Down the street from the shabby posada, Steve entered a small cantina and slouched against the bar, his hat shadowing his face as he waited. It was late; Paco should have been here long before now. All the arrangements were made. Señor Valdez in Ojinaga had met with Paco for the final shipment of rifles to be transferred from Casey’s possession to an agent for Díaz. Paco was to have shown up at the rendezvous with Casey, but hadn’t made it. With most of the rifles already passed on to Díaz’s army, there had been only the last of them to distribute.

Ginny had been right, of course. The rifles were hidden beneath garments in her trunks, the empty crates filled with straw and dishes once they’d left the ship. It was an uneasy alliance, a dance with the devil.

He remembered General Díaz well, had ridden with him for a while. He had been an efficient general, and would be a ruthless president. The human qualities of Benito Juarez had been evident in his presidency, a certain compassion mixed with the necessary regimen imposed on a man who ruled a country.

Díaz had none of those qualities, but he was capable of winning a revolution and controlling Mexico. If he could be tempered by his cabinet, the country would prosper, but that remained to be seen.

If Steve was wrong about Díaz, he would be instrumental in creating disaster, but it couldn’t be helped. Lerdo had been too weak to hold Mexico, and even with the help of the United States, had failed. Steve’s job was to play the odds and pick the victor and he’d done what he had to do.

Conversations around him abruptly ceased, as if a door had been shut. Steve glanced up, swearing softly under his breath as he recognized the uniforms. He kept his head down; he’d had trouble with Lerdo’s men before. They were growing too desperate, sensing the end, and were more brutal for it.

They crowded into the small cantina, loud and unruly as they ranged through the room, eyes scanning frightened faces that turned toward them, then away, quickly, afraid to be noticed. He could feel the tension; it crouched in the low-ceilinged room like a feral beast, ravenous and dangerous.

There was no escape without drawing unwanted attention. Steve remained still, his cup of whiskey untouched.

Prowling through the crowded cantina, the soldiers took their time, obviously enjoying the fear they incited. Then, at some furtive signal, they suddenly pounced, jerking up men from stools to shove them toward the door, denouncing them as rebels.