‘C’mon, Jake,’ Pepper coaxes, ‘put your brother down.’

Dominique pushes her way past the two bodyguards. ‘Jacob Gabriel, you put your brother down this instant!’

Manny drops to the floor, his face meeting carpet with a thud. The dark-haired twin sits up, tears in his eyes, his nose bleeding.

Dominique’s face reddens. ‘Dammit, Jacob, look what you—’

‘His fault. Should have rolled with the fall. Sensei taught him that months ago.’

‘It’s 6:00 A.M.!’

‘When the Death God comes for us, it won’t care what time it is. We have to be ready.’

‘I hate you,’ Immanuel yells. ‘You’re a sick freak!’

‘I’m Superman. You’re only Clark Kent, a big fat wussie.’

Dominique reaches for Jacob, but the fair-haired twin is too quick, leaping over the bed. ‘Foolish mortal. You can’t catch Superman!’

Salt cuts him off, and the game is on.

Jacob feints left, then bounds across the chest of drawers, slipping beneath the older bodyguard’s grasp.

Refusing to play, Pepper backs his considerable bulk in front of the open doorway. ‘Game over, Jake.’

Without pause, the boy takes a running leap, his legs churning air like a triple-jumper until his right foot connects with the African-American’s massive bare chest. The blow knocks the bodyguard backward through the doorway.

Jacob completes a forward somersault dismount and lands running, sprinting down the hallway into the kitchen and out the back door. ‘Superman … da-da-tada—’

Pepper sits up, massaging his bruised sternum. ‘Damn. How’d he do that?’

Dominique is livid. ‘I swear to Christ, that child will be the death of me. Come on, Manny, let’s get some ice for your nose.’ She helps him to his feet, leading him out of the bedroom.

Mitchell Kurtz looks down at his larger comrade. ‘Now you know why Karla and I never had kids.’

Belle Glade, Florida 6:17 a.m.

Dawn’s rays reflect off the surface waters of Lake Okeechobee, planting a fiery orange kiss against the glistening white hulls of the gambling ferries and yachts, docked in rows of newly dredged slips. Hotels and casinos, restaurants and shops remain silent after another extended night of tourism, the pelicans and sandpipers picking at a bounty of refuse.

Follow the golden-lit streets south, past the renovated Town Hall and new Civic Center, to the west end of the resort town. A road sign at the canal bridge warns that you are leaving the tourist area, the ensuing sign across the bridge welcoming you to Belle Glade proper.

The bars on homes and storefront windows send another kind of warning.