“Side gates. You right, me left. The back of the house is glass.”

They moved without another word, Cole racing across the tiny front yard as Pike headed up the drive. Pike let himself through the side gate and ran to the rear, pulling his .357 from under his sweatshirt. Cole emerged at the far side of the patio as Pike stepped from the side of the house.

The pool was empty. Dru’s beer bottle, still almost full, stood on the concrete deck by the chaise. The cowboy who had been seated by himself was sprawled on the patio, his immaculate cream-colored hat upside down three feet away. The big glass sliders were as they had been—pushed open wide so Pike and Cole had an unobstructed view of the carnage inside the house.

Cole made a soft whisper.

“This is bad.”

The cowboy from the body shop was seated on a couch, still wearing his hat, but his head was all the way back as if he were staring at the ceiling. A younger man with banger tats was piled up on the floor beside a large square coffee table, eyes open but sightless.

Cole entered the house through the left side of the opening, and Pike went in through the right. A second banger was dead beside the kitchen island and another cowboy lay crumpled outside the powder room door. The cowboy’s pants were unbuckled and a black Heckler & Koch pistol was on the floor near his body. His bowels had let go, leaving a smell that burned Pike’s eyes.

Cole whispered again.

“None of these people got off a shot. No wonder they call him the executioner.”

Pike moved past Cole into a hall.

“I’ll get the bedrooms, you check the garage. Azzara drives a black Prius.”

Pike pushed along a short hall to a bedroom where he found clothes for Rainey and Dru. The next bedroom was set up for the guards, with futons and duffels filling the floor. The last bedroom was Azzara’s. Pike swept through the rooms fast, then pounded back to the great room. Cole looked up from the cowboy sprawled on the couch.

“Anyone else?”

“No. The garage?”

“Empty. If Azzara was here, he’s gone, but look at this—”

Cole held up the cowboy’s wallet, showing a blue-and-gold star and picture ID. The ID card read POLICIA FEDERAL MEXICO.

“Mexican Federal Police. The Federales. What do you think these guys are doing here?”

Pike studied the card.

“You think they’re fakes?”

“I don’t know. The guy outside and the man by the toilet have badges, too, and they’re all packing HKs. Federales carry Hecklers.”

Pike shook his head, thinking it didn’t matter to him who they were or why they were here or how many of them were dead. The only person who mattered was Dru.