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  “No … no,” Richie said, as he stood up from the barstool and pulled on his overcoat. He glanced up at the clock on the far wall as he crossed the room, slowed, and then reached for his phone. I gotta get to Caine … he.… Richie took another step and then stopped again. I need a backup on this … Andrea. Shit! I should have sent her that package yesterday. The mariachi band in the restaurant part of the bar began to play as he dialed the first number.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Hesperia, California

  December 3, 1999 / Friday / 5:30 p.m. Pacific time

  John Caine’s arm rose and fell to a steady rhythm, pounding the blackened hammer into the glowing length of metal resting on the anvil. A persistent sound outside the converted barn interrupted Caine’s concentration, and he stepped back from the forge. It was Sam, his golden retriever. Caine glanced at the clock on the other side of the room. It was an hour past the dog’s mealtime.

  “I’m coming, Sam,” Caine yelled, a smile in his voice, quieting the irate retriever.

  Caine looked down at the Norman broadsword he was forging for a doctor in Philadelphia. The customer, like most of Caine’s clientele, was willing to pay a premium for authenticity. That was Caine’s specialty. The materials and methods that he used to forge his weapons were the same as those used by the original blacksmiths a thousand years earlier, right down to the laborious process of shaping the metal.

  Caine removed the protective glasses from his face, revealing striking gray eyes and a nose that remained straight despite the fact that it had been broken twice. A bead of sweat dripped from his light-brown hair and flowed past a graying sideburn and then over a small white scar on the right side of his strong jaw. A second scar, above Caine’s left eye, gave his handsome face a lived-in look.

  After closing the hood over the forge and resting the hammer on a nearby ledge, Caine walked across the room to an old wooden table and picked up a copper pitcher. He took a long drink of water and then pressed the pitcher against his forehead, closing his eyes. Caine was no stranger to intense heat. He’d served with the French Foreign Legion for more than a decade, and a good part of that time had been in Africa. Despite the experience, the forge room had seemed like an inferno during the past week.

  Temperatures in Hesperia, California, were typically in the low fifties to the mid sixties during December, but the nearby Mojave Desert had flexed its muscles in the past week, driving the temperature into the high eighties. The unseasonable heat wave, a broken air conditioner, and the intense fire required to forge the heavy sword had tested Caine’s endurance. He was looking forward to a couple of days of rest and ice-cool air at his cabin in the nearby San Bernardino Mountains.

  After finishing the water, Caine walked to a large sink against the wall and pulled the heavy fireproof shirt over his head, revealing powerful shoulders and arms, and a set of visible abdominal muscles. Caine splashed water on his face and chest and wiped himself down with a coarse towel. When the towel brushed a dark furrow in the upper part of his right arm, he unconsciously reduced the pressure, remembering the searing pain from the AK-47 round as if it were yesterday. He’d been running at a full sprint when he was tagged. The pain and shock from the wound had caused him to stumble, but he’d quickly recovered and continued running at the same brutal pace. The people chasing him that day weren’t in the business of taking prisoners.

  For a moment, Caine stared in the mirror, reliving the memory, and then he heard Sam barking again.

  “I’m coming!”

  Caine noticed the red message light on the phone near the door as he walked out of the forge room, but he ignored it. He would pick up his messages later.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Austin, Texas

  December 3, 1999 / Friday / 7:30 p.m.

  Andrea Marenna hung up the phone and looked at her watch in frustration. The conference call had lasted an hour and a half, and this was the fifth multi-hour session with opposing counsel. At this rate, it would take a month to document the settlement.

  Andrea scanned the desk for her time sheet, which she knew was buried somewhere under the stacks of paper arranged in rows on her desk. She started to move a partially complete trial brief and two stacks of evidence to one side, and then reconsidered. If she lost her place, it would take time to find it again. She wrote the time entry down on a sticky-note and stuck it on the side of her computer, alongside five others.

  Andrea started to reach for her overflowing inbox when Julie Trent, her assistant, opened the door and walked in.

  “Your exalted senior partner is on the phone. He wants to talk with you about a new client—now. Also, you had five calls while you were on the phone. I e-mailed you the list.”

  Andrea looked over at the petite blond who’d been her assistant and friend for the last five years.

  “Thanks, but not really. Anything urgent?”

  “One. Richard Steinman said he has to talk to you today, but wouldn’t explain. I think he was calling from a bar.”

  Andrea closed her eyes for a moment. God, I need some rest.

  “Are you okay?” Trent asked, concern in her voice.

  “Nothing that a week of sleep wouldn’t cure, but that’s not going to happen. Please put Kelly through.”

  Trent put another stack of paper in Andrea’s inbox and placed a birthday card on top of the stack. The card had a big “34” on the front.

  “Happy thirty-fourth,” Julie whispered with a mischievous smile as she turned for the door.

  Andrea smiled. “Thank you so very much for reminding me.”

  “Relax, you look great.”

  “Thanks, but I suspect I look like a zombie. I know I feel like one.

  “No comment. By the way, do you still need me?”

  “No, and thanks so much for staying late.”

  “No problem. See you Monday, and get some sleep.”

  “Thanks, I’ll try.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Austin, Texas

  December 3, 1999 / Friday / 7:30 p.m.

  The two men sitting in the dark gray Cadillac STS outside Selena’s Restaurant & Bar were a study in contrast. The driver, Simon Vargas, was a dark-skinned Latino, about five-eight, with the powerful physique of a dedicated body builder. His face and head were clean-shaven, and he wore a small ring of gold in his right ear. The man in the passenger seat, Julian Anders, was a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Nordic giant, who carried two hundred and fifty lean pounds on his rangy frame. Anders’s unkempt mane of reddish hair was tied back in a crude ponytail, and he had a day’s growth of beard on his face. Both men, however, shared a common characteristic. They were hired killers.

  “Okay, cowboy, listen up. His car is that green piece of shit over there. When he comes out of the restaurant, you work your way over to him. I want you to cross his path just before he reaches his car, right there,” Vargas said, pointing to the shadowed area Steinman would pass through on the way to his car.

  “When you get close enough, quietly persuade him to get in the back seat when I pull up—no blood, no shooting, no bullshit. You got that?”

  Vargas spoke in a monotone, never taking his eyes off the front door of the restaurant.

  Anders didn’t look up from the sports page he was reading when he answered. “Don’t sweat it. I’ll be right friendly to Mr. Steinman.”

  Vargas glanced over at Anders. He was all too aware of the big man’s reputation. Anders had started with Helius as a roustabout working high-risk well sites in the Gulf of Mexico. When one of his periodic barroom rampages had put him in a Mexican jail, Paquin had posted bail and offered him a job as part of Helius’s private security force. Vargas, who was number three in Paquin’s internal hierarchy, believed this was a mistake, but Paquin hadn’t asked for his opinion.

  When Tony Severino had pulled Anders into the operation, Vargas had told him that Anders was the wrong guy for this kind of job. Severino had told him they had no
choice. For some reason, this Steinman guy was a high-priority target, and Anders was the only other asset available.

  Vargas sat up straighter in his seat when a man fitting Steinman’s description walked out of the Mexican restaurant. He glanced down at the picture taped to the dash. It was the target. Vargas turned to Anders, but he was already looking at Steinman.

  “I got him,” Anders said.

  Anders dropped the newspaper on the floor and eased out of the car, pulling a dark blue pea coat with him. Vargas waited until Anders was about fifty yards away from the target before he started circling around the lot to the location of the snatch. He paced his speed to coordinate with Anders’s progress.

  Vargas scanned the lot and the nearby street for potential problems. He’d worked for a special army unit in Columbia when he was in his early twenties. On three occasions, they’d snatched drug kingpins off the street in Caracas. Public reaction to a snatch hadn’t been an issue there. Witnesses got out of the way and kept their mouths shut. The reaction in Austin, Texas, would be different. This op had to be quick and quiet. Vargas had made that clear to Anders, but Anders liked playing outside the lines.

  As he drove past the front of the restaurant, Vargas could see a problem in his rearview mirror. A man and woman in their early thirties walked out of the restaurant and began to follow Steinman down the walkway across the lot. Steinman was about twenty yards ahead of them, but he’d stopped to search for something in his pocket. The couple was now too close for the snatch to work.

  Let it go, Anders. We’ll grab him up someplace else. Vargas’s grip on the wheel tightened, as he watched Anders continue to walk toward Steinman. If Anders grabbed the reporter now, they’d have to take out the couple behind him. Anders might not have a problem with that, but Vargas did. Severino’s instructions were explicit: the snatch was to be quick and quiet.

  Vargas lowered the window and held out his arm with a closed fist, signaling an abort. Anders had a clear view of Vargas across the lot, but continued walking toward Steinman. Stop, you asshole! In frustration, Vargas punched the gas, drawing a squeal from the tires, and held his arm up again. Steinman turned quickly and looked over at the Cadillac. Vargas tried to pull his arm back down before Steinman saw him, but he wasn’t quick enough. Shit!

  Vargas looked straight ahead and continued to drive down the lane. When he looked across the lot again, Steinman was walking rapidly toward his car. Anders had changed his direction. His new angle would take him behind Steinman and the couple. Vargas could see the smile on Anders’s face.

  “Screw you, too, redneck,” Vargas said aloud, as he watched Anders change direction.

  Austin, Texas

  December 3, 1999 / Friday / 7:35 p.m.

  Richie walked from the entrance of the bar to the pedestrian walkway that divided the parking lot. His car was parked on the far side of the lot. When he was about thirty yards from the restaurant, he reached into his pants pocket to find his car keys, but they weren’t there. After checking the other pocket and his overcoat, Richie stopped and reached inside his suit jacket and found the keys.

  When Richie looked up, he noticed a man walking in his direction from the left side of the lot. The man was wearing a dark blue coat and jeans. His hair was tied back in a ponytail. Richie looked directly at the man for a moment, but the man didn’t look in his direction. It was almost as if he were avoiding eye contact.

  A sharp squeal on his right drew Richie’s attention. A dark Cadillac was driving slowly down the lane that ran along the outside of the parking lot. The car was parallel to him. The bald Latino man driving the car was just pulling his arm inside the driver’s side window. The man turned away when Richie looked at him.

  Richie watched the Cadillac ease its way down the lane between the cars for a moment. Then he turned and looked over at the man in the dark coat and jeans again. The man had slowed his pace and changed direction. He would pass somewhere behind Richie instead of in front of him. Richie heard a woman laugh behind him and he looked over his shoulder. A man and a woman were walking about fifteen yards behind him. Richie looked over at the red-haired man again. There was a slight smile on his face.

  Richie started walking toward his car again. His pace increased. This is insane. There’s no way Helius would come after me. When he reached the twelve-year-old Buick, Richie unlocked the door, slid behind the wheel, and pressed the lock button. Richie looked in the mirror for the Cadillac as he backed out of the space, but the view in that direction was blocked by a minivan pulling out of its space.

  When he reached the end of the lot, Richie looked in the mirror again. The minivan was pulling away in the opposite direction. Its headlights played over a car facing in his direction. It was the Cadillac. The bald Latino man was behind the wheel. The man in the dark coat with the ponytail was just climbing into the front seat. Both men were looking at the Buick. Richie’s unease turned to fear.

  Richie forced himself to ease the Buick into the flow of traffic when he pulled onto the city street. His eyes alternated between the rearview mirror and the traffic in front of him. The glare from the headlights behind him made it difficult to see if the Cadillac was following him. Two intersections later, Richie spotted the Cadillac. It was three cars back.

  Richie accelerated and began to pass the cars around him. He stared in the rearview mirror, trying to pick up the Cadillac again. When his eyes returned to the front, he was less than three feet from the bumper of the car ahead. Richie jammed on the brakes. The car behind him, a Toyota, slammed on its brakes to avoid a collision, and then raced past Richie on the left. When the car passed him, Richie had a clear view of the Cadillac. The two men in the car were looking directly at him. There was no question. They were following him, and now they knew that he was aware of it.

  I need to find a cop … Shit, I can’t. I’m at least two drinks over the limit. Richie leaned back in the seat in frustration, and glanced in the mirror. The Cadillac was right behind him. The two men were no longer making any effort to be inconspicuous. I’m safe as long as I stay on the main streets. I’ll head back to the Statesman. Richie picked up the phone to call his office, but then he hesitated, and dialed information.

  “Austin, Texas. I need Kelly & White. It’s a law firm.”

  The information operator found the number and connected him.

  “Kelly & White.”

  “Hello.”

  Richie looked in the mirror at the Cadillac. Then he looked ahead at the meandering traffic in front of him.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  The impatience in the receptionist’s voice drew Richie’s attention back to the phone.

  “Andrea Marenna.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but the office is closed for the day. Would you like voice mail?”

  That’s right. It’s after seven on Friday night. “Shit!”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “I’m sorry, voice mail.”

  Richie glanced in the mirror. The Cadillac was still behind the Buick. Richie looked ahead and saw a side street on the other side of the road. He punched the gas and yanked the wheel hard to the left, hoping to lose the Cadillac. The Buick raced through a narrow gap in the oncoming traffic flow, drawing a cacophony of angry horns.

  The old car came into the turn with too much speed and skidded across to the far right side of the street. Richie had to pull the wheel back to the left with both hands to avoid sideswiping a parked car. The cell phone in his right hand was jammed against the steering wheel. As he struggled to get control, Richie heard Andrea’s recorded voice direct him to leave a message after the beep. A moment later, he heard the tone.

  “Andrea, it’s Richie. I need help … with a story. I know this isn’t fair, but I’m really in a bad spot.”

  Richie floored the accelerator once he regained control, and the Buick roared down the narrow street.

  “I need you to call a guy. His name is John Caine. He lives … he lives in Hesperia, California. Look
, I know this sounds crazy, but I think this guy owns—”

  A dispassionate voice cut him off. “Your message has been received. If you would like to send this message as recorded, press one. If you would like to add to this message, press two. If you would like to cancel—”

  Richie looked down at the phone, struggled to find the number in the dark for a moment, and then he pushed the number two. When he looked up again, a pickup truck was pulling out of a gas station in front of him. There was no time to hit the brakes. Richie threw the wheel to the left, putting the Buick into the oncoming traffic lane. The move caused him to drop the cell phone. It bounced on the seat and then dropped to the floor in front of the passenger seat.

  Richie looked up again. A yellow panel truck was about forty yards away from him, coming in the opposite direction. He floored the accelerator to get past the pickup truck on his right, and then pulled the wheel hard to the right. The Buick missed the front bumper of the pickup truck with only inches to spare. When he looked in the rearview mirror, Richie could see the Cadillac behind the pickup truck.

  Realizing that he only had seconds left on Andrea’s voice mail system, Richie began to yell over the roar of the engine.

  “Andrea … shit … Please call this guy. Helius may want to kill him to prevent him from getting his … shit! Don’t pull out, you frigging idiot! Andrea, he may be the last one. I don’t know the guy, but I need him to call me. I’m going to try to send you a package … Amelia Teatro. She has the—”

  As he raced through the next intersection, ignoring the yield sign, Richie heard the recorded message on the cell phone cut off his message.

  “Thank you,” the voice said, and the call ended.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  Austin, Texas

  December 3, 1999 / Friday / 8:05 p.m.

  Okay, Mex, he made us. What’s your next move?” Anders drawled, a smile on his face. Vargas’s face tightened, but he ignored the intended insult. He had bigger problems. The reporter had picked up on the setup too quickly. Now the asshole was trying to outrun them in that piece of junk. Vargas’s instructions were to grab Steinman, work him for information, and then kill him. But Severino had made it clear: if they couldn’t make the grab, take him out.