Again Marco tried for the roundhouse. This time Evan let it come. Ducking, he tucked his head behind his elbow and pointed the tip of his ulna at the incoming knee. It struck the patella precisely, shattering the kneecap. Marco screamed, skipping back on his good leg.

Evan had his first chance to square up. He got off a graceless shotokan front kick, a pure-force delivery of the ball of his foot to the middle of Marco’s chest. Marco flew back, banging through the glass door behind him and into the sauna. He landed in a crumpled heap across the sauna by the cedar bench.

David remained flattened against the wall of the corridor like a piece of art, frozen, still clutching the Bacardi 151 bottle. Evan grabbed the rum from his hand and hurled it through the open door into the sauna. The bottle shattered against the heater, flame already chasing the high-proof spray. Fire rained down on Marco. He gave a shriek that sounded more animal than human.

Evan swung the sauna door shut, snatched a Jacuzzi net skimmer from its mount, and rammed it under the handle, seating the end against the opposite wall of the corridor. The door was pinned shut, Marco trapped inside.

Evan picked up Marco’s shotgun and started toward the pool. Behind him the muffled screams in the sauna reached a pitch he felt in his bones.

Seemingly dazed, Calaca was still in the pool, hunched over the lip, straining to reach the AK-47, which remained just out of reach. Evan stepped onto the artificial turf, his boots crunching audibly. Calaca turned, and Evan hit him in the collarbone with a baton round, the impact punctuated by the splintering of the thin bone. To his credit, the guy kept his feet, but barely, sagging against the concrete edge. One beefy arm slapped the concrete behind him as he held his head and torso above the surface.

With wide eyes Calaca peered back over his meaty shoulder. Then he turned to grab again for his gun. His fingertips edged it farther away. Grunting against the pain, he drew back for another lunge.

Evan reached the paisley-shaped bar with its decorative Christmas lights arrayed across the surface. He smashed a few of the colorful oversize bulbs against the sustainably farmed rain-forest wood, then tore the string free.

“Espera,” Calaca said. He was shivering in the water, clinging to the concrete edge, his grooved skull glistening with droplets. “Por favor—”

Evan slung the string of broken lights over and into the pool.

The effect was half explosion, half sound effect, a massive foomp that knocked Calaca upright. His body jolted a few times and then sank below the surface. A moment later he bobbed up, floating on his back, arms in a Christlike spread, his gold necklace glittering in a tuft of chest hair that had escaped the collar.

Two dogs, eight guards, two snipers, one doctor, and Dex.