"No go."

"What do you mean, no go? Why do you say this?"

"I'm not sending a goddamned arm through the mails–

you wouldn't give me an address anyway. And I'm not meeting

you to hand it over. Send your carrier pigeon–the chip would fit in his carry–pouch easy enough if it's this size," Cross said, pointing at the microchip lying on the tabletop.

"That is a good plan, hombre. As soon as our bird is home, we will release your man…or whatever he is."

"What's on the chip?" Cross asked.

"That is not your business, my friend."

"Then get somebody else to do it."

"I don't think you understand…"

"Sure, I understand just fine. What's on the chip?"

Muñoz stroked his chin. Cross lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. A long minute passed. Cross took another drag and snubbed out the cigarette. The waiter approached, a pair of glasses on a tray. "Here you are, gentlemen. Your salads will be along in a few minutes."

Muñoz waved him away, leaning forward so his eyes were locked on Cross. "Herrera had a couple of dozen locations. Where he stashed money. Money and product. He and I were partners. He gave me half of the microchip–it only works with his half. Herrera, he was having a problem. He paid you to retrieve a certain book. I heard nothing after that, until I learned Herrera was blown up. His car, his bodyguard…everything blown to pieces. I figure you got paid for that. Paid twice. Now I know Humberto has the chip. He must have been secret partners with Herrera, but partnerships mean nothing to such a savage–I figure he paid you to take Herrera out. Humberto and I, we have been warring for months. Now it is getting too public. The newspapers are nosing around. We each have several dead soldiers, but we have a man in his camp. This is how I know about where he keeps the chip. Each of us is nothing without the other, but our negotiations have proved fruitless. This is where you come in. I want to go back across the border, but, first, I need all the locations."

"What's my piece?" Cross asked.

"Your piece? Your piece? I told you…you get El Maricon back."

"You got a good sense of humor, Muñoz. You want me to do all kinds of risky stuff and score something worth millions to you…and you want to trade a POW in exchange? Do the math!"

"This…Princess. He is your man. We have–"

"What you got is a soldier. A soldier who knew the deal when he signed on. There's no patriotism in our country, pal. I'll take half a million. Cash. And Princess. For that, you get your little chip."

"You will trust me to–"

"Get real. I'll trust you to release Princess–it don't do you any good to dust him. But the cash…no way. You send a man. Your man, okay' You tell him what the chip looks like. Don't tell me–that way you'll know you're getting the real goods. Your man puts the chip in the pigeon's bag. The bird takes off, and your man hands over the cash. We hold on to him until we see Princess. Got it?"

"What is to prevent you from killing my man and keeping the money? And the chip?"

"The chip's no good to me. I want the money. And I want you back over the border, too. This strike's gonna draw too much heat anyway."

"Your salads, gentlemen," the waiter said, putting a plate in front of each man. "Will there be anything–?"

"No," Muñoz snapped, eyes still on his opponent. Finally, he slid a folded piece of paper over to Cross. "It's all there. Everything you need. Make it fast."

Cross lit a cigarette, ignoring his salad as he pocketed the paper from Muñoz. Then he leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice a notch. "You're a professional," he said. "So am I. We understand how these things are done. Money's money. Business is business. I'm gonna get you your little chip. You're gonna pay me my money and let my man go, right?"

Muñoz nodded.

"You know how soldiers are," Cross said softly. "In war, you don't look too deep. A guy's good with explosives, another's a top sniper, maybe another's a master tracker, right? It all comes down to what you need. Turns out one of the guys is a little bent, you don't pay much attention to what he does when he's out of the field, you understand what I'm saying?"

Muñoz bent his head slightly forward, waiting.

"Some people, they're in because they like it. It's not for the money–they like the action. That's not you–that's not me. But, maybe, you got guys like that. Do something unprofessional…just because they like to do it. You can always spot them, right? Guys who volunteer to do interrogations. Rapists. Torch freaks. You always got them, right?"

"So?" Muñoz challenged. "What has this to do with what I–?"

"You got my man, got him locked up. He's your hostage– I understand that. I don't expect you gonna feed him whiskey and steak, send up a hooker if he gets lonely. That's okay. But, maybe, you got guys who like to hurt people. Hurt them for fun. That's not professional."

'Yes," Muñoz said impatiently. "I know all this."

"Herrera, he liked to watch men die. That's why he had those cage fights."

"Herrera is no more, amigo. You above all should know that."

"There's others. Maybe you have some of them. What I want to tell you is this: I got some, too."

"Why do you say all this? What is your meaning?" Muñoz said softly, a titanium thread of menace in his voice.

"Play it for real," Cross said quietly. "It don't make you any money to be stupid. If you hurt Princess, if you hurt him or kill him, that would be a mistake. If we don't get him back the way you found him, it's going to take you a long time to die."

"How much do I owe you?" Rhino asked the waiter from Nostrum's. They were standing near the mouth of an alley that opened into a street in the heart of the gay cruising area.

"You owe me respect," the waiter said. "I don't forget what Princess did for us. I'm a man," he said with quiet force. "I pay my debts."

"I apologize," Rhino squeaked. "If there's ever–"

But the waiter was already walking away.

In the basement of Red 71, Cross was using a laser pointer to illuminate various parts of a crudely drawn street map he had taped to the back wall.

"He's somewhere in here," Cross said, the thin red line of the laser pointer aimed at a cross section of a tall building standing next to three others exactly similar–the Projects. "We don't know what apartment. Hell, we don't even know what floor–he may even switch from time to time."

"He never goes out?" Rhino asked.

"Once a week. To the airport. He meets an international flight on the south concourse. A different guy comes each time. Humberto meets this guy, talks to him for a hour or so, then the guy just turns around and gets back on another plane."

"The courier, he has to clear customs, right?" Buddha asked.

"Yeah. It's a sterile corridor up to that point. No way to get in or out. But he's not bringing product…at least not much of it. When he clears customs, he has a conversation with Humberto. That's it."

"Don't make sense," Buddha said. "That's a ton of money and time just to beat a wiretap."

"I don't think that's what it is," Cross said. "I think he's bringing in. a chip. Like this one," holding up the chip he got from Muñoz. "The only way to see if it works is to try it…they all look alike. The way I got it figured, Herrera was playing both sides. Trying to get Humberto and Muñoz to waste each other, each of them thinking they were partners with him, see?"