Coury had been a precise man who specialized at deconstructing high-priced machines and reconstituting them as works of art.

A good planner.

Send in the B team while the A team waits. Sacrifice the B team and attack from the rear.

Another ambush.

Coury had come himself to take care of Bill. Bill was a living witness, and eliminating him was the primary goal. The same went for Aimee. Had he taken care of her—and Bert—first? I hadn’t heard gunfire as I carried Bill away, but the firebombs and the kerosene blast had filled my head with noise.

I walked five steps, stopped, repeated the pattern. The mouth of the gravel drive came into view.

Choice point, none of the options good.

I found nothing.

Just the Seville, all four tires slashed flat, hood open, distributor cap gone. Tire tracks—two sets, both deep and heavily treaded—said the pickup and another working vehicle had departed.

The nearest house was a quarter mile up the road. I could barely make out yellow windows.

I was bloodstained and bloodied, one side of my face scraped raw, and my burnt hand hurt like hell. One look and the residents would probably bolt their doors and call the police.

Which was fine with me.

I almost made it before the rumble sounded.

Big engine, heading my way from Highway 150. Loud enough—close enough—for visibility—but no headlights.

I ran into the bushes, crouched behind a flurry of ferns, watched as the black Suburban sped past and slowed fifty feet before the entrance to Bill and Aimee’s property.

It came to a halt. Rolled forward, twenty feet, stopped again.

A man got out. Big, very big.

Then another, slightly smaller but not by much. He gave some kind of hand signal, and the two of them pulled out weapons and hurried toward the entrance.

Anyone at the wheel? The Suburban’s tinted windows augmented the night and made it impossible to tell. Now I knew that a run for the neighbors’ house would be risky and wrong: Coury’s shooting of Bill resonated in my head. Coury had pulled the trigger, but I’d been the angel of death, couldn’t justify extending the combat to more innocents.

I crouched and waited. Tried to read my watch, but the crystal was shattered and the hands had been snapped off.

I counted off seconds. Had reached three thousand two hundred when the pair of big men returned.

“Shit,” said the shorter one. “Goddammit.”

I stood, and said, “Milo, don’t shoot me.”

CHAPTER

45

Aimee and Bert sat in the third row of the Suburban. Aimee clutched Bert’s sleeve. Bert’s eyes lacked focus.

I got in next to Milo, in the second row.

At the wheel was Stevie the Samoan, the bounty hunter Georgie Nemerov called Yokuzuna. Next to him sat Red Yaakov, crew-cut head nearly brushing the roof.

“How’d you find us?” I said.