He lay back, and didn’t slide under. Meanwhile, a drip passed something medicinal into his veins, his vision was somewhat lazy in its mission to put edges on things, the smell of hospitals was its own special ordeal. A nurse leaned in to perform vital life-giving tasks, the last of which was holding a cup up for a long drink of water.

“Juba?” asked Bob after the last gulp.

Nick’s expression told enough, but as a stickler for details, he then provided them.

“He got into a parking lot, hot-wired a car, and got out of town. Where, we have no idea. The report on the car didn’t come in till last night—”

“It’s the next day already?”

“Afraid so.”

“Christ.”

“Anyhow, we haven’t located it yet, though now there’s an APB out.”

“That won’t help. He’ll dump it—he’s already dumped it—and pick up another. He’ll always be a car ahead of the APBs.”

“No doubt. Smart operator.”

“And fast. I never saw anybody so fast. He put that leg into me at light’s speed. So give me the score.”

“Not as bad as it could be. No police KIA, four wounded, not including you and Chandler. Four bad-guy KIA, including their NCO, who blew his own brains out rather than be taken. Six surrenders. Counterterrorism Division people are all over them, but since they were hired by a cutout in Mexico, and handled by cutouts all the way through, there’s not going to be much. Universal soldiers, Mexican variation. Special Forces, good operators; as long as someone pays their life insurance, they’ll shut up and wait for a chance to break. Also, some guy who’s a glass expert, cut the window for Juba’s shot. He doesn’t know anything either.”

Bob nodded.

Then he said, “Anyhow, when do I get out of here?”

“There’s some recovery time up ahead. You’ve sustained a heavy concussion and skull fracture. They say not for a week.”

“By then, Juba could have whacked—”

“Not your department. Your department is, tell the artist what this guy looks like. You’re the only one who’s seen him who’s still alive and not afraid to talk.”

“Jesus, Nick, it was just for a split second before he whacked me out.”

“You’re a trained observer. When you put your mind to it, you’ll be surprised what you can recover.”

“I’ll try.”

“There is no ‘try,’” said Nick. “There is only ‘do.’”

•   •   •

But there was no do. There was only try.

“I admit, it’s not much,” said Swagger.

A square-faced, rather generic Arab stared back at him from a universe of deft charcoal strokes. Whatever subtle nuance of geometry, weight distribution, underlying musculature, bone slope, and eye radiance that make a face a face was not there. Nothing was there.