And, nearly buried beneath the weight of that crushing adulation, he heard Mr. Church speak the name.

“Rafael Santoro…”

CHAPTER 68

THE PAVILION

BLUE DIAMOND ELITE TRAINING CENTER

STEVENS COUNTY, WASHINGTON

The crowd surged forward around Rafael Santoro, Eve, and HK. Everyone seemed eager to elbow their fellows out of the way to shake hands with the small Spaniard. And, to a lesser degree, HK. No one offered a hand to Eve, and she seemed okay with that.

Santoro was ebullient, smiling broadly, accepting the offered hands and shaking briskly, pausing to speak to specific individuals, even hugging a few. He exchanged cheek kisses with HK and leaned closely to speak quietly into her ear, and the executive blushed a bright red, her eyes twinkling with happiness.

Top and Bunny lingered near the very back of the crowd. With Bunny’s height and mass, it was tough to remain inconspicuous, but they managed. Shifts in body posture change height and alter physical presence.

Staying out of Santoro’s line of sight was key because even though they’d never met, there was no chance at all that their faces were unknown to the man.

“Never thought that fucker would be here,” said Bunny quietly.

“Uh-huh,” agreed Top, putting a lot of meaning into those two syllables.

In their ears, Wilson said, “Chaps, you really need to get the hell out of that room.”

Bunny turned toward Top’s button camera and pretended to scratch his chin with his extended forefinger. Leaving was not an option, because it would draw too much attention. This was their first day at the Pavilion, and any unusual movements would be dangerous, if not fatal.

So, instead, they drifted over to where a couple of techs were helping the K-110’s driver out of the fighting machine. There were a series of snap releases, but it still took assistance to disengage. As Top saw it, that was one of very damned few design flaws.

The driver was sweating and accepted a towel and a bottle of water from a friend.

“That’s one hell of a show,” said Top, coming over to shake the driver’s hand.

“Thanks, man,” said the driver. He glanced at Top and Bunny’s street clothes. “You boys new?”

“New kids in school, brah,” said Bunny.

“Welcome to the monkey house,” said the driver, grinning broadly. He stripped off his sweat-sodden shirt and tied it around his waist. Top noticed that there was a small, barely healed scar on his upper chest, about the size and placement typical of a pacemaker. It was the fifth or sixth time he’d seen a Fixer here with the same scar, but now wasn’t the time to ask. The driver looked at his machine with obvious genuine affection. “What d’you think?”