After two nights without sleep, seven hours’ rest is not enough, but ten minutes in a steaming shower at least make me feel human again. Caitlin woke me from a dead sleep at 3:45 a.m. and led me to her bathroom. Now, as I’m toweling off, she comes in and sets a cup of coffee beside the lavatory. I wrap the towel around my waist, and she perches on the edge of the commode. She’s still wearing the clothes she had on at the police station. “Have you slept?” I ask her, taking a hand towel off the rack to dry my hair. “I’ve been reading about dogfighting.” “And?” “My mind is blown. I’m serious. This is a worldwide sport—if you can call it that—and it goes back centuries. It’s been outlawed almost everywhere except Japan, but it’s still thriving all over the world. Did you even Google this?” “I haven’t had time.” Caitlin shakes her head as though I’m hopeless. “I pictured, you know, a mob of hicks with twenty-dollar bills in their hands gathered around a couple of bulldogs. But this is a big-money business. There’s a whole American subculture out there. Two subcultures really: the old-timer rednecks—who specialize in breeding ‘game’ dogs and pass down all the knowledge about fighting bloodlines from the 1800s; then there’s the urban culture—the street fighters, they call them. Hip-hop generation and all that. It’s a macho thing. They fight their dogs in open streets, basements, fenced yards. But as different as the two subcultures are, they have a lot in common. They’re highly organized, they train the dogs the same way, and they expose their kids to it very young to desensitize them…It’s sick.” “‘Game dogs,’ you said. Is that what they call fighting dogs?” “No, no. ‘Gameness’ is a quality that a dog has or doesn’t have. If a dog is ‘game,’ that means he’s willing to fight to the point of death, no matter how badly injured he is. Truly game dogs will keep fighting with two broken forelegs.” “Jesus.” Caitlin stands, outrage animating her. “Apparently pit bull terriers are among the most loyal dogs in the world, and it’s that loyalty that these assholes twist to create animals that will sacrifice their lives to please their masters. You should see some pictures. When they’re not fighting, these dogs live on heavy three-foot chains or on the breeding stand. That’s it. And they don’t live long. You know what happens to dogs that aren’t considered game?” “I can guess.” She nods. “They kill them. Kill them or use them for practice. ‘Practice’ means letting other dogs tear them to pieces, to give them a taste for blood. If it’s the first option, they shoot them, hang them, bash in their skulls with bats, electrocute them, run them over with trucks. Sometimes they just let them starve.” “It’s hard to grasp,” I say, knowing this is hardly adequate. “I need my clothes.” “They’re in the dryer. I’ll get them. Though I kind of like seeing you this way. It’s been a while.” This is what you get with a journalist like Caitlin. She can talk about horrific details in the same sentence with her desire for food or sex. I guess it’s like doctors talking about suppurating infections while they eat. After a while, they just don’t think about it. “Yes, it has,” I agree. She looks at me for a few moments more, then leaves the bathroom. The hook has been set. She will not let go of this story until she finds everything there is to know. This probably puts her in more danger than she was in before, but at least now she knows what she’s dealing with, and I will be close enough to protect her. After I dress, we take my backpack and slip out a side window, then through a neighbor’s yard to a street two blocks away. There a female reporter named Kara picks us up in her Volkswagen. She drives us to her apartment on Orleans Street, tells Caitlin to be careful, and disappears. Then Caitlin takes the wheel and follows the directions I’ve given her. Our destination is a hundred acres of gated land called Hedges Plantation. Just off Highway 61 South, it’s owned by Drew Elliott, my father’s first junior partner, and a friend of mine since grade school. Dad is supposed to have got the key so that he can let us onto the property at 4:30 a.m. Danny McDavitt and Kelly are flying in from Baton Rouge, and McDavitt can probably set the chopper down there without anyone being the wiser. Though Hedges is surrounded by the newest residential developments on the south side of town, it’s mostly wooded, and protected from casual observation on every side. Drew originally planned to build a home here, but now I hear he plans to build a high-end subdivision. Modern medicine in a nutshell. There are a couple of aluminum buildings on the property, and it’s one of these that I’ve chosen for our rendezvous. “Is that the one?” Caitlin asks, pointing to a narrow gravel road just past the entrance to an antebellum home on the right. “No, the next one.” “I see it. Okay.” She slows the car, and the wheels crunch on gravel. “The thing about dogfighting,” she says—it’s standard procedure for Caitlin to return without warning to a previous discussion—“is that when the police do bust fights, which is rarely, they always turn up evidence of other crimes. Drugs, weapons, prostitution. The gambling goes without saying.” “Kill your lights.” “What?” “There’s enough moonlight to get us down this road.” She switches off the lights but keeps talking. “I don’t mean random stuff either. The same criminals who run drugs and guns and girls love fighting dogs. It’s like the ultimate expression of the male lust for power and violence.” “Your Radcliffe education is showing.” “Well, it’s true.” “I know. That’s why I called Kelly.” She gives me a tight smile. “Yeah, I get it now.” As we roll up to a metal gate, a tall, white-haired man steps from behind some cedar trees to our right. My father. Caitlin smiles and starts to roll down her window, but Dad pulls open the gate and motions for us to drive quickly through. After we do, he locks the gate behind us and comes to the passenger door of the Volkswagen. I get out and squeeze into the back, leaving the front seat for him. “Well, Kate,” he says, his eyes glinting as he looks at Caitlin. “It’s sure been dull without you around.” “No more boredom,” she says with a smile. “I guarantee that, at the very least. Have you heard from Peggy and Annie?” Dad shakes his head. “We’re talking as little as possible. And only on the satellite phone.” “I have it with me,” I say. “We can get an update after this meeting.” “Good. I have a surprise for you, Son.” “What’s that?” “Walt’s here.” “Garrity?” “Right.” “What do you mean ‘here?’ In Natchez? Or here here?” “He’s in the shed now, talking to Kelly.” For the first time, I feel a rush of real optimism. “The sly son of a bitch just appeared in my house,” Dad says. “Almost gave me a coronary. I have James Ervin watching me, and he had no idea Walt was even there.” James Ervin is a black cop my dad used to treat. “That’s not encouraging.” “Walt’s pretty slick,” Dad says. “Who’s Walt Garrity?” Caitlin asks. “A Texas Ranger,” Dad explains. “Met him in Korea, when we were still boys. He’s semiretired, but I guess once you learn to sneak past Indians and Mexicans, retired city cops aren’t much of a challenge. This will be the only night we see him. He wants to work totally apart from everyone else.” As well as I got to know Walt in Houston, there are many things I don’t know about him. For example, I know that my father saved Walt’s life during the Korean War, and that Walt later returned the favor, but I don’t know the circumstances of either episode. Both men belong to a generation that doesn’t talk about certain things without a compelling reason. “I’m sure Walt knows best,” I say. “We’ll talk about your security later.” Dad ignores this and motions for Caitlin to continue up the road. She gives his hand a squeeze, then begins driving us deeper into the forest. We’re meeting in a sixty-by-forty-foot shed of galvanized aluminum, the kind you see along highways all over the South. My father leads Caitlin and me past a ski boat on a trailer, a 1970s-vintage Corvette with a hole in its fiberglass, an orange Kubota tractor, a zero-turn lawn mower, and various other power machinery used for grounds maintenance. Near the far end of the building, sitting in folding lawn chairs beneath two camouflage-painted deer stands, are Danny McDavitt, Carl Sims, Walt Garrity, and Daniel Kelly. At first glance, they look incongruous, like an illustration of different American types: an astronaut, an NFL cornerback, a cowboy, and a surfer with a blond ponytail. I’m surprised to see Carl Sims here, but before I can ask about his descent into the Devil’s Punchbowl, Walt Garrity drawls, “Look what the cat drug in.” Rising from his lawn chair, Walt catches sight of Caitlin and quickly doffs his Stetson. “Ma’am. I didn’t realize we’d be having female company.” Kelly rises to give Caitlin a hug. They met seven years ago, when we were drawn together by the Delano Payton case. “What do we have here, Penn?” Kelly asks. “The Seven Samurai?” Carl Sims smiles from his chair. “Kind of looks like it, if you count the lady.” “Oh, she pulls her weight,” Kelly says. Gratitude shines in Caitlin’s eyes as she shakes hands with Carl and Danny. “Maybe you’re right,” I say. “Leaderless soldiers gathered to save a village.” “Well, I’m impressed,” Caitlin says. “An air force pilot, a marine sniper, a Texas Ranger, a Delta Force commando, and a doctor.” “You left out lawyer and reporter,” McDavitt points out. “Superfluous on any important mission, I’m sure,” she quips, getting a chuckle all around and putting everyone at ease. “Not these days,” Kelly says. “Even the army needs a legal department and a propaganda machine.” He unfolds three more chairs, and we sit in a tight circle, surrounded by chain saws and Weed Eaters and the oily smell of two-stroke engines. I look across the circle to Carl. “So, you made it out of the Punchbowl?” The sniper grins and shakes his head like a man who’s spent a week crossing a desert. “Took a while, but I finally did.” Danny McDavitt says, “I would have called and told you, but I figured you needed the sleep.” “Thank you,” says Caitlin. “He did.” “Did you find anything down there?” I ask. “Not a damn thing. Not in the car or around it. I grid-searched on my hands and knees. If there was anything down there, somebody else already got it.” “Do you think the car burned when it crashed, or somebody torched it and dumped it there?” “Somebody torched it, but I don’t think they did it until yesterday. I think somebody else made the same climb I did, either to find something or to be sure they destroyed something.” As I recall the USB drive Tim concealed in his own body, Dad says, “So, where do we start? Is everybody on the same page, or whatever they say these days?” Walt leans back and speaks from beneath the brim of his hat. His voice has been roughened by years of cigarette smoke, and the clear eyes in the weathered face give him a natural authority that the others seem ready to defer to, at least for now. “Mr. Kelly was just telling me some things his company has learned in the past few hours. Reckon he ought to start us off.” “Everybody good with that?” Kelly asks. The group nods as one. “As most of you know, I work for Blackhawk Risk Manage ment. We have a research department, and they’ve been checking out Jonathan Sands. In some ways, our research people aren’t much different from those at any other corporation. They use Google, Nexis, et cetera. But Blackhawk also employs former counterterror operators from the U.S., Britain, Israel, Germany, South Africa—basically every major military power. We also employ former government lawyers and retired line officers. So our informal network of sources is pretty good. The initial bio I got back is detailed, but it only goes back to February 1989, when Sands left the UK. Northern Ireland, to be exact. This was just after some of the worst fighting in the so-called Troubles over there. The Brits are stonewalling on exactly what Sands did before ’89, so we’ll have to be content with what we have for now.” “Why would they hold back?” I ask. Kelly shrugs. “We don’t know that yet. But he has an amazing story, and I’ve heard a few. When Sands left Northern Ireland—one step ahead of somebody, is my guess—he worked as a mercenary for almost a decade, then settled in Macao. He started in the security department of a casino owned by Edward Po. Po is a legend, a whole separate story, so let’s forget him for now. Suffice to say he’s a sixty-eight-year-old Chinese billionaire, utterly ruthless and notoriously kinky. The important thing is that Sands arrived just before Macao was returned to Chinese sovereignty. It was about to expand from a serious-gamblers-only city to a Vegas-style destination, and Sands proved a valuable asset to Po. He was white, he could pass for English, and he had the kind of skill set that rough boys develop in Northern Ireland, plus what he’d learned in the interim. That doesn’t explain his meteoric rise within Po’s organization, though. He was promoted very quickly, and within three years he was often seen with Po at various public functions in China. And not as a security officer, but a corporate officer. Sands even seemed to overtake Po’s son, whose name is Chao.” “What explains that?” asks my father. “Dogfighting,” says Kelly. “That’s what I think. It’s Po’s passion. He’s a famous breeder of Japanese Tosas, and he definitely fights them on a circuit.” “You think Sands picked up the taste for it there?” Carl asks. Kelly shakes his head. “My gut tells me Sands grew up around it. Specialized knowledge about the sport would have got him noticed by Po.” Caitlin says, “I found a lot online about dogfighting in England and Ireland, going back centuries.” Kelly nods sagely. “Let’s rewind a few years. Before Sands arrived on the scene, Edward Po had a younger brother named Yang, who died of cancer. Yang Po was a Christian, a Baptist converted by Scottish missionaries, and he ultimately married one of their daughters. Yang had a daughter named Jiao—half-caste, white blood. Very hot—in pictures, anyway.” “I met her,” I say. “She’s striking, all right.” Caitlin cuts her eyes at me. “Is she part of whatever’s going on here?” “I think so, yeah. That’s the vibe I got.” “That’s interesting,” says Kelly. “Because Yang Po had no involvement in his brother’s casinos or any other criminal activity. He was a professor—a law professor, if you can believe that. Edward, on the other hand, was neck-deep in every racket you can run in China, and that’s saying a lot. He’s since exported a lot of his operations to the U.S. and Europe, as well. What’s important for us is that Edward Po promised his dying brother that he’d not only take care of Jiao, but shield her from the sinful lifestyle. And he tried. He sent her to Cambridge, in fact. But when Jiao returned to Macao, she naturally fell for Sands, the Irish bad boy, much as her uncle seems to have done. Po hoped she’d grow out of it, but when she didn’t, he told Sands to get out of town or else.” “Or else what?” asks Caitlin. “If Sands left China without Jiao, he’d get a nice severance package and the highest recommendation. If he stuck around or tried to take Jiao with him, they’d sever his genitals from his body, then his head from his neck.” Caitlin’s eyebrows arch with interest, if not surprise. “So what did he do? Jiao’s here now. Did Sands risk the reprisal and take her with him?” “He’s not the type to cave to threats,” I say. “Depends on who’s doing the threatening,” says Kelly. “The IRA thinks they know something about torture? Trust me, you have to go to Asia to learn about pain. Sands had seen Po’s organization from the inside, and he knew what would happen. He did exactly what the boss wanted. He left the girl and China. Anyone want to guess where he went?” “Land of opportunity?” prompts Danny McDavitt. “You got it. Las Vegas, to be exact. With Po’s recommendation, Sands got a top security job with the Palm Hotel group. Turned out his ambition was to own a casino himself. I think that’s what Sands was doing with the niece in Macao, trying to marry into the business. Fast-forward a few months, and enter Craig Weldon, a Los Angeles entertainment lawyer who liked to hang out at the Vegas Palm. Weldon owns a sports management agency, and he had the same dream as Sands, to own a casino. The difference was, Weldon had the money to build one. That’s how Golden Parachute was born. They made a simple plan to go into secondary markets—like Mississippi—and beat out the competition. They wanted to clean up out in the sticks, then return to Vegas as conquering heroes ten years later. Not a bad plan. But while they were putting all this together, Jiao showed up in Vegas. Couldn’t stay away. True love, and all that. Now, did Sands try to send her back to China? Did he ask her to stay? We don’t know. All we do know is that Po didn’t send an unlicensed surgical team to castrate Sands. He let the Golden Parachute get completely unfurled, ready to catch wind, and then…” “What?” asks Caitlin. “He stole it,” says Walt. “Right?” Kelly smiles. “Lock, stock, and barrel. This is speculation, but probably very close to what happened. Right before Sands and Weldon applied for their license, Po showed up and said, ‘Hello, Jonathan, my faithful servant. I appreciate all the legwork, but Golden Parachute Gaming is about to become a subsidiary of Po Enterprises, Ltd. Unofficially, of course.’ And what could Sands do but grin and bear it? He knew he wouldn’t live five minutes if Po decided otherwise. So, Po’s name went into the five-percent silent-partner pool as a token investor, but in reality, the bulk of the money that funded Golden Parachute was his. Craig Weldon became a figurehead, either bought off with massive payoffs or scared into silence. Chinese gangsters are pros at both. California still has Triad-affiliated youth gangs who can enforce whatever the higher-ups want. Forget Sands and Quinn—Craig Weldon owns a lot of L.A. real estate, and an L.A. youth gang could permanently fuck up his portfolio with one weekend’s arson and vandalism.” I wait for Kelly to go on, but he seems to have come to the end of his story. “So Golden Parachute is actually owned by a Chinese billionaire?” “That’s what my employers think.” “Does the U.S. government know that?” “That I don’t know.” After digesting this, I say, “What do you think Sands’s real position is with the company? Does he even have an equity stake?” Kelly shrugs. “Whatever his title is, he might as well be chief cook and bottle-washer. He’s under Po’s thumb. It’s like he never even left Macao.” “Except he has the girl,” Caitlin points out. “Jiao.” “How happy did he look to you?” Kelly asks me. “Not very. Which brings us to the question I’ve been asking since Tim Jessup first came to me. What the hell is Sands really doing here? And is he doing it on his own, or for Edward Po?” “Your father told me about Jessup’s theory,” Kelly says. “Sands could be stealing from the city to try to make his own pile. Get a stake and haul ass, with or without the girl. But is he that stupid? The world’s not big enough to hide from Edward Po. If that’s Sands’s plan, he’s a moron.” “He’s no moron. The opposite, in fact.” Kelly stands and begins doing dips between two crossbars on the poles supporting the deer stand. His triceps flex like those of an Olympic gymnast. “So,” he says, “whatever game Sands is playing with his accounting, he’s doing it on orders from Po. Or at the very least, with Po’s blessing.” “That brings us back to my original question. Why risk a gaming license worth hundreds of millions of dollars to steal a few hundred thousand, or even a few million, from a small town in Mississippi? Edward Po can’t be that stupid.” “He’s not,” Walt Garrity says in the tone of someone who knows. “Are you familiar with Po?” Kelly asks. “Not by name,” says the old Ranger. “But from what you’ve said so far, I think I’ve got the picture. Po’s Chinese organized crime, right?” “Right.” “If he has U.S. operations, they’ll involve human-smuggling, prostitution, possibly drugs, and definitely money laundering.” “Right again,” says Kelly, looking slightly surprised. “I wondered about money laundering,” I think aloud. “Casinos are tailor-made for it,” Walt explains. “Casinos are just banks, really, without all the pesky regulations. Wherever you have casinos, you have large-scale money laundering. The feds have passed a lot of regulations, but there’s so much money to be made, crooks can bribe casino employees to ignore them.” Caitlin says, “Would the profit be enough to tempt someone as wealthy as Po?” “It’s not a matter of profit,” Walt says. “Not the way you think of it. The biggest problem any criminal has is what to do with his profits. Take drug dealers. Cash money weighs more than the product they sell. Cash is one big pain in the ass. A guy like Edward Po needs hundreds of legitimate businesses to lay off all the cash he takes in. Maybe thousands, if he’s that big in China. Import-export firms, currency exchanges, car dealerships, you name it. But casinos make the best laundries. Casinos and online gaming sites, based offshore.” Kelly, Carl, and Danny are looking at Walt with new respect. Apparently, they took the older man for what he appeared to be, a tired cowboy who might know his way around a horse and saddle, but not a computer. “So Tim might have been right about Sands manipulating the casino’s gross,” I reason. “But if I understand you correctly, they could be exaggerating the earnings of the casino rather than underreporting.” “They might run some dirty money through that way,” Walt says, “but they’d be paying county, state, and federal taxes on it, and that gets costly. The bulk of the operation would be handled by wiring large sums into the casino’s bank for gamblers who show up a day or a week later, then gamble for twenty minutes, and cash out their accounts in money that’s now legally clean. The casino makes false reports to the government to understate or misrepresent the wire transactions, and that’s it. It’s a dream setup. How many casinos does Golden Parachute own?” “Five in Mississippi alone.” Walt chuckles softly, then begins to laugh outright. “What is it?” asks my father, who seems to recognize Walt’s tone. “Those casinos ain’t casinos at all,” says the Ranger, his face reddening. “They’re goddamn Chinese laundries.” Kelly’s nodding thoughtfully. “That’s got to be it.” “If you’re right,” I say, “then why would Sands risk such a sweet deal to do things like fight dogs and run whores?” Caitlin leans forward and speaks with cutting clarity. “The same reason a dog licks his balls.” There’s an awkward silence, then the men burst out laughing. “Because he can,” Carl says. “It may be just that simple,” Kelly reflects. “Men follow their compulsions wherever they are. I see it all the time overseas.” My father clears his throat and says, “This Freudian analysis is all fine and good, but what are we going to do? My wife and granddaughter are sitting in Houston with strangers because of these bastards. I want to know how to resolve this situation—fast.” Everyone’s looking at Kelly. He stands motionless for a time, his eyes focused on the floor at the center of our circle with Zen-like calm. He’s thirty-nine years old, with not a spare ounce of fat on him. When he moves, his body ripples with corded muscle, yet his blue eyes seem mild, even amused most of the time. He may work for a security company, but when I see him like this, all I can think is Delta Force. “I’m tempted to pay Sands a personal visit,” he muses, still looking at the floor. “Before we do anything else.” “For what?” I ask. “To lay out some ground rules. He already threatened your family. He could strike at any time. He needs to know that any move against you will result in him being wiped from the board.” I hear a couple of audible swallows. “I can see that,” Walt says pragmatically. “The problem with going that way is you’re unzipping your fly the minute you talk to him. If Sands sees what he’s up against, he could pull in his horns and shut down for a while. That’s the opposite of what we want. Right?” Kelly considers this argument, then nods with certainty. “That’s why we’re going to end this thing tonight. Sands and Quinn are our immediate problem. We need to get them by the balls as fast as we can. Then the inevitable will happen.” “What’s that?” Caitlin asks. “Their hearts and minds will follow,” says McDavitt. Kelly looks at me. “You said dogfighting’s a felony, right?” “Right. Even attending one is a felony. And the sentences can be pretty stiff.” “Then tonight we’re going to run a quiet little op. A photographic expedition. We’ll shoot pictures of Sands, Quinn, and any local dignitaries who might be in attendance, plus the whores and anything else worth shooting. At that point, you’ll have evidence that could put Sands in jail for serious time. Your DA will have no choice but to cooperate. I’ve seen dogfighting in Kabul. It’s brutal stuff. If Caitlin publishes one photo spread on the Examiner’s Web site, the PETA people will be calling for the partners of Golden Parachute to be crucified on the Washington Mall.” Walt nods. “I’ve been trying to find out where they fight. Nothing yet, but I’m on it.” “What do we use for equipment?” I ask. “I’ve got night-vision optics in my gear bag,” Kelly says. “Scope, camera, range finder. Carl’s probably got some stuff too.” The sniper nods. “We got a new scope at the sheriff’s department. I can have it up from Athens Point by tonight.” “How do we get close to one of these fights without being detected?” I ask. Kelly smiles cagily. “Most of them happen by the river, right?” “That’s what Jessup told me.” “Then we do a Huck Finn.” “A raft?” “Not exactly. Didn’t you tell me you’ve done some kayaking with the guy who organizes that annual race here? The Fat something or other?” “The Phat Water Kayak Challenge.” “Right.” Kelly tries to puzzle this out. “Is he a rapper or something?” “No, he’s an ex-marine, force recon. He’s about fifty.” “Will he lend you a boat?” “Sure. He’d be happy to guide us to wherever we’re going.” “That’s it, then. Danny will fly air support. He’ll be my eye in the sky, with Carl riding shotgun with his sniper rifle. Wherever the VIP boat docks, I’ll slip into shore a hundred yards away, find the action, photograph it, then get out before they even know I’m there.” “Sounds like a plan,” says McDavitt. “I’ll bet they go the same place they docked last night.” “Where was that?” asks Caitlin. “A spot down the river. Louisiana side. Looked like an old farm, maybe a deer camp now. I was pretty high up, but I saw what could have been a small crowd of men under some trees.” “Wait a second,” I cut in. “Those kayaks are nineteen feet long, but they only seat one paddler. We—” “I know they only seat one,” Kelly says, looking hard at me. “It’s not we on this trip, buddy. It’s me.” I feel blood heating my face. “You’re not going without me.” “I’ll move a lot faster without you, Penn.” “You’re missing the point. I need to be there so that I can corroborate the evidence later. We don’t know what kind of legal proceedings might come out of this. You’re going to go back to Afghanistan, or Iraq, or Africa, wherever. I need to be able to say I was there, that I saw you take these pictures and the action they document.” Kelly takes a deep breath and looks at my father, but Dad says nothing. “You’re forgetting something, buddy,” Kelly says. “Something I heard your mother told you not to forget.” “What?” I ask, but it’s coming back to me now. The morning we evacuated them with Kelly’s people. “Annie,” Caitlin reminds me. “This is no Outward Bound course. There’s real risk here.” “Believe it,” Walt says. “Dogfighters are like drug growers, obsessed with security. They’re well-armed, high-tech, and highly mobile. You should expect guards—human and canine. You might run into booby traps, laser fences, God knows what.” Kelly nods as though this is all part of a night’s work. “I’ve been fighting Taliban insurgents for the past year, Mr. Garrity. I can handle this.” “Oh, I’m sure you can. I’m just making the point for Penn.” Walt gives me a piercing look. “Your old-time American dogfighting fraternity is a tough bunch of boys. And from what you say about these Irish bastards, they could be worse. If they figure out Kelly’s close, there’s gonna be gunplay, no doubt about it.” I look around the ring of faces, sensing that everyone agrees with Kelly and Caitlin. “I’m not forgetting Annie,” I tell them. “But I’m not forgetting Tim Jessup either. This isn’t up for debate. If we can take Tim’s killers down tonight, I’m going to be there.” Caitlin uses her eyes to plead silently with me, but the men are watching my father. Dad rubs his chin for a while, then says, “Peggy was right about Annie needing you. She was right that we’re getting old. But she isn’t right that nothing’s more important than your children. Sometimes you have to take a stand. I’m not saying this is that time. But Tim was your friend, and I understand if you feel you have to go.” “I’m getting two boats,” I tell them. “End of discussion.” Kelly nods once in surrender. “Okay. We’ll put in upstream and take our directions from Danny in the chopper.” “What about comm?” McDavitt asks. Kelly reaches into his back pocket and takes out a small, black box like a cell phone, with a short, fat antenna. “These walkie-talkies are encrypted and guaranteed across ten miles. We call them Star Treks, like the ‘communicators’ on the old TV show. I brought four with me. For God’s sake, nobody lose one. They’re army-issue, Special Forces only, and it’s my ass if I go back to Afghanistan short.” “What kind of weapons are you taking?” Carl asks. Kelly looks as if this is the least of his concerns. “I’ll decide that later. I’d like to avoid violence, if possible. But if they start the party, I’ll be happy to bust their pińata.” Kelly gives Carl a frank look. “You down with that?” The sniper turns the question over in his mind. “Somebody shoots at me, I gotta shoot back, don’t I?” “What if they shoot at me?” I ask. Carl grins. “Just think about that insurance commercial, the one with the red umbrella. I got you covered.” “How big is your umbrella?” “In daylight, over a thousand yards. Nighttime’s a little different. But I won’t be far away. You just focus on staying quiet while Kelly does his job. Danny and I will take care of the rest.” “All this testosterone is certainly reassuring,” Caitlin says, “but what if you don’t find a dogfight?” Kelly shrugs. “We pull back, regroup, and wait for more intel. From what we know about Sands, I don’t think he’s worried about being caught by the locals.” “They’ll be fighting tonight,” Walt says with confidence. “Go outside and smell the air. Feel it. It’s football weather. The blood is up. Animals are getting itchy, starting to move. Bucks are fighting in the woods. Fighting and fucking’s what it’s all about this time of year.” I think Caitlin is actually blushing. “What about you, Mr. Garrity?” Kelly asks. “I know you didn’t come all this way to twiddle your thumbs.” “That’s a fact,” Walt says. “I came because my old comrade-in-arms was in trouble.” He nods at my father. “And I do have a plan. But I tend to play a long game. I like to move slow and careful and let my prey come to me.” Carl is listening closely. Undoubtedly, a sniper can relate to this philosophy. In a good-natured voice, Walt says, “I’m sure that after tonight, I’ll be redundant personnel. But no matter what happens, this is the last time you folks will see me. I’m like an actor playing a part. Once I get into the role, I don’t break character. I almost didn’t come tonight, but I wanted to see what this mess was really about. I’m glad I did.” “Is there anything we can do to help you?” Kelly asks. “I have only one request, and it’s for you.” “What’s that?” “I rather you not tell your employers about my involvement.” “No problem.” “Why not?” asks Caitlin. “You don’t trust Blackhawk?” Walt spits on the concrete floor and looks off into the shadows. “Blackhawk is a Texas outfit, and they have some good men over there. But after 9/11 they ramped up pretty quick—sort of like deputizing a bunch of laymen for a posse. It’s tough to know who you’re getting when you hire that fast.” “I wouldn’t argue with you,” says Kelly. “Don’t lose a second’s sleep over it.” “I appreciate it.” Walt stands and stretches, and within twenty seconds everyone else has followed suit. As he lowers his arms, I see a leather string around his neck that triggers a powerful memory. “You still carry that derringer with you?” Walt smiles, then pops open the top mother-of-pearl snap on his Western shirt and lifts what looks like a child’s toy from where it lies against his chest. Kelly and Carl lean forward. The derringer is smaller than a woman’s hand, with burled-wood grips and metal dulled by years of sweat. “Two shots?” Carl asks. Walt smiles. “That’s one more than you generally get, ain’t it?” “But I’m firing a .308 round.” Walt pulls a pin from the gun and removes its cylinder, exposing the brass tails of five bullets. “Two’s generally enough in the kind of situation where you use this thing, but you never know.” Carl puts his hand out and touches the gun like a talisman, but Kelly says, “I thought Texas Rangers carried Colt .45s.” Walt chuckles. “Pretty hard to hide my old Colt. I’ve been patted down many a time without anybody finding this little lady. She’s loaded with .22 long-rifle rounds. They do the job just fine.” While Carl studies the gun, Kelly looks at me. “What’s your day look like?” “I’m scheduled to present a citizenship award on the bluff at the Ramada Inn at two p.m. There’s always a big crowd there on Sunday, watching the balloons. Barbecue, lots of city employees, kids.” “It’s public knowledge that you’re doing this?” “Sure. Printed in the paper. Why?” “I may stop by to get a look at whoever’s covering you.” “You going to give me one of those Star Treks?” Kelly laughs and passes me the one from his pocket. As I take it, he turns to Walt and says, “How about you, Mr. Garrity? You want one?” The old ranger smiles. “Where I’m going, they’d just take it off me. A gun they might not mind, but radios are a big no-no.” “Just making sure.” “Thanks, but I work alone. Kind of a habit.” Kelly laughs suddenly, as though at Walt’s expense. “What is it?” Garrity asks, a little edge in his voice. “I’ve been trying to remember something all night. Something my uncle used to say.” “What’s that?” “‘One riot, one Ranger.’ That’s the motto, isn’t it?” Walt sighs like a man who’s heard this line a thousand times too many. “That’s the myth, not the reality.” Kelly says, “I understand,” and offers his hand. Garrity takes it and shakes firmly. “Good luck to you, soldier. And keep your eyes peeled for dogs.” “I’ll hear the dogs,” Kelly assures him. “No, you won’t. Dogfighters are like the dopers now. Once upon a time, they used guard dogs to warn you away and alert them to run. Now they sever the vocal cords so there’s no bark to warn you.” A chill races across my skin. “My God,” says my father. “They’re on your throat before you even know they’re there,” Walt says. “A lot of cops have been hurt like that this past year. Some killed.” “Thanks,” Kelly says. “I’ve heard of that before, but I’ve never seen a dog it’s been done to.” “I have,” I say softly. “Jonathan Sands has one.” Everyone turns to me. “It’s white, and it’s big. I think the breed is called a Bully Kutta.” I’ve rarely seen astonishment on Kelly’s face, but I see it now. “That’s a Pakistani breed,” he says. “A war dog. It’s related to the Bully Ker. I’ve seen those fight in Kabul. The tribesmen fight them against bears. Two dogs against a bear, and the dogs always win.” “Who the hell are these people?” Dad asks. Kelly pats my father on the shoulder. “I don’t think we’ll know that until we find out how Jonathan Sands spent the first part of his life.” “Are we going to find out?” Kelly nods. “The British government can stonewall Blackhawk all they want, but I’ve got personal friends in the SAS, vets who served in Northern Ireland. We’ll have the story before long.” “By tonight?” Caitlin asks. “Maybe. In any case, I think we should get out of here. It’s going to be a long day, and an even longer night. Everybody know what their job is?” After everyone nods, Kelly reaches into his gear bag and brings out two more walkie-talkies. One he gives to Danny McDavitt, the other to my father. Then he looks at Caitlin and me. “You two are together for the duration, right?” She nods, and I see color in her cheeks. “Glad to see it,” Kelly says with a smile. “I am too,” says my father. “Too bad it takes a goddamn crisis to bring them together.” “Dr. Cage,” Kelly says, “I’d appreciate it if you’d scope out some safe houses for us, on both sides of the river. Think you can do that?” “This time of year, I’m sure I can. Both of my partners’ lake houses are empty.” “Hey,” I say, pointing at Kelly. “Caitlin and I are together until tonight. Then I’m with you.”