Tonight was supposedly a little bonus for the key people in the network of drugs and guns and currency that fed Milos’s operations. Many races down there on the patio: Italians, Greeks, Africans, Koreans, Mexicans, all soon to be part of his growing empire. His was now an international business, and thus he had to be an international man and deal with everyone. Of course for his personal operations and security he used only full-blooded Serbs, hard, loyal men, blooded in battle.

But this gathering was more than just a party. It was a testimonial, an affirmation of sorts. They were here as Milos’s guests. Some of them might harbor an inkling in the backs of their minds that they could be his equal, but tonight should lay that to rest. This wasn’t neutral territory where equals meet. They had come to his place, where he called the shots; they were enjoying themselves on his tab and getting a good look at his impressive new digs. They were in a position where the fact that Milos Dragovic was the man was being pounded home every minute of their stay.

They were down there with the bimbos; he was up here with the supermodel. Didn’t that say it all.

Forty-eight hours from now things would be very different. No business associates, no bodies in the pool. Sunday would be purely social, to establish and enhance his status among the big names out here.

“What’s that noise?” Cino said.

Milos recognized the rapid wup-wup-wup that seemed to come from everywhere. “Sounds like a helicopter.”

And then he saw it, maybe a hundred feet up, gliding in from over the ocean. A bulging net of some sort dangled beneath it. Milos couldn’t see what was in the net, but it looked full of whatever it was. Some new way of fishing, maybe? But no water was dripping from the net.

Whatever he was up to, Milos thought, the pilot shouldn’t be flying that sort of cargo over homes. If that net should tear…

“Oh, look,” Cino said. “He’s stopped right overhead.”

That was when the first suspicion that something might be wrong flitted through Milos’s mind. It became stronger when he noticed that the helicopter didn’t have any numbers on it. He didn’t know the exact rules, but every damn aircraft he’d ever seen had a string of numbers on the fuselage. Either this one didn’t have any or someone had masked them.

Milos looked around and saw that the party had stopped dead. All his guests were standing still, looking up. Even the babes in the pool had stopped their splashing and were pointing at the sky.

“What do you think he’s up to with all those tires?” Cino said.

Tires? Milos looked up again. Damned if she wasn’t right. That net was full of tires. Must have been fifty of them at least.

What’s that asshole doing dangling all those tires right over my house?

And then the net opened…

And the tires tumbled free…