"It's a job, pal," Cross said. "You do what you're told, that's all it stays. You don't…," he let his voice trail off.

"You're not…" Humberto said, his vision gradually clearing.

"What we are is professionals," Cross said. "Just like you. We got paid to do a job."

"What job?"

"Muñoz paid us. For your arm."

Humberto went deathly white under his swarthy skin. "I don't know what–"

"Yeah, you do," Cross interrupted. "You got something Muñoz wants. A microchip. Someplace in your arm. Muñoz, he paid us to bring him that arm."

"Wait! Wait a minute! Look, I can–"

"Don't say anything. Listen to our offer. Then you say Yes, or you say No. That's all. You got it?"

Humberto nodded, his hooded eyes steady on Cross.

"We're gonna get that microchip. We know it's somewhere under that tattoo. We can take it gentle," Cross said, "or we can take it hard. Your choice."

"I have no choice," Humberto said, his voice calming as strength flowed back into him.

"Muñoz, he has one of my men, understand? He wants to trade him for that chip," Cross said. "But if we take your whole arm like he wants, he gets you dead, too. He didn't pay us for that."

"I could pay you…" Humberto said softly.

"That's right. You could pay us to leave you alive. But then, what would you have? Your bodyguard's gone. So is your driver. With the chip in his hands, Muñoz would vamp on you heavy. Take you longer, but you'd be just as dead."

"What do you suggest?" Humberto asked, more confidence in his voice.

"I suggest you pay us. Pay us to take out Muñoz. The chip, that's what gets us in the door, see? And once we get in there, we total Muñoz, all right? Costs you a flat million. Cash."

"I can get–"

"No," Cross said. "Just forget the games. You're not making any phone calls. Not writing any notes, either. Here's the way I figure it–you got some money stashed. Serious money. And you don't trust nobody with it, okay? I'm betting you got it nice and accessible. No safe deposit boxes, no passwords…nothing like that. You tell us where it is. Tell us right now. One of my crew goes there, picks it up. It's in more than one place, that's okay. My man comes back here. With the cash. And then we do the job for you."

"How do I know you won't just take the money and kill me anyway?"

"If I was gonna do that, what would I need this mask for? This is business, that's all. You didn't fuck with us. It wasn't you who snatched my man. Muñoz has to go–I'm just making sure we get paid, all right?"

"And if I say no?" Humberto asked.

"Then we kill Muñoz anyway. But instead of the chip to get us in the door, we bring him your arm."

A long minute passed. Humberto took a deep breath. "It's right under her butt," he said, flexing his right biceps, sending the tattooed dancer into a bump–and–grind. "Have you got a drink for a man first?"

Humberto sat in a comfortable easy chair, feet up on an ottoman. He was bare–chested, a bandage around his right biceps. To his right, a water glass half full of dark liquid sat on an end table. A long cigar smoldered in an ashtray. Humberto's handsome face was relaxed, at peace.

"Listen to me, amigo," he said to Cross. "The key to Muñoz is his pride. Muñoz is… muy macho, understands Years ago, he fought a duel. With machetes. It was a matter of honor. He is very, very good with knives…any weapon with an edge. And with his hands, too–very quick, very strong."

"And you tell me this because…?" Cross invited.

"Because I trust you, hombre. And I want to prove it to you."

"You think that does it? Telling me about this guy's ego?"

"No," Humberto said, his dark eyes steady on the stocking mask. "This is what does it–I know who you are."

"You sure?"

'Yes. You are the man they call Cross, yes? You hide your face, but you forgot to cover your hands," Humberto said, flicking his glance at the back of Cross's right hand where a bull's–eye tattoo stood out in bold relief. "I hired you once before. To do Herrera. We have never met, face–to–face, but I know your markings."

Cross made a sound of disgust, reached up and pulled off the stocking mask. "Tell me what you know," he said.

"You were the one who attacked Herrera. Years ago. I was not there, but I have heard about it many times. Herrera always claimed that you took product…but we always believed you took his stash of jewels instead. I know he converted his product to money–gold, diamonds–always in hard currency."

"What else?"

Humberto's shoulders moved in an eloquent shrug. "There was a fight. Many died. And you escaped. That is all I know. That and the tattoo on your hand. Herrera always said he would pay you back. I heard two more things–he hired you to do something…and he had an accident."

"Why tell me all this?" Cross asked.

"Because I paid for him to have that accident. We never met face–to–face, but it was you I paid. You did your work well. Herrera is gone. Soon, Muñoz will be, too. You cannot run a drug network yourself. You do not have the contacts down south. You and me, I think we're going to be partners."

"Sounds good to me," Cross responded.

It's done," Cross said into the mouthpiece of the cellular phone.

"I know, amigo." Muñoz replied. "I watch the news on television."

"Let's finish it," Cross said.

"You know the King Hotels On Wabash, near–"

"I know it."

"My man will be standing in front, on the sidewalk, at midnight. You take him wherever you want. Once you are satisfied that we have not followed you, send the chip."

"How are you gonna know where to send the bird?"

"My man will have the bird with him. In a cage."

"And my money."

"Yes. And your 'money."

This ain't nothing," Ace said, facing the assembled crew. "I got a half–dozen people in that hotel. It's nothing but a crack house. Low–class dive. I be inside hours before they show, cover you from the top floor."

"Righteous," Cross said. "Buddha and Rhino, you guys make the pick–up, all right? Me and Fal, we'll transport Humberto. Everybody get to work wiping things down–we can't have another fire so soon."

From inside the front door of the King Hotel, all the watchful desk clerk could see was the back of a tall man in a long black coat. The tall man looked as if he was waiting for a bus, smoking a cigarette. Only two discordant notes sounded: at the man's feet was a large cage draped in black with a ring handle at the top. And a bright red dot of light holding steady right between the man's shoulder blades. The red dot tracked the man, moving as he moved.

The shark car pulled to the curb. The back door opened. Some words were exchanged. And the tall man climbed into the car, pulling the cage behind him. The car took off.

A few minutes later, the desk clerk saw a slim, fine–featured black man coming down the stairs, an all–black rifle with a complicated–looking scope in his hand. The desk clerk looked away, not meeting the man's eyes. When he looked up, the man was gone, almost as if he had never been there. The desk clerk didn't react. But it wasn't the two hundred dollars in his pocket that earned his silence–the desk clerk knew what the red dot on the tall man's back meant, and he didn't want one on his own. Ever.