“Do you know exactly what they were looking for?” Max spoke for the first time.

“I do. And it’s none of your business.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched for several seconds. This was not the feel-good moment Juan had been hoping for. There was nothing about James Ronish’s reaction that was going to cosmically balance what had happened to Jerry Pulaski.

“Well, Mr. Ronish”—Juan held out the bundle they’d taken from the downed blimp—“we found this in the wreckage and thought it may be important. We just wanted to give it to you and maybe bring you a little closure over your brothers’ fate.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Ronish said, anger tightened the wrinkles around his eyes. “If it weren’t for those three, Don would still be alive, and I wouldn’t have had damned-fool ideas about romance and adventure when I volunteered for Korea. Do you know what it’s like to have the Chinese blow your leg off?”

“Actually—”

“Get out!” he snapped.

“No. Seriously.” Juan stooped to raise his jeans’ cuff and lower his sock. This prosthetic leg was covered with flesh-colored plastic that still looked artificial under the uncertain light.

James Ronish lost some of his anger. “Well, I’ll be. A fellow peg leg. What happened?”

“Blown off by a Chinese gunboat during the reckless days of my youth.”

“You don’t say. Well, there’s irony for you. Can I get you boys a beer?”

Before they could reply, the screen door outside squeaked open and someone knocked.

Cabrillo looked over to Max, concern etched on his face. He hadn’t heard anyone drive up, but with the rain thundering against the house it was possible he missed it. And what were the odds an old curmudgeon like Jim Ronish getting two visitors on the same evening?

Then he told himself to relax. This wasn’t a mission. They were just giving some information to a harmless old man living out in the middle of nowhere. Max had been right. Juan did need a little time off.

“Damn. Now what?” Ronish grumbled. He reached for the doorknob.

Juan’s instincts went into overdrive. Something was very wrong. Before he could stop him, Ronish had the door open. A man stood out in the rain, his wet face shining in the light over the front door.

Both the man and Cabrillo recognized each other instantly, and while one spent a critical microsecond considering the implications, the other reacted.

Juan was grateful he was carrying a Glock. They didn’t have safeties to slow him down. He whipped the pistol from the holster under his windbreaker and fired around Jim Ronish’s shoulder. The bullet hit the frame, gouging out a sizable chunk of wood.