We took the South Dixie Highway out of the city all the way down past Homestead to Florida City and on to Palm Drive. I missed the twists and turns after that as I concentrated on the last dregs of coffee. Once one base need was seen to, I attended to another. While cooped up in the gilded prison of my hotel room I’d been busy rebuilding my SIG from parts gleaned from other weapons. It would probably have made sense to ditch my old gun and familiarize myself with a new one, but I’d used the modified P226 for so long that it had become an extension of my hand. My palm was familiar with the contours of the grip and anything else would have felt a little alien. While Rink negotiated the roads leading out into the wilderness, I dismantled the gun and put it back together again, checked the slide and the progression of the trigger. I unloaded and then reloaded the magazine, chambered a round. The gun had survived being shot and blown up by a grenade: we had a lot in common. It seemed the injury to my hand had been superficial and I’d held the swelling under control by way of an ice pack. There was some residual pain, but I could live with it.

We followed a road that wound through groves of live oak and bald cypress trees, Spanish moss hanging like old men’s beards from the branches. It was daytime, but even then the spidery growths lent a Gothic air to the scene. It reminded me of stories I’d read of haunted swamps and witch-women mumbling curses over animal bones. Myth says that a beautiful bride-to-be was killed by Cherokee warriors, and as a warning to other interlopers on their land, her hair was hacked off and thrown in a tree. As time passed, her hair grew gray and withered and spread from tree to tree. The story said that if you tried to remove the hair it would leap away and defend itself with hordes of beetles. Fanciful stuff, but like a lot of soldiers I’m superstitious and felt a trickle of unease at the thought of being eaten alive by a swarm of insects. Of course, there was only one roach I was concerned about.

“You’re sure he’s coming, huh?”

“No doubt about it, Rink. When Jimena told him that Alisha survived . . . I don’t know . . . it was like I could feel the anger radiating from him.”

“What’s his goddamn problem, anyway? I’d ’ave thought he’d lie low for a while, maybe set himself up a new identity. Who’s gonna hire an asshole like him when he can’t be trusted anymore?”

“The way I see things, he’s a complete maniac. He isn’t acting rationally; he’s being led by more than the lure of money. Always has been, probably.”