TIJUANA

MONDAY, 10:15 A.M.

LANE SAT IN A broom closet and thought about playing soccer-with various heads used for the ball. His recent nomination for butthead of the hour was Fernando Diaz, one of Hector’s endless stream of nephews. Or maybe they were his bastards.

They sure had the attitude for it. The thought of kicking some of them right between the goalposts kept Lane from focusing on the steady throb of his bruised face and the fact that his bladder was so full his back teeth were floating.

And then there were all the seconds ticking away into minutes and minutes into-

Don’t go there.

Don’t think about it.

Think about kicking Fernando in the balls.

Lane was real tired of Fernando whispering through the door, telling him all about how he was going to be dog food by twelve-thirty.

Dad won’t let that happen.

Will he?

Lane wished he had more confidence in his dad, but he didn’t. This would be just one more in a long line of moments when his dad let him down.

Hey, the good news is that it will be the last time.

Lane tried to laugh.

It sounded too much like a sob.

He went back to running his fingertips over the mops, brooms, vacuum hoses, and dustpans that were hanging on the walls, waiting to be used. If he was some slick ninja, he’d break off a broom handle and go through the vatos outside like a one-man demolition derby.

But he wasn’t a ninja and he had too much sense to pretend otherwise.

No point in dying before he had to.

“Hola, nino,” Hector said, opening the door to the utility closet.

Lane squinted against the sudden light. His heart filled his throat, beating like a captive bird.

“You okay?” Hector asked.

Oh, sure, I’m just frigging fantastic, locked in a closet waiting to die. And Hector’s breath could kill scorpions at twenty feet.

“I could really use a bathroom,” was all Lane said.

With surprising strength, Hector pulled Lane to his feet and pointed to a door across the hall.

“Don’ be long,” Hector said around the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. “You daddy, he wait.”

“Dad? He’s coming here for me?”

“You go. Then we go. Andale, nino.”

Lane was so relieved he nearly wet himself. He could hardly believe that his father was really going to come through for him.

“Dad?” he asked.

“Si, si,” Hector said impatiently. “?Andale!”

Lane hurried across the hall. With every step he felt the slight weight of the hard drive in his pocket.

SAN YSIDRO

MONDAY, 10:15 A.M.

FAROE AND GRACE WENT back to the main salon in time to see Steele and the FBI agent cautiously shaking hands across the table.

“Supervisory Special Agent Cook has agreed to an arrangement that will ensure complete FBI control of events in their jurisdiction,” Steele said, weighing his words with the care of the ambassador he once had been. “His surveillance and weapons teams will cover the exchange, with full authority to shut the operation down if he, as field commander, decides it’s too dangerous.”

Faroe went still and deadly. “Shut it down? Dangerous? All he’s worried about is Franklin getting a bullet in his fat ass.”

“Right now,” Cook said, “I’d put a bullet in him myself. Snitches. Jesus. I hate the slimy rocks they live under. I’ve already told Ted and his attorney that they’ll cooperate to the fullest or any deal for immunity we might have in the works is DOA.” He looked at Grace. “I wish you’d come to me instead of St. Kilda. It would have been cleaner.”

“When it mattered, I didn’t know you existed,” Grace said. “But even if I’d known you by your first, last, and middle name, I’d have gone to St. Kilda Consulting. They represent my interests and only mine.”

Cook’s mouth turned down at one corner. “After working on the Calderon task force for two years, if my son was a hostage, I’d think about going to St. Kilda myself. And kiss my career good-bye.”

Faroe poured himself a cup of coffee from the urn on the kitchen counter and turned to Cook. “But you still have to play the game like your badge trumps everything, right?”

“Operational control? Is that what’s chapping your ass?” Cook asked. “You know that I have to go to my bosses with clean hands. That means operational control on this side of the line.”

Faroe took a drink of coffee and waited for what he wanted to hear, or all bets were off.

“But that doesn’t mean I give a rat’s hairy ass what goes on at the other end of the tunnel,” Cook said. “If you want to shoot Hector between the eyes and drag him into the United States by his hang-downs, go for it. Just don’t tell me about it ahead of time.”

That was what Faroe wanted to hear.

“Deniability,” he said, saluting Cook. “It’s the major reason St. Kilda exists. You’ve got it. But we have a problem.”

“Just one?” Cook said acidly.

“Hector wants me where he can see me on this side of the line,” Faroe said.

“Do you think he suspects a trap?” Steele asked while Cook was still processing the possible meanings of Faroe’s words.

“No. He just doesn’t trust me unless he can see me.”

“Smart dude,” Cook said. He looked at Steele. “Can any of your other people handle the job down south?”

“No,” Faroe said instantly.

“What?” Cook demanded. “You got a clone I don’t know about?”

“No, but now that this is officially a federal case, I won’t put St. Kilda operatives into a situation that could cost them their lives or their freedom.”

“Hey, look,” Cook said. “I told you I’m not going to ask what your ops might do on the other side. Ain’t my jurisdiction. Ain’t my problem.”

“You can promise immunity all you want,” Faroe said, “but it’s up to the director, the AG, and a mixed batch of judges to keep your promise.”

Cook didn’t look happy, but he didn’t argue. “The Ambassador told me what happened to you sixteen years ago.”

“Then you know why I don’t trust the system, and why I won’t have any more St. Kilda ops on your record as players.”

“So you’re planning to call off the southern end of the operation?” Cook asked.

“I didn’t say anything about anything. All I want from you is a ten-foot ladder and size twelve running shoes.”

Cook looked at Steele. “Is he for real?”

“He ran the fifteen hundred meters in college,” Steele said. “He still runs it.”

Grace wrapped her hand around Faroe’s arm. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m certainly not going to tell you in front of Cook because it might just possibly maybe could involve illegal reverse entry.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Jumping over the border fence while headed south,” Faroe said. “That’s just not the way things are done on Otay Mesa. Trust me on this.”

Her lungs ached with the screams she was holding back.

Holding your breath won’t help anyone.

Breathe.

“All right,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

He smiled slowly. “Things that are still illegal in some states.”

Grace didn’t know she could laugh until she heard herself. Some of the tension gripping her eased.

Until she looked at her watch.

Breathe.