Chapter Ten

The motorcycle sped down the well-lit freeway, far above the speed limit, the hunched figure aboard shrouded in black leather and a full-face helmet. The bike swerved through traffic, darting around cars and trucks without ahint ofhesitation before exiting androlling toaslower speed at the bottom of the ramp.

Thebikespedupagainasitenteredanolder,run-down,darkerpart oftown, where thecityrotted from theinside out.Therider guided itdown a mazeofstreetsbeforestopping infrontofasmallwarehouse. Withthehitof abutton, alargebaydoor opened, andtheridersteered thebikeinside before the door closed behind him.

Oncethebikestopped, theriderstoodupandswung hislegover, leaving thekeys initashewalked over toascarred table.Hepulled offhis helmet and set it there before looking around.

ZanehadbeeninMiami almost fourmonths, working theinnercity, trailingdownsomemajordrugdealswithquiteabitofsuccess.Alotofit wassheercussednessandbravado;hisBureaucontacthadalreadywarned him tobemore careful three times. Butsafety didn't matter tohim, aslong as he got the job done.

Hetossedhisgloves nexttothehelmetandunzipped hisjacketashe walked further into the warehouse toward aloft. He climbed the steps, tossing theblackleatherovertherailing,revealing askin-tight, sweatyT-shirt, covered byadouble shoulder holster, andsheaths holding wickedly sharp knives with well-wornhandles at his wrists.

Afterdisarming butshoving oneguninthebackofhiswaistband, he wenttoacabinetandlookedtiredlyoverseveralbottles—many empty—and pulled out a half-empty one of rotgut tequila. He screwed off the top before he shookacigaretteoutofacrumpledpack.Hecollapsedonthelumpycouch, litup,andtookalongpulloftheharshliquor,leaninghisheadbacktostare attheceiling andlosehimself inhisvices. Itwould bealonely, silent, hot night.

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Tysatonthebalcony ofhisrowhouseinBaltimore,smoking aMontecristo No.4Reserva andblowing smoke ringsintothestarless sky.Thecigarwasa limited production(only one hundredthousandhad been made down in Cuba),andtheywerepackagedinsleekblackboxesoftwentycigars,each box labeled with a gold number between one and five thousand.In the back of Ty's closet, he had five boxes in a safe, numberedtwelve to sixteen.

It was good to have resourcefulfriends stationed at Gitmo.

"Ty?" awoman's voice called from inside the bedroom. "If you don't come back to bed, I'm leaving."

Ty lowered his head and tapped the tip of his finger on his beer bottle.

"I mean it, Ty. I'm going home."

Another smoke ringdrifted itswaytoward theclouded moon, and somewhere in the city a horn honked angrily.

"Youshithead!" thewomancalled."Ifucking knewthiswasa mistake," shemumbled toherself as the rustling of sheets and clothing drifted out to Ty's ears. A few moments later the front door slammed shut.

Tysighedheavilyandinhaledthecoolairwithitshintoffragrant cigarsmoke. Hesatwithhisbarefeetpropped ontherailing, nothing buta worn pair of sweatpants protecting him from the chill, and he watched the sun rise silently.

Ithadbeen almost fourmonths since hismedical leave hadbeen granted.Hehadbeenevaluated—both forhisinjuriesandforwhathadbeen deemedsevereexhaustionandshock—observed, treated,treatedagain, observedsomemore,andfinallygiventhreeweeksofvacationto"gethis headbackonstraight." Hehadanotherthirteen daysofnothing todobut barmaids.He might actually go crazy before then.

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Zanepulledoffhisjacketandthrewittothefloor,stamping upthe stepstotheloftandmakingforthebathroom.Heflippedonthelightand turned toward themirror tolook attheangry, bloody gash across themeatof his upper arm.

HemutteredinharshSpanish.Fuckers.Takingpotshotsathimlike thatwhen he'ddelivered whattheywanted andmore.He'dtaken more satisfactionthanusualbeatingtheshitoutofacoupleofthembeforehe called in the cavalry to arrest the whole lot of them.

Hehissedangrilyashepouredperoxideliberallyoverthegunshot wound, covered itmessilywithantibiotic cream, ignoring that itwasstill gaping andbleeding, andwrapped itup.Hewalkedtoward thekitchen, still mutteringangrily as he slid a cigarette between his lips.

Walking bytheanswering machine, heturned uphisnoseatthe blinking redlightandlitup.Theonly person whocalled him herewasthe Bureau contact, andhedefinitelydidn't wanttotalktoher.Cursing underhis breath, he hit the button and pulled out his guns, checking them as he disarmed.

"Special AgentGarrett, thisisAssistant Director Richard Burns." Zane's headshotaround sohecouldstareatthemachine. "Don't youdare ignore me.Callme.Itdoesn't matterwhat time." Heleftanunfamiliar return number and hung up.

Hitting theerasebutton, Zanefrowned andtapped theashesfromhis cigarette. It was odd to hear English not made rapid-fire by an accent. "What's hewant?"hemurmured tohimself,theSpanish flowing easily. He tapped hisfingers onthephone foralongmoment before picking upand dialing the number he had easily memorized.

Twominutes later, hewasconnected toBurns, presumably athome, since it was the middle of the night.

"Special Agent Garrett. Thank you for returning my call so promptly," Burnssaidbywayofgreeting, nohintofcensureorsleepinhis voice.

Zanewalkedwiththehandsetovertothecouchandpulledouta bottleofpainkillers. "Whatdoyouwant,Burns?"Zanemuttered inhiswell-practiced accentedEnglish, setting hiscigarette inanoverfull ashtray. He poured a handful of pills into his hand and popped three into his mouth, sitting on the edge of the couch and holding his arm out to look at it.

"Evertheconversationalist. Niceaccent,bytheway.Haveyoubeen followingthe Tri-State murders?"

Zane's jaw set. "No," he said shortly.

"Good. Get to DC. I want you here by three thirty tomorrow."

"DC?"Zaneobjected."I'minthemiddleofallkindsofshithere, Burns. I can't just drop it!"

"Youwillturnoverallinformation andmaterialtoSpecialAgent Black,whoiswaitingquitepatientlyrightoutsideyourdoor.Behere,and don't be late."

Burnshungup,leaving Zanestaring atthehandset. Afteralong moment,hehurleditatthewall,foreignexpletivesflowingoffhistongueas it shattered.

Tydidn't sleep atnight. Henever had,even asachild. While the militaryhadforcedhimtochangethat,thesubsequent yearsofworking undercover mostly atnight hadhardwired hisbodyoncemoretosleepduring the dayand prowl restlessly during the latehours when hehad nothing else to keephimbusy.Andso,whenhisphonerangatroughly twointheafternoon, itsentTystraightupandintoafull-outpanicbeforehewasabletotrack down the vibrating cell phone and growl at it.

"What?" heanswered inahuff,rubbing sleepyeyesandshaking his head to wake himself fully.

"Special Agent Grady," a familiar voice greeted warmly.

"Dick?" Tyresponded inshock. "Ididn't doit,"hesaidimmediately. "Whateverit was, I didn't do it. I'm on vacation," he insisted defensively.

Therewasachuckle inresponse. "Iknowyou'reonvacation, Ty. That's why I'm calling. How do you feel?"

"Uhh..."

"I need you to cut itshort," Burns told him solemnly. "Have you been followingthe Tri-State murders?"

"No," Ty answered immediately.

"Good. Get in here. One hour."

"What?"

"Anddon't comeinsmelling likebeerandcheapcigars!" Burns chastised before hanging up.