The shark car worked its way through the badlands, heading for Red 71 as unerringly as the homing pigeon it carried in its backseat. The phone on the seat next to Buddha chirped. The pudgy man picked it up, flicking a switch with his thumb. "Go," he said. "All clear here." Fal's voice.

"Coming in," Buddha replied. "ETA ten minus."

"Roger that. You clear behind?"

"Affirmative."

Buddha clicked off the phone, his eyes flicking back and forth between the road and the rear view mirror. He pulled the shark car through a fresh gap in the chain–link fence, parking just behind the back door to Red 71. He slapped the back door three times with the fiat of his hand. It opened immediately. Cross stepped to one side, covering the area with an Uzi. Buddha entered first. Then the man they had picked up. Rhino was last inside, blocking the doorway with his bulk.

In the basement, Rhino hand–searched the courier, his touch delicate and sensitive. When he nodded an OK, Cross stepped forward and ran an electronic wand over the courier's body. "Relax," he said to the man. "Have a seat."

The man seated himself in an overstuffed chair, reaching into his pocket to light a cigarette.

"What do they call you?" Cross asked.

"I am Ramón."

"Okay, Ramón. ¿Donde está el dinero?"

Ramón's lips twisted into a thin smile, not showing his teeth. "In the cage, hombre. In the bottom of the cage. If you will permit me…"

Cross nodded, and the man got to his feet. He walked over to the cage and gently flicked the black cover off. Inside was a big–chested pigeon. "This is el bailador del cielo," Ramón said, stroking the pigeon's chest. He reached inside and removed the pigeon, cradling it softly. "Pick up the floor," he said to Cross. Cross studied the cage for a long minute, then he removed the newspaper from the cage floor to reveal a fiat metal plate with a ring in the center. He pulled the ring and the floor came off. Underneath there was money. Greenbacks shrink–wrapped in plastic.

"What the hell does Muñoz think I'm gonna do with thousand–dollar bills?" he asked Ramón "All this has to be washed–I can't just spend it."

"Smaller bills would not fit, hombre," Ramón replied. "I am sure you have… resources."

Cross nodded, his fingers stroking the scar on his cheekbone. "Okay, how do you want to do this?"

"First, I check the chip. With this…" Ramón said, taking a mate of the chip from his shirt pocket. "You could not duplicate the chip so quickly. If it plugs into this one, we will know you have done your part of the bargain."

"Do it," Cross said, taking the chip from his jacket.

Ramón carefully aligned the two chips. They came together with an audible snapping sound. "¿Bueno!" Ramón said. "This is the one."

"And now…?" Cross asked.

"Now you put the chip right here," Ramón said, tapping the tiny cylinder on the bird's right foot, just above the talon. "Then he flies home. Straight home. You will see…if you look…that you cannot fit a transmitter in the pouch. And if you attach one anywhere else, el bailador will not fly. You understand?"

"Yeah," Cross said, still stroking the scar. After a few moments, he left the room.

We're ready to go," Cross said into the cellular phone.

"When will you–"

"I gotta talk to him first."

"Talk to who?"

"My man. The one you got."

"I told you–"

"I don't give a fuck what you told me," Cross said quietly. "We're in the end game now. You want to talk to your man, I can do that. You want to play, you gotta do the same."

"Call back in one hour," Muñoz said. "And have Ramón with you.

It's me," Cross said into the phone. "You want to speak to your man?"

"Put him on."

"Yes, I am here, jefe," Ramón said. "Everything is as it should be." Ramón said "Yes" twice, rapidly, then he handed the phone to Cross.

"Okay?" Cross said into the mouthpiece.

"Momentito," Muñoz said.

Another minute passed, then Cross heard the unmistakable voice of Princess. "I'm good," the bodybuilder said. "These pussies got me trussed up like a fucking turkey, but they haven't done nothing."

"They feeding you?" Cross asked.

"Hell, I'm probably down to two–thirty with all this crap. They don't even have my vitamin supplements. And–"

"Okay, Princess, just calm down, all right? They'll be cutting you loose soon."

"Are you satisfied?" Muñoz's voice cut in. "Are you ready to release our bird?"

"Tomorrow," Cross said. "Tomorrow at first light."

"Why not now, hombre? Our bird can fly at night."

"I need a few hours to make sure you guys are playing it straight. First light. When Princess shows up, we'll let your man go."

"Adios," Muñoz said, hanging up.

He's okay?" Rhino asked, anxiety making his voice even squeakier than usual.

"He said 'vitamins,' " Cross replied. "You know what that means…he's all right, but he doesn't see a way out of there. If he said 'minerals,' he'd have an exit spotted. I don't think they messed with him."

"You think they'd actually let him go?" Buddha asked.

"I was them, I wouldn't," Cross said.

The next morning, dawn slowly breaking through a blue–black night sky. Ramón stood on the roof of Red 71, the pigeon in his hands.

"Do it," Buddha told him.

"¡Volar!" Ramón called, tossing the pigeon into the air. The bird took off, climbed, then banked, wings working smoothly.

A few seconds later, a tiny bird took off from Cross's leather–gloved hand, its blue–gray wings a blur in the sky, a distinctive killy–killy–killy trilling from its beak. The bird climbed like an F–16, a blur in the vision of the watchers on the roof who were tracking the bird by its rust–colored tail feathers. Cross picked up his cellular phone.

"Launched," is all he said.

"Let's go," Cross said to Buddha. As Buddha turned to follow Cross downstairs, Rhino's huge hand curled around the back of Ramón's neck.

I don't get it, boss," Buddha said. "I know we got a transmitter on that hawk of yours…but I've seen that bastard fly. There's no way the pigeon's gonna make it back home before it gets taken out."

"East," Cross said into the cellular phone, watching a small round blue screen set into an electronic box he held between his legs. "Holding steady. You on it?"

"Roger," came back Fal's voice.

"It's not a hawk," Cross told Buddha absently. "It's a kestrel. A falcon, okay? I got a mated pair up there. The female's sitting on some eggs. The male brings food. I haven't fed them for days–eggs. The male brings food. I haven't fed them for days–wouldn't let them loose to get food for themselves, either. And I've got the male trained to hit pigeons–he fucking loves them."

"Yeah, but…"

"What?"

"You got the bird all stoked up, right? So he's gonna knock that pigeon right out of the sky. How in hell are we gonna–?"