Faroe and Grace met Steele at the bottom of the ramp. Three men got out of the idling diesel bus, which doubled as traveling quarters and a rolling command post. Faroe didn’t know any of the three, but they all moved like former Navy SEALs or special ops of some stripe.

One of the men pulled a gleaming, tricked-out wheelchair from the motor home’s baggage compartment. A few swift motions positioned the chair and activated its electronics. In the glare of the jet’s landing lights, Steele looked down at the unconventional wheelchair for a long moment, examining its tubular frame and cutaway alloy wheels.

“Have I mentioned that I’m not into racing?” Steele said acidly to Harley.

Harley deposited the Ambassador on the seat, arranged his legs, and made some adjustments to the seat and controls. “I’ve been jonesing to get you into this one for months. Now stop pouting and pay attention. This is the joystick.”

“Oh my God,” Steele said through his teeth.

“Forward is forward, back is back, and side to side are self-explanatory,” the big bodyguard-nurse explained.

“I’m still not racing anyone,” Steele retorted.

But as he fiddled with the joystick, he didn’t quite conceal his pleasure at how responsive the machine was. Not as good as legs, but better than whatever else was in second place.

“If I can only teach this contraption to talk politely to me,” Steele said to Harley, “I can fire you.”

“Not until you teach it to wipe your ass, too.”

Steele laughed, then looked at Faroe and Grace. “You look like you could use some sleep, Your Honor. I have legal meds if you need them.”

“So far, so good,” she said.

“Don’t be shy,” Steele said. “They’re part of every special ops survival kit, and those people are trained within an inch of their lives. You aren’t. You don’t want to be staggering tired when you need to be alert.”

“She’ll think about it,” Faroe said before Grace could answer.

“And so will you,” Steele said to Faroe.

It wasn’t a suggestion.

“Before I debrief you,” Steele continued, “there’s someone you must meet.”

They watched as Steele turned the chair smartly and rolled across the asphalt to where the idling armored car was parked. As the Ambassador approached, the side door of the truck swung open and a slight, white-haired Mexican in a business suit stepped down. The Mexican moved with a flat-footed limp and a stiffness in his upper body that spoke of old injuries.

When the two men met on the hardstand and shook hands, the Mexican bowed stiffly at the waist, a courtly gesture that was old-fashioned and completely natural. They spoke together in the shadows between the hard glare of headlights and landing lights. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted over.

“Who is it?” Grace asked quietly.

“If it’s who I hope it is, Lane’s chances just went up. I’ll gladly sit in a smoke-filled room to pick that man’s brain.”

Steele and the other man crossed the asphalt to stand in the shadows near Grace and Faroe.

“Allow me to introduce Dimas Quintana Blanco,” Steele said, “one of the foremost journalistic chroniclers of Tijuana’s narcotraficantes. Senor Quintana has agreed to advise us in an informal way on our problem.”

Faroe offered his hand. “A genuine honor, senor.”

“It is mutual,” Quintana said with a small smile. “I won’t ask your name, because I know you by too many as it is.”

Faroe’s smile flashed in the shadowed night.

Quintana took Grace’s hands in his own and bowed. “Judge Silva, I am profoundly sorry to hear of your troubles.”

“I didn’t expect to be discussing them with a journalist,” Grace said bluntly.

“Don’t worry,” Faroe said. “The Rivas Gang already has offered Senor Quintana silver or lead. He chose lead. Ten years ago, ROG assassinated his business partner. Three years ago, they tried for him.”

Grace’s stomach clenched. It was one thing to hear vague rumors of Mexican journalists, cops, and judges being shot because they refused to go along with ROG.

It was quite another to look at the dark eyes of the man whose life had been scarred by lead.

“In Tijuana, any honest journalist has a target painted on his back,” Quintana said calmly, dropping his cigarette to the ground and crushing the ember with his heel. “Fortunately, ROG’s gunmen are cowards as well as bad shots. We survive-very carefully, yes, but we survive. Whatever information I have, I will give to you with greatest pleasure.”

ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

MONDAY, 1:32 A.M.

STROKE AFTER STROKE OF lightning raked across the sky, turning night into a blinding network of white against black. Thunder was immediate, continuous explosions that rocked the night. Rain came down like the end of the world.

“Yes!” Lane laughed out loud as guards raced for cover. “Bring it! Send those cabrons running to cover.”

Since the nearest permitted shelter was fifty feet away in another cottage, he wouldn’t have to worry about his guards peering in his windows and wondering what he was doing under the sheet or in the closed, locked bathroom.

For a few seconds more Lane enjoyed the storm washing across his face, its taste wild and sweet.

Like freedom.

Then he closed the windows, pulled the curtains, and took his computer into the bathroom, where there was both privacy and an electrical outlet. The last thing he wanted was to run out of juice just when he hacked into the file.

If I hack it.

No. When. I’ve hacked harder security.

But he’d been younger then. He hadn’t believed in death. That, and the guards, broke his concentration.

Pretty Good Privacy was turning out to be pretty good indeed. The first sample key he’d played around with hadn’t gotten him very far. As in headfirst into a stone wall, locked up, reboot, and try again. And again.

And again.

The cigarette smoke and jokes and catcalls from the open windows hadn’t helped. But now all he had was the heady freedom of the storm and the computer itself, something he was comfortable with.

Something he was good at.

Something that didn’t constantly taunt him that he was scheduled to die at twelve-thirty this afternoon.

BROWN FIELD

MONDAY, 2:10 A.M.

“SO,” STEELE SAID, SUMMARIZING the debriefing, “in less than forty-eight hours you’ve managed to get on the wrong side of both the lords of the Tijuana underground and the United States government. Even for you, Joseph, that’s impressive. Now what?”

Senor Quintana hid a smile behind his neatly trimmed mustache and goatee.

“We need some muscle on standby,” Faroe said.

“Three ops are already aboard, not including Harley,” Steele said, pointing around the interior of the motor coach. “Wood is the armorer, ex-SEAL with good sources of supply, fluent in Spanish. Jarrett and Murchison are communications cross-trained, also fluent in Spanish, and Murchison is a medic. Dwayne is working on a helicopter and pilot.”

“Problems?” Faroe asked.

“Only that you wanted an Aerospatiale.”

Wood smiled in approval. “Fast helo, that.”

Faroe looked at the two men and one woman-Murchison. They had the relaxed yet ready posture of people accustomed to being sent to strange places at strange times to do jobs that may or may not be legal. And to do them quietly.

“Okay,” Faroe said to the ops. “You three take the chopper down to All Saints at first light. No matter what I tell you, or what sat photos and web site stuff you have, nothing beats seeing it yourself.”

All three nodded.

“Pleasure to work with someone who understands that,” Wood said.