Sightseers came here on motorboat tours, so I figured we wouldn’t be noticed right away. Besides, darkness was starting to fall. We drove past mansions that were mostly Mediterranean or Portuguese style, but an occasional Georgian Colonial supposedly signaled “northern money.” We’d been warned to tread lightly, not to ruffle feathers in this wealthy neighborhood, which, frankly, wouldn’t be possible. We were going to ruffle a lot of feathers in a few minutes.

Onboard the cruiser with me were Ned Mahoney and two of his seven-person assault teams. Mahoney didn’t ordinarily go on missions himself, but since Baltimore, the director had been changing that. The FBI had to get stronger in the field.

I watched a large waterfront house through binoculars as our boat approached a dock. Several expensive yachts and speedboats bobbed in the water nearby. We had secured a floor plan of the house and learned it had been purchased for twenty-four million two years ago. Don’t ruffle any feathers.

A large party was in progress at the estate, which belonged to Ari Manning. According to Sterling, he was Pasha Sorokin, the Wolf.

“Looks like everybody’s having a fine old time,” Mahoney said from the deck. “Man, I love a good party. Food, music, dancing, bubbly.”

“Yeah, it’s jumping. And the surprise guests haven’t even shown up,” I said.

Ari Manning was known around Fort Lauderdale and Miami for the parties he hosted, sometimes a couple a week. His extravaganzas were famous for their surprises—surprise guests, like the coaches of the Miami Dolphins and the Miami Heat; hot musical and comedy acts from Las Vegas; politicians and diplomats and ambassadors, even right up to the White House.

“Guess we’re tonight’s surprise special guests,” Mahoney said, and grinned at me.

“Flown in all the way from Dallas,” I said. “With our entourage of fourteen.”

The guests, the nature of the glitzy party itself, made the operation tense, which was probably why Mahoney and I felt compelled to make a few jokes. We’d talked about waiting, but HRT wanted to go in now, while we knew the Wolf was there. The director agreed, and had actually made the final decision.

A guy in a ridiculous sailor suit was vigorously waving us away from the dock. We kept coming. “What’s this asshole on the dock want?” Mahoney asked me.

“We’re full up! You’re too late!” the man on the dock shouted to us. His voice carried above the music blasting from the back part of the mansion.

“Party doesn’t start without us,” Ned Mahoney called back. Then he tooted the horn.

“No, no! Don’t come in here!” Sailor Suit yelled. “Get away!”

Mahoney tooted the horn again.