn't bother him or the colonel again.

ALEX DUARTE FLINCHED AS FÉLIX BAEZ TREATED A CUT ON HIS head with some peroxide they had bought on their way back to the hotel in New Orleans.

Considering the size of the blast and the damage to the hotel room, Duarte was still amazed he had gotten away with only a few cuts and some singed hair on the right side of his head.

Félix said, "You sure we shouldn't have stayed and talked to the responding cops?"

Duarte shook his head. "No one was hurt." He jumped when the peroxide and cotton struck an open wound. "Except me." He took another breath. "I don't want to give anyone a reason to take me off this case. Someone is going to a lot of trouble to keep us from finding out everything. That pisses me off."

Félix smiled. "I've never seen you pissed off." He paused. "Or happy or sad or tickled or annoyed."

"Yeah, I got it, I got it."

Félix chuckled. "I never seen a flying ATF man. You looked like Aladdin floating across that lot." He laughed louder. "And the old cleaning woman. She looked like she seen a ghost."

Duarte slipped past Félix and stood, stretching out his back and arms. He wouldn't admit that anything was sore from the blast. But everything below his eyes did hurt.

"Okay, Félix. Tomorrow I'll find this Jessup character over in Biloxi."

"What time should I be ready?"

Duarte held up his hand. "Not on this. I can handle it. You need to stay on Lina and see what she knows. She's got the source, Pale Girl, and anything Staub learns. I don't think she's been sharing like she should."

Félix snorted. "That's not her, that's the damn FBI. Fucking Bunch of Idiots. They don't like to share nothin'."

Duarte nodded, feeling the exhaustion wash over him. He was glad Félix had agreed so easily to staying in New Orleans. Another reason Duarte hadn't wanted to take him was that Félix had been rough on the Ryder manager, and Duarte didn't want to risk what he'd do to the head of a racist organization, especially with what he felt about Gastlin's death.

Félix told him to relax and get to bed early, then the DEA man headed out to eat.