Faroe switched places with Grace, put the glasses to his eyes, and crouched to look through the railing again.

“What are they doing?” she asked finally. “And why, other than paranoid curiosity, do we care?”

“Hector Rivas Osuna will be eating at that restaurant tonight, along with some members of his family.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why do you think we’re in Ensenada?” Faroe asked.

She opened her mouth, closed it. Idiot. Did you think he brought you here to tear up the sheets?

“You could have told me,” she said stiffly.

“You weren’t interested in talking to me, remember?”

Grace gave him a killing look, but it was wasted. His attention was four stories below.

“So you came to spy on Hector?” she asked.

“I want to talk to Hector. Whether you realize it or not, so do you. Hector is the key to this whole situation. He’s the one calling the shots.”

He’s the one who knows how much time Lane really has.

Grace rubbed her arms like the wind swirling around the balcony was cool rather than hot. “Do we have to be in the same room with that man? Can’t you just call him up or something? He scares me.”

“Men like Hector are primitive. They understand two things-in-your-face macho or ordering hits behind your back. We have to make Hector think we’re macho enough to face him and deliver the one guy in the world he really wants to see, so that Hector won’t hit us when our back is turned.”

At first Grace didn’t understand. Then she did. The food she’d eaten twisted in her stomach.

“Ted?” she asked in a raw voice.

“Your ever-loving ex,” Faroe agreed.

“But I don’t know where Ted is!”

“You just got a lead on him.”

“What?”

“Lie, Your Honor. Hector believes you’re his ticket to your husband. We’re going to help that belief along, and while we do, we’re going to make it real clear you’ll play Hector’s game only so long as he takes good care of Lane.”

Grace opened her mouth to argue, saw the flash of impatience on Faroe’s usually impassive face, and reminded herself that he was the expert.

“Kidnapping is all about the safety of the hostage,” he said. “We’re delivering Hector an in-your-face reminder that it’s an issue that cuts both ways. No happy hostage, no happy game.”

“But we can’t deliver Ted.”

“Don’t bet on it. There’s very little St. Kilda Consulting can’t do if it really wants to.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? About giving Ted to Hector Rivas Osuna?” Grace asked in a rising voice.

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t give a handful of dirt to that creature, much less a human being. Ted might not be much, but he’s human. I can’t do this.”

“Can’t, won’t, or don’t want to?”

Grace didn’t know what to say.

Faroe lifted the glasses to his eyes again, studying the workmen and then shifting his attention to the alley where their truck was parked. Another vehicle had just pulled in and stopped behind the truck. Two more men stepped out and went to the truck.

“Your child’s father or your child,” Faroe said without looking away from the alley. “Not a happy choice, but it’s the only one Hector put on the table. You knew that from the beginning.”

Grace closed her eyes. Faroe was right. She’d known it, she just hadn’t believed it.

She hadn’t wanted to.

She still didn’t want to.

“There has to be another way,” she said.

“When you find it, tell me.”

The room went silent except for the restless wind.

“If you can’t decide,” Faroe said finally, “go north and stay there. St. Kilda will do precisely what you hired us for-get your son back. Just be damned sure not to ask how we do it.”

ENSENADA

SUNDAY, 4:10 P.M.

“GRACE,” FAROE SAID IN a low voice. “Smile at me, come nibble on my neck, and in general give me a visible excuse to get the hell off this balcony.”

The tone of his voice as much as his words told Grace that something was very wrong.

How can he tell me to set Ted up so that Lane goes free, and in the next breath tell me to be a seductive actress?

Because there’s no other choice, that’s how.

Grace moved stiffly to Faroe, bent over, sank her teeth into his collar, and tugged. She’d rather have gone for his jugular, but she knew better.

He put down the binoculars, looked at her, and smiled. His eyes were cold. “New workmen arrived. They aren’t sloppy. They look up.”

“If you had a tie, I’d pull you into the room by it.” And strangle you.

“Squeeze my butt. Same effect and it will send a message.” His smile changed, more real, and his eyes weren’t like stone. “Yeah, I know you’re wishing for claws you could sink into me.”

She reached around him, smoothed her hand over a hard butt cheek, and sank in. “Note to self. Grow claws.”

Smiling, Faroe used his body to crowd her inside.

“Close the curtains,” he said. “Make it look like a perfume ad.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Only part of it, amada.”

She was smart enough not to ask which part. Plastering what she hoped looked like a lusty smile on her face, she grabbed the billowing curtains and closed them like a stripper playing with a G-string.

As soon as Faroe was out of sight behind the drapes, he went to the window beside the balcony and parted the cloth just enough to give him a narrow slit. Slowly he lifted the glasses and watched.

Weary and edgy at the same time, Grace sank down on the bed. Three minutes clicked past on the digital clock on the table beside her while Faroe watched the four men from his blind. Then he lowered the glasses, stepped back, and grabbed a notepad from the drawer in the bedside table. He tweaked the curtain again, saw that the men were all in their vehicles, and eased back out onto the balcony with the binoculars.

Grace followed like a weary, wary shadow.

Two vehicles left the alley and turned onto the waterfront street. After they disappeared Faroe scribbled down notes. Then he turned to study the restaurant entrance. The flagstones were all in place again. There was nothing to show the landscaping had ever been disturbed.

Faroe lowered the glasses and stared out at the rolling, wind-whipped ocean beyond the breakwater. Finally he turned back to Grace.

“Where were we?” he said. “Oh yeah, we were weighing choices and moral implications. Nasty business, but necessary in this line of work. Now we’ve got another choice to consider.”

“We do?”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t want to ask.

She didn’t have any choice.

“What is it?” she said.

“Which benefits Lane more-Hector alive or dead?”

“Are you talking about killing Hector?” she asked, shocked.

“Me? Not at this point. But those four dudes, the ones who were driving vehicles with Baja state government tags, likely they have murder on their minds.”

Grace just stared at Faroe.

“They left a calling card under the flagstone that’s the front doorstep of the Cancion restaurant,” Faroe said.

“A calling card? What do you mean?”

“An IED.”

“Translation,” she said impatiently.

“Improvised explosive device.”

“Like a pipe bomb?”

“That’s one kind. I can’t be sure without going over to take a closer look, but this one looks like a cellular telephone wired to a standard-issue claymore.”

“Claymore-isn’t that some kind of explosive left over from World War I?” she asked.

Faroe smiled slightly. “In the good old days before black powder, a claymore was a big, double-handed broadsword, perfectly designed for splitting a man from crown to crotch in a single stroke. But nowadays, a claymore is a bomb that would do the world a real favor if it went off within ten or fifteen meters of the Rivas family. So is Lane better off with Hector alive or dead?”