The sounds of footsteps arose, from the main passageway, and Juba fired quickly at the shapes that suddenly filled it, not a burst, as only fools fire bursts, and placed 5.45×39s into thoracic cavities as they became available. One shot, one kill; three shots, three kills.

He turned back.

“Okay, now lead me out of here. I don’t want to have to fight his whole fucking army.”

Alberto came out of his shocked stupor, realized what had and was happening, and said, “This way, quickly, the library.”

They ran, and, here and there, encountered terrified random household staff, who melted before them and did not require killing. They passed the foyer, and Juba called a halt, opened the front door, spied three armed men racing toward him from the sentry house, and, with three shots, delivered languidly but with smoothness, he dropped them.

Then an amazement: the stairway upward. Who was halfway down it, barefoot, but the man with the sock on his head.

Yet Juba did not shoot him as he could have. Instead, he smiled, nodded sportingly, and the fellow drew back.

Alberto pulled Juba along to the library. He knew where it had to be, a section of shelving with faux books, but did not understand what mechanism would spring it.

“There,” he said. “Do you see? The books are fake. It has to be a door.”

“And suppose it leads to a wine cellar,” said Juba, but pushed hard, and indeed the shelves moved backwards on ball bearings, far lighter than its weight should have been, and revealed an alcove and a spiral staircase. The two stepped inside, pulling the door closed, and descended into darkness. Alberto saw a light panel, hit a switch, and the lights came on, revealing a well-engineered tunnel leading away from them.

“There you have it,” he said. “Escape. Is this where you kill me, now that my use is over?”

“I am not a murderer,” said Juba. “I am a jihadi. I have honor. Besides, you are not important enough to kill.”

“Then let’s get out of—”

Even inside the bowels of the house, they heard the roar of mighty engines and shivered as the wave of vibrations poured over them.

“What is—”

“Helicopters,” said Juba. “I think Bobleeswagger is here. Won’t he be surprised?”

•   •   •

La Culebra returned to his room, finding the two women, still naked, terrified on the bed.

Suddenly a roar arose from outside.

What on earth—

He rose and watched as six large machines settled out of the sky amid columns of dust whipped up by invisible rotors. As each landed, men poured from them, armored in the commando style, with all kinds of automatic weapons, shields, lights—the entire modern war-making trousseau. Serious customers, now running hard and low to the house, which they’d broach and penetrate in seconds. Everything was happening at once! The world was ending!

“Boots,” he said. “Get my boots.”