"No matter what happens, this is great. I'd pay to come here."

Gadgets nodded. "Government work has its advantages."

Steel clinked on stone. In an instant, the three men disappeared into the jagged rocks. They waited, their weapons ready, off safety, their trigger fingers outside the trigger guards.

Three Indians — a young boy, a girl, and their mother — descended the trail. The woman, with a basket of fruit balanced on her head, wore a resplendent huipileof iridescent purple and red, the purple shoulders zigzagged with electric lines of red and pink and sky blue. She had a plastic mesh shopping bag tucked into the red and purple sash around her black skirt. Like the mother, the girl wore the same purple and red huipileand black skirt.

The boy wore white pants and a black hand-woven shirt. He ran along the trail, chasing lizards with a machete. Weaving through the rocks, he came face-to-face with Lyons.

Laughing at the boy's surprise, Lyons lowered his Atchisson. The boy swung the blade with both hands at Lyons's head.

Lyons rolled back. He deflected the blade with the muzzle of his autoshotgun. The boy pressed the attack, raising the blade high above his head to chop down on the camouflage-clad foreigner.

Kicking the boy in the chest, Lyons knocked him down. The little girl screamed, the mother whipped a Colt Government Model from under her huipile.

Blancanales voice boomed: "Alto! Par favor! No estamos soldados de Unomundo! Amigos! Amigos de Guatemala, venimos aqui con ayuda para ustedes!"

Cajoling the woman in Spanish, Blancanales finally persuaded her to lower the Colt. A four-way interrogation developed as he questioned the three Indians, the Indians questioned Blancanales, and the Indians questioned one another in their language.

Lyons and Gadgets watched as their partner displayed a bullet hole in his captured uniform. Blancanales pointed out the tiny entry hole, the rinsed-out bloodstain, then the tear where the exiting slug and flesh had exploded outward. He stepped over to the other two North Americans in camouflage uniforms, and pointed out the holes and bloodstains to the Indians. He explained to his partners: "These people know all about Unomundo. He's been using the local men for forced labor. Sometimes for target practice. The boy thought you were one of the mercenaries because of your blond hair. He thought you were alone, so he tried to kill you. Nothing personal."

"Will they help us?" Lyons asked.

"Most definitely," Blancanales smiled. "All these bullet holes make us guests of honor."

"Ask them who did Mr. Bones," Gadgets suggested.

Blancanales asked the woman. She made a nasal-guttural Indian sound in her throat and shook her head. He translated: "I don't think she knows."

The Indians led them up the path. Gadgets struck up a friendship with the boy when he demonstrated his silent Beretta on a lizard. The boy had started after the creature with his machete. Gadgets stopped him. Slipping out the autopistol, Gadgets gripped the weapon with both hands and shot off the lizard's head. The only sound was the rush of the subsonic bullet through the air, and the noise of the bullet hitting the rocks and whining away.

The boy laughed. He held out his hand for the pistol. Gadgets shook his head as he returned it to his shoulder holster. The boy looked downcast. Gadgets held up one finger, the boy nodded.

Checking the fire-selector, Gadgets helped the boy grip the pistol. He fired a shot at the rocks. They heard only the ricochet. Gadgets took the pistol back as the boy laughed and jumped with joy.

He and the boy continued ahead of the others.

Together they walked point. The trails cut along the vertical face of the cliff, angling always upward. Once, Gadgets peered over the edge. He looked down on the others' heads a hundred feet below him. If he kicked a rock off the edge, they would be in danger.

Despite the climb, the miles passed quickly. The cool mountain air, the beauty of the valley and mountain, made the march a pleasure for the ex-Green Beret.

Gadgets and the boy reached the top before the others. On the mountain crest, the ever-present moisture of the drifting clouds created a paradise of green, knee-high grass, wild flowers, and dense pine forest. Gadgets went to the cliff edge and keyed his hand-radio.

"Shangri-la calling. All is cool."

"On our way."

The boy whistled. Following the sound, Gadgets walked along the cliff. The boy waved to him from the incomplete frame of a house. Built only a few steps back from a sheer thousand-foot drop, the front window — framed but with no glass — had a hundred-mile view.

Sitting down on the weathered flooring and piles of hand-sawn planks, Gadgets saw three mountain ranges. Smoke from the burning forest where Luis had died grayed the valley of Azatlan. But the next valley had clear air. He saw green patchworks, the thin line of a highway. Perhaps thirty miles away, smoke rose from a village, only the smoke visible, the houses and streets and churches lost in the hills and forest.

The horror of Unomundo seemed so far away, beyond possibility. Yet Gadgets knew what he saw was the illusion, and that the terror of Unomundo was the reality. He looked at the unfinished house. Apparently, Unomundo had driven them out.

You'll get yours, Mr. Nazi, Gadgets muttered to himself. I'm gonna sic the Ironman on you. You'll never forget him. But then again, maybe you'll get lucky and just drop dead of fright.

Rotorthrob exploded behind him. Gadgets went flat as a gray shape flashed over him. He radioed to the others.

"Hit it! Helicopter! Looks like a Huey."

He waited for the helicopter to drop below him before moving. Holding his hand-radio, Gadgets crawled to the edge of the cliff.

A soldier squatted at the door of the gray-painted Huey troopship. Gadgets saw the mercenary searching the cliffs and trails with binoculars. The soldier pointed.

Hundreds of feet below him, Gadgets saw the bright purple and red of the Indian woman. Caught in an open stretch of the trail, Lyons and Blancanales and the two Indians ran for cover. But too late.

The helicopter veered for the cliffs. The soldier in the door pointed the swivel-mounted M-60. The muzzle flashed. Gadgets heard the hammering of the shots an instant later. Far below, dust puffed on the trail. But his partners and the Indians had gained cover. His hand-radio buzzed.

"They caught us in the open," Lyons reported. "Now it's a shoot-out. If we don't make it, it's up to you to complete the mission."

Over the radio, Gadgets heard the thumping and ricocheting of heavy-caliber slugs. Then the hammering of the M-60 drifted toward him.

"Forget that kind of talk!" Gadgets told him. "We'll get them!"

"With rifles?" Lyons asked him. "Might as well throw rocks. But we'll shoot at them until the Cobra shows up. Then we're dead. Over and adios."

A few hundred feet below, the door gunner raked the cliffside trail with burst after burst. Gadgets knew what Lyons had said was the truth.

When the Cobra came, his partners died.