Crouched among the high reeds at this isolated section of beachfront, Battat felt as though he had never been away from the field. Danger did that. It was like a fond song or a familiar food smell, a bookmark in the soul.

He loved that, too. He also felt good about what he was doing. Not just to atone for Annabelle but because it was right.

Battat had been here for nearly seven hours now. The cell phone communications they'd intercepted said that the pickup was scheduled for eleven-thirty p.m. The Harpooner was supposed to be there to examine the parcel, whatever it was, then pay for it and leave.

Just then, something happened on the boat. A hatch door opened, and a man climbed out onto the deck. Battat looked out at the water. The man turned on a radio.

It was playing what sounded like local folk tunes. Maybe that was a signal. Battat's gaze swept across the water.

Suddenly, an elbow locked around Battat's throat from behind and yanked him to his feet. He gagged. He tried to tuck his chin into the elbow, to relieve the pressure on his throat so he could breathe, but the attacker was well trained. He had locked his right arm around his throat and was pushing Battat's head with his left hand so he couldn't turn it. Battat tried to drive an elbow back into the attacker's gut, but the man was standing to the side. Finally, he tried to reach back and grab the shoulder of the choking arm and pull the attacker over.

The attacker responded by tilting his own body back and lifting Battat from the ground. Although Battat was able to grab the man's shoulder, he couldn't throw the attacker. Battat's feet were in the air and he had no leverage.

The struggle lasted five seconds. The attacker's arm squeezed against the American's carotid arteries from the side, immediately cutting the blood supply to the head and causing Battat to black out. Taking no chances, the attacker kept pressing the arteries for another half minute. Then he dropped the unconscious body to the sand.

The Harpooner reached into the pocket of his windbreaker. He removed a syringe from his pocket, pulled off the plastic tip, and injected the man in the neck. After wiping away the small drop of blood, he took out a flashlight and flicked it on. He waved it back and forth several times. Another flashlight answered from the Rachel.

Then both lights went dark. Moments later, a motor dinghy lowered from the boat and headed toward shore.

Camp Springs, Maryland Sunday, 4:12 p.m.

Paul Hood sat on an armchair in the corner of the small, TV-lit hotel room. The heavy shades were drawn and a football game was on, but Hood wasn't really watching it. He was watching reruns in his mind. Reruns of over sixteen years of married life.

Old pictures in my new home, he thought.