“That’s how Juba made it out too. Goddamn, he’s a slippery eel. Let’s get the dogs in here and see if we can find a track.”

“They’re coming in with the next relay.”

“Okay, everybody,” he said to the room. “Sorry, the night isn’t over yet. We have to get on Juba. Maybe the dogs will bring him down.”

He turned to Chandler, off the walker, still hobbling, but game enough to tag along.

“Where’s Swagger? He’s tracked before.”

“Boss,” said Chandler, “you left him on the perimeter, remember?”

“Yeah, I forgot. Okay, we need him.”

He went to radio.

“This is Command. All units clear and secure?”

One by one, each Hammer element reported in, all objectives taken, no casualties. The street agents had begun to process the bewildered survivors, but that info wouldn’t be collated into a coherent picture for some time.

No Swagger on the ’Net.

“Swagger? Swagger, this is Command. Swagger, report please, give me your sitrep.”

“God, I hope he hasn’t taken off again,” said Chandler.

“I knew I should have left somebody with him. Where the hell could he have gone?”

•   •   •

La Culebra slipped down the low corridor, hunched, tracking his way by flashlight, smelling dirt, feeling along the timber shoring, feeling the fragility of the underground passageway. It seemed as if it could collapse at any second. There were seven tunnels out of the house; this was not the best of them. It didn’t matter. What mattered was, getting out, somehow commanding a vehicle, and fleeing the area under the cover of dark. Like a vampire, he could travel only by night, for the mask made him too obvious. In rural Mexico, daylight travel was possible, but here in el Norte it was beyond question.

He knew he had to escape the raiders. Who were they? Again, it didn’t matter. The Tijuana Cartel? Colombians? Russian gangsters out of Vegas with commando experience? Or any of a dozen other outfits who wanted to extinguish Señor Menendez from the earth and take his place as El Supremo. La Policía? Maybe state operators from a country that wanted the cartel business for itself. Rogue Green Berets? It didn’t matter.

Only one thing mattered and that was escape.

He came at last to the end, climbed up a ladder, pushed aside a flimsy door, and climbed into night air. He blinked, checking. He was alone, over the crest from the big house, oriented toward Route 193. He had to veer toward it, somehow get out of the zone of police activity and get himself a car. If he had to, he would kill everyone who stood a chance of preventing him from doing that.