Now, that was scary — a little mental breakdown at the worst possible time. Ironically, it was Whitehead who had first gotten him dependent on uppers and downers in Asia.

Shafer began to slosh across the fetid swamp, hoping the water wouldn’t be over his head. It wasn’t. He came out and climbed over the chain-link fence on the far side. He started across the back lawn.

He had the most powerful obsession about destroying James Whitehead. He wanted to torture him — but where would he find the time? Whitehead had been his first handler in Thailand, and then in the Philippines. More than anyone, Whitehead had made Shafer into a killer. Whitehead was the one he held responsible.

The house was still dark, but Shafer believed War was in there.

Suddenly a gun fired from the house. War indeed.

Shafer began to zig and zag like an infantryman thoroughly trained in combat. His heart was thundering. Reality came in odd stop-and-go movements. He wondered if Whitehead had a nightscope on his gun. And how good a shot he was.

Whether he’d ever been in combat.

Was he frightened? Or was he excited by the action?

He figured that the doors to the house were locked and that War was crouched low, hiding inside, waiting to take a shot without too much exposure. He had never done his own dirty work, though; none of them had — not Whitehead, not Bayer, not Highsmith. They had used Death, and now he’d come for them. If they hadn’t agreed to meet in Jamaica, he would have come after them one at a time.

Shafer broke into a full sprint toward the house. Gunshots exploded from inside. Bullets whizzed past him. He hadn’t been hit. Because he was so good? Or because War wasn’t?

Shafer threw both arms up in front of his face. This was it. He dived through the large picture window in the loggia.

Glass exploded everywhere as the window blew into a thousand small pieces. He was inside!

War was here, close by. Where was his enemy? How good was James Whitehead? His mind was filled with important questions. A dog was barking somewhere in the house.

Shafer tumbled across the tile floor and hit the leg of a heavy table, but came up firing anyway. Nothing. No one was in the room.

He heard voices outside, in front. The police were here! Always trying to spoil his fun.

Then he saw War trying to run. Tall, gangly, with longish black hair. War had blinked first. He was heading toward the front door, looking for help from the police, of all people.

“You can’t make it, Whitehead. Stop! I won’t let you get out! Stay in the game.”

Whitehead apparently realized he couldn’t get out the front door. He turned toward a stairway, and Shafer followed, only a few steps behind. War turned sharply and fired again.