Cool night air slid down the slope toward him. He smelled the faint edge of recent, yet not fresh, tobacco smoke. Someone had been smoking nearby.

Faroe froze, waited, heard nothing.

He took a slow look around a cypress trunk. Thirty yards away, a figure materialized from the shadows of the tree line.

Someone was watching the house from the same spot Faroe had chosen to be his own observation post.

45

LOMAS SANTA FE

MONDAY, 12:12 A.M.


MOTIONLESS, FAROE RECALCULATED THE ODDS.

Not good.

But not surprising, either.

The man was dressed in some kind of night cammie suit. He had a long gun slung on his back, like he didn’t really expect to need it. When he looked in Faroe’s direction, moonlight sent a whisper-glow over the greasepaint that disguised the pale skin of the man’s face.

A professional night predator, all decked out in the tools of his trade.

If the man had had his weapon trained on the house, Faroe would have found a way to take him down. But the intruder was acting more like a bored guard than a paid executioner.

So whose setup is this? Who is screwing who, and with what tools?

Motionless but for the very slow turning of his head, always keeping the gunman in his sight, Faroe began a thorough visual inspection of the ranch compound. He paid special attention to the places he himself would have chosen to hide.

The man in the tree line quietly cleared his throat. A smoker’s trait, unconscious, and deadly in the wrong circumstance.

Bad operational discipline.

But it suggested the dude was indeed relaxed. Even though Grace had already arrived, the main event hadn’t begun.

Then what-or who-is the target?

Faroe identified two more hides, one in the brush at the edge of the clearing north of the house and another in the paddock area. He had just begun to examine the stable building itself when he noticed a brief green flicker in the partially open hayloft door.

An impatient sniper had just uncapped his starlight scope.

The telltale phosphorescence lit up his eye and the straight line of a watch cap on his forehead. He had spooled up his magical viewing device one last time, just to make sure it was still working properly.

All the bells and whistles, but their discipline needs a serious kick in the ass.

Faroe was familiar with the problem. It came from doing it too many times in practice and never doing it for real.

Okay. So we probably have some kind of government field office’s special weapons team on a low-octane run, a step above routine drill, but not balls to the wall.

The only reason he’d managed to penetrate the operation so easily was that nobody had been detailed to watch the back side.

Too many dry runs.

Not enough wet work.

Faroe wasn’t the only one to see the greenish glow. From down the tree line, he heard a quiet, edgy voice.

“Number Three, you’re showing a light.”

Instantly the cap went back on the starlight scope.

If Faroe had found himself in the middle of a St. Kilda operation, the team leader, the sniper, and the smoker would have been fired on the spot. The sniper should have known enough to keep his light capped, the team leader should have kept radio silence for anything short of life-or-death, and putting a smoker on the stalk was like sending up a flare.

The surveillance team scattered through the night around the Lomas ranch compound was made up of dudes earning a living, individuals of varying skill who were going through the motions, some more effectively than others.

Just people.

It was a simple truth that civilians had a tough time understanding. That and the fact that the government was armed by the lowest bidder.

Faroe lay back in the shadows, running scenarios in his mind. If Grace had been the target, the men would have moved in after she arrived-or been waiting in the house for her.

Are these Hector’s men?

Doubtful. Even the Zetas mercenaries working both sides of the southwestern border spoke Spanish. If they’d hired gringos, it hadn’t made a ripple yet.

Besides, the Zetas had done enough wet work not to be careless.

Did Franklin advertise in Mercs “R” Us?

Possible, but it wouldn’t explain the feds following everyone-and then suddenly not following Grace.

The feds know she’s going to be here.

Does Ted know about the feds?

Headlights turned off the country highway and hit the driveway. The high beams flashed twice.

Near Faroe, the voice in the shadows spoke into a handy-talkie. “Primary is on the move, arriving in thirty seconds. Heads up. We don’t want any surprises.”

The green glow of the starlight scope appeared in the hayloft again.

Faroe watched the sniper sweep the grounds with his magic eye, prying into the darkness, covering the compound.

Covering.

Okay. Faroe let out a long, silent breath. The weapons team isn’t here to make an arrest. They’re protecting an operation.

The vehicle appeared at the end of the gravel driveway and swung around into the lighted traffic circle in front of the house. It was an oversize black SUV, a Suburban, but in the dark it looked a lot like the ominous Escalade Hector’s gunmen used.

Must be a machismo thing.

And at night, with the lights off, black vehicles vanished.

The Suburban pulled past the front door and didn’t stop until it found a place where the escape route couldn’t be blocked. The driver was a professional trained in kidnap evasion.

“Primary, you’re good to go,” the radio voice said. “Make sure Franklin comes out last.”

The headlights of the Suburban flashed again, proving that the vehicle was on the same radio frequency as the sniper and the weapons team. This was all for the benefit of one man.

Theodore Franklin.

Feds.

Bad combination.

Faroe slid back deeper into the shadows. If he showed himself now, the last thing he’d see in this life would be the green eye of the sniper’s rifle.

The driver of the Suburban got out and searched the darkened compound. He muttered something and another man got out of the front seat. Both men were wearing dark windbreakers with bright lettering across the chest and back.

Law enforcement raid jackets.

The side door of the vehicle opened and a third man, heavyset and a little awkward, stepped down. The officers in the windbreakers fell in on either side of him and ushered him toward the front door.

Must be Ted.

The son of a bitch.

Franklin moved flat-footed, almost like he was in leg chains.

Behind him a fourth man slid out of the car. He wore a suit and carried a leather briefcase shiny enough to reflect moonlight. He walked like a man who owned the world.

One of the cops knocked firmly on the front door. The sound carried through the night. From Faroe’s right came a voice from the team leader’s radio.

“She’s in the kitchen, headed for the front door right now.”

Faroe was glad Grace didn’t know that she was being tracked by a sniper’s telescopic rifle sight.

The lawman was about to knock again when the door swung open. Grace was outlined in the hallway light. Obviously car registration wasn’t the only detail she hadn’t had time to take care of. She must have left clothes at the place because she was now dressed in dark slacks, a dark blouse, and flat shoes. She said something that Faroe couldn’t hear.

“Mrs. Franklin, we’re here on official business,” a man said. His command voice carried clearly through the night. “It would be best if you cooperate.”

Grace moved back and let them enter. As the second officer walked underneath the porch light, Faroe saw the lettering on the back of his raid jacket.


US MARSHAL


The door closed.

Well, that does it. This has gone from a goat roping to a clusterfuck.

Marshals weren’t garden-variety cops. They protected courtrooms, served papers, transported prisoners, chased fugitives. And they administered a highly specialized program called “witness protection.”

Franklin had found himself a mink-lined hideout protected by the kind of bureaucracy that made an art out of delay.

But Lane had only a bit more than twelve hours to live.

All bets were off.

46

LOMAS SANTA FE

MONDAY, 12:20 A.M.


FAROE TURNED TOWARD THE officer in the camouflage coveralls. “Hey, you, over there in the trees. You’re trespassing on private property. Come out with your hands up!”

The instant response was silence.

Then the officer slowly turned his head in Faroe’s direction. At the same time, his right shoulder dropped.

He was sliding the assault rifle off his shoulder.

“Reach for that weapon and die,” Faroe said flatly.

The man froze.

“Can you see him?” the man said into his radio.

The answer must have been negative because the man slowly raised his hands.

“We’re federal law enforcement agents on official duty,” he said. “Step out where we can see you.”

“I don’t care if you’re aliens from the third galaxy over. You’re trespassing and you’re armed. I’m in fear of my life and I have every right to shoot you where you stand. Step backward out of cover so I can see you.”