The familia driver, Martín, had cut the headlights as the car approached. He pulled over three hundred yards from the gate and parked beside the domed crest of the hill. The four men got out. Juan pulled a bicycle from the trunk, slung a backpack on his shoulder, and sprinkled water from a bottle on his face. The water trickled like sweat along his cheeks and down his throat. Then he walked boldly toward the gate. The other three men fixed silencers to their pistols and followed one hundred feet behind him. Juan huffed and walked loudly, partly to cover the footsteps of the others, and partly to make sure he was heard.

As Juan had expected, there were guards inside the perimeter. They were three men with guns, not professional security people. They had undoubtedly been brought here to keep an eye on the station in the aftermath of the broadcast. Juan and the others had decided ahead of time that if there were people patrolling the grounds, they would have to be taken out quietly and simultaneously.

Juan forced himself to relax. He couldn't afford to let the men see him shiver. This was his operation and he didn't want the other members of the familia to think he was nervous.

Juan stopped when he saw the gate. "Son-of-abitch," he said loudly.

One of the guards heard him. He walked over urgently while the other two stayed back, covering him.

"What do you want?" the guard asked. He was a very tall, lanky man with a curly spray of thinning brown hair.

Juan stood there for a long moment, apparently dumbfounded. "I want to know where the hell I am."

"Where the hell do you want to be?" the guard asked.

"I'm looking for the Iglesias campground."

The guard snickered mirthlessly. "I'm afraid you've got a bit of a ride ahead of you. Or more accurately, behind you and to the east."

"What do you mean?"

The guard jerked a thumb to the right. "I mean the campground's on the top of that next hill over there, the one with the-"

There was a dull series of phup-phup-phups behind Juan as the other familia members fired at the guards. The men dropped silently with red, raw holes in their foreheads.

As the familia members moved forward, Juan set the bicycle down, pulled off his backpack, and went to work.

The easiest way to get in was to announce yourself on the intercom and wait for the gate to be buzzed open. But that wasn't an option nor was it the only way in. Juan removed a cloth from the backpack as well as a crowbar. His undershirt was heavy with sweat and the cool air chilled him as he climbed halfway up the fence to the left of the gate.