“But,” Poitier said, “I dive. I could come back and see if there is anything down there. Borrow some of the underwater lights from our waterside station.”

“You would do that, Corporal?”

He too peered into the water. “Yes. Tomorrow, I—”

What happened next happened fast.

Finger-snap fast.

At the sound of clattering suspension and a hissing, badly firing engine, Rhyme, Thom and Poitier turned to look at the dirt road they’d just driven down. They saw the gold Mercury bounding directly toward them, now with only two occupants in it.

And Rhyme understood. He glanced back, seeing the man in the gray T-shirt, the litterer from the pickup truck, race across the narrow road and tackle Poitier as he was drawing his gun. The weapon went flying. The assailant rose fast and kicked the gasping corporal in the side and head, hard.

“No!” Rhyme cried.

The Mercury squealed to a stop and two of the men they’d seen following earlier leapt out—the one with the dreads in the sleeveless yellow shirt and his partner, shorter, wearing the green T. The man in green ripped Thom’s phone from his hand and doubled him over with a blow to the belly.

“Don’t!” Rhyme shouted—a cry as involuntary as it was pointless.

The man in the gray T-shirt said to his partners, “Okay, you see anyone else?”

“No.”

Of course, that’s why he was on the phone. He hadn’t come here to pitch out trash at all. He’d followed them and used the phone to let the others know their victims had arrived at the killing site.

Poitier gasped for breath, clutching his side.

Rhyme said firmly, “We’re police officers from the United States. We work with the FBI. Don’t make this worse on yourself. Just leave now.”

It was as if he hadn’t spoken.

The man in gray walked toward Poitier’s pistol, lying in the dust ten feet away.

“Stop,” Rhyme commanded.

The man did. He blinked at the criminalist. The other attackers froze. They were looking at the Glock in Rhyme’s hand. The pistol was unsteady, for sure, but from this distance he could easily send a bullet into the torso of the assailant.

The man lifted his hands slightly, rising. Eyes on the pistol. Back to Rhyme. “Okay, okay, mister. Don’t do with that.”

“All of you, step back and lie down on the ground, facedown.”

The two who’d been in the car turned their eyes on the man in gray.

Nobody moved.

“I’m not going to tell you again.” Rhyme wondered what the recoil would do to his hand. He supposed there might be some damage to the tendons. But all he needed after the shot was to keep the weapon in his grip. The others would flee after he’d killed their leader.