The alley grew darker with each additional step. On either side were the unadorned backs of buildings-a bar, a drugstore, a Laundromat. A half-block ahead, the lights from Eighth Street were a glowing dot in the darkness, like an oncoming locomotive. The walls were cinder blocks painted beige and white. Every door and window was covered with black security bars. If he narrowed his eyes, Falcon could almost see one set of hands after another gripping those iron bars, hands without faces-nameless faces that were linked inextricably to the secret prison cells of his past. Those were memories that he battled every day. But with the barred doors and windows all around him, his mind carried him back to a place where demons roamed, a time so long ago. A quarter-century was an eternity; a quarter-century was yesterday. It all depended on how closely he was being followed by the Mother of the Disappeared.

“PRISONER NUMBER THREE-ZERO-NINE,” the guard said in Spanish.

The prisoners did not move. There were nearly seventy-five of them, men and women, crowded into a room that could have comfortably accommodated no more than two dozen. Whether asleep or awake, most of them sat on the floor with their heads down and their knees drawn in toward their chests. Others lay on one side, curled into a fetal ball, trying to deal with various pains that made it impossible to rise even to a seated position. Many were from the nearby university-students, teachers, or staff in their twenties or thirties. The oldest was a union leader in his sixties. The most recognizable was a journalist from a major newspaper. A few were teenagers who had gone missing from local high schools. Some had been imprisoned for months; others, just days. None had bathed since their detention began. No prison garb was issued. They wore whatever they’d happened to have been wearing when they were plucked from their home or place of work and hauled off to prison. For many, a short-sleeve shirt or cotton blouse was not nearly warm enough for an unheated cell. The inmates were not told the exact location of the prison. They had no visitation rights; no phone calls or correspondence with loved ones; no television, radio, or contact of any kind with the outside world. They ate stale bread or a disgusting gruel that smelled like rotten cabbage. Some days, they ate nothing at all. Complaints, however, were never uttered. No talking of any kind was allowed-not to guards, not to other prisoners, not to oneself, not to anyone, ever. Violators were punished severely.

“Prisoner number three-zero-nine,” the guard repeated, his voice taking on an edge. He was a bulky man, broad-shouldered but bulging around the middle, like a heavyweight boxer who had gone soft. The thick, black hair on the back of his neck and forearms had earned him the nickname El Oso-the bear. It was not a term of endearment. Nicknames among the guards were a necessity. No one went by his real name.

A middle-aged man rose slowly and started toward the door. He took short, reluctant steps, walking on the balls of his feet, as if unable to place any weight on his arches or heels. He stopped at the bars, never looking the guard in the eye. “She is not feeling well,” he said softly.

The guard grabbed him by the hair, jerked him forward, and slammed his head against the bars. “Are you prisoner three-oh-nine?”

The man grimaced. A rivulet of fresh blood trickled down his forehead. “No.”

“Did anyone give you permission to speak?”

“No.”

“Then sit down!” El Oso said as he shoved him to the floor. His angry gaze swept the cell, then settled on a woman huddled in the corner. “Three-zero-nine. Here. Now!”

No one moved. Then, just as El Oso was on the verge of another outburst, the woman stirred. The cell had no lighting on the inside, only the fluorescent fixture on the guard’s side of the bars. Even in the dim glow, he could see the outline of her body. She came toward him, submissive, obedient. His eyes narrowed, and an evil smile creased his lips.

“Three-zero-nine?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied.

El Oso could barely contain his excitement. He didn’t normally get the pretty faces. It made him hard just to think about it.

He’d done plenty of women before, but never one who was pregnant.

“Bienvenidos, chica. Bienvenidos a la Cacha -la casa de la bruja.”

Welcome, young woman. Welcome to La Cacha -the witch’s house.

“HEY, CAT-FOOD MONSTER. Move it.”

Falcon turned to see a busboy standing in the open doorway to the back of a restaurant. His stinging glare stirred Falcon from his memories, but he was still not completely focused. He was barely aware of the fact that he had urinated all over his own left foot.

“I said beat it!” the busboy shouted as he hurled an onion at him.

It hit Falcon in the chest and fell to the ground. Falcon picked it up, inspected it. It was rotten on one side, but he took a bite out of the good side, signaled a silent thank-you to the busboy, and shoved the rest of it in his pocket. He didn’t bother zipping up his pants before continuing down the alley. He counted off twenty steps, then turned to see if he was still being watched. The busboy was gone.

Falcon caught sight of the old metal fire escape. It was black and rusty, and the base of the retractable staircase was fastened to the wall with a heavy metal bracket. The wall was made of cinder blocks. Falcon counted off the blocks until he found the third one from the bottom, and the tenth from the corner. He leaned closer and shoved it to test his recollection. The block moved. He shimmied the loose block from the wall and dropped it to the pavement. The two oval-shaped openings inside the block were stuffed with plastic bags. Falcon removed the bags, opened them, and smiled. It was all there-the money he had put away for a rainy day.

And he had the distinct feeling that the clouds were about to burst.

He stuffed the cash into his pockets and started making plans. New clothes, a hot shower, and maybe even some hair dye were in order. A pistol or two with plenty of ammo wouldn’t hurt, either. You could get just about any firepower you needed on the streets of Miami, and no one knew them better than Falcon.

Then, it would be time to deal with Jack Swyteck.

That thief.

J ack and Theo caught a Miami Heat game downtown at the American Airlines Arena, the Triple A, as it was known. If ever a corporate sponsorship had gone sour, the Triple A was it. Imagine an airline spending millions of dollars to attach its name to a state-of-the-art, bay-front basketball arena, only to have everyone in town give the credit to a motor club.

“Feel like getting something to eat?” asked Theo.

Jack kept walking through the Purple Zone of the crowded garage, trying to remember where he’d parked his car. “You had three hot dogs, fries, nachos, a pretzel, and the better half of an ice cream bar from the kid sitting next to you. How can you be hungry?”

Theo shrugged. “That was an hour ago.”

They found his car in the Orange Zone, and as a compromise, hit a fast-food drive-thru on the way back to Jack’s house. After much pestering, Jack had finally agreed to meet Katrina’s “hot” girlfriend on South Beach. Jack was still wearing his courtroom attire, so a quick stop for a change of clothes was essential. The ride to Key Biscayne took only twenty minutes, though it seemed much longer. Jack lost the coin toss for control over his satellite radio. Theo stuck him with a station for which he had absolutely no use, the unending string of rhyming expletives punctuated by the sound of Theo smacking on a candy bar for dessert.

“We need to talk about your fat intake,” said Jack.