Juan vaguely recalled a framed piece of art above the faux-brick fireplace. Had it been some sort of rubbing? He didn’t remember. It had made barely a passing impression. He looked through the darkness in the direction of the mantel and fired. The muzzle flash revealed the outline of the picture on the wall but no details. It was much too big to be easily portable.

“Mr. Ronish, please. What do you mean ‘a way to the junk’?”

“I wish they’d never gone to the island,” he replied. He was in shock, his body’s response to his plummeting blood pressure. “It all would have turned out different.”

Max changed out an empty magazine. Both men had brought only two spares from the Houston safe house.

Juan could no longer feel Ronish’s heart pumping blood against his hand over the wound. The old man was gone. He didn’t feel responsible. At least not directly. The Argentines would have killed him with or without the Corporation’s presence. But had Juan and his team not stumbled onto the wreckage of the Flying Dutchman, James Ronish would have lived out his final days in obscurity. And therein lay the indirect guilt.

A voice boomed from outside. He spoke English. “I compliment you on your mastery of my language. My pilot thought you were from Buenos Aires.

“And you sound like that Chihuahua from the taco ads.” Juan couldn’t resist. Adrenaline was seething in his veins like champagne bubbles.”

The Argentine shouted a curse that brought into question the marital status of Juan’s parents. “I give you one chance. Leave the house through the back door and my men will not fire. Ronish stays.”

A kitchen window shattered. A few seconds later, wavering light came from the archway connecting it to the dining room. They’d tossed a Molotov cocktail to hasten the decision.

Juan jumped from the floor, firing from the hip through the window, and swept the rubbing, or whatever it was, from the wall. He heaved it into the kitchen like a Frisbee. The frame caught on the jamb, breaking the glass, and it vanished from sight.

Max opened fire again, covering Cabrillo while he changed mags, and together the two men ran down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. The house was a standard ranch, like millions of others built after World War II, like the one Juan had lived in until his father’s accounting practice took off, like the ones all his friends lived in, like the one Max had grown up in. The two men could navigate it with their eyes closed.