The storm blew at his back. He breezed past his own car—its keys were somewhere aboard the Valkyrie—and made for the limousine. No matter what they did to Benjamin the Hulk, the keys were probably still there, he hoped.

Splashing through an ankle-deep puddle of water, Ridgeway crossed a narrow gutter and cut through a line of anemic shrubbery to the limousine. The sounds of his desperate breathing came to him over the storm as he leaned against the hood of the limo, urging his knees not to collapse.

He raised his head to look behind him. Across the basin, one of the men ran for a moment, then slowed. The other agent still stood against the fence some forty to fifty yards away.

With a deep breath of decision, Ridgeway pushed away from the hood, stood up shakily, and walked to the driver’s door and opened it. The rich, warm, coppery smells of bloody death wafted out.

As a rookie, Ridgeway had worked traffic detail and seen mangled bodies—their limbs twisted away, their torsos ripped open, their internal organs exposed. As a homicide detective he had seen the perverted things human beings intentionally did to others. But never had he seen anything as hideous as the sight that greeted him when he opened the driver’s door of the limousine.

Weinstock’s bodyguard sprawled spread-eagled in the middle of the front seat, his hands and legs bound with a rope that led to doorposts and other parts of the car. The man was completely naked and had been slit expertly from the top of his pubic hair to his breastbone. His intestines spilled from the slit and coiled on the leather-upholstered seats.

At the sound of the door opening, the butchered body groaned. Benjamin was still alive. His face, colored slate gray, turned toward him. The eyes opened and after several long seconds filled with sad recognition. The mouth opened, but closed again wordlessly as if the exertion had been too much for him. The eyes closed and the huge man’s head lolled back on his shoulders.

Ridgeway felt his skin tingle and tasted the sour acid of fear and nausea. His mouth worked like a fish out of water. Finally he willed his eyes away from the horror and with a supreme effort convinced his legs to move. He backed up a step, turned to run, and found himself staring at a young man with a knife in one hand, a silenced machine gun in the other, and a victorious smile on his face.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” the young man said in heavily accented English. He looked toward the front seat of the limo. “Benjamin and I.”

The man wore jeans, a windbreaker over a V-necked sweater, and running shoes. The clothing was soaked and plastered to his skin. His short hair was also soaked and plastered to his skull. He appeared to be in his late twenties, with the sort of lean, angular muscularity associated with a long-distance runner. A crazy glint showed in his eyes as if the light were reflecting off something fractured behind them.