The stranger stopped at the dry rack-clack of the action.

That' ll do," Miguel said, in Quechua. Didn' t you hear me? This is private fucking property."

Yeah, I know that."

So what the fuck are you doing down here, gringo?"

I' m here to see the witch."

That was when the stranger tipped up his head so Miguel could see his face properly. It was also when he realized he' d made a mistake The white they' d seen flashing under the hat brim as he came down the path above was pasty and unreal, clotted and streaked on the face like a poorly applied clown' s mask or a half-melted Day of the Dead candy skull. The eyes were dark and impassive, and they stared out of the disintegrating white face with no more humanity than a pair of gun muzzles.

Pistaco.

Miguel had time for that single quailing thought, and then something erupted behind him in a string of firecracker fury. He locked up, tugged both ways at once, and the stranger' s long dusty coat split open and he had a flash glimpse of some stubby, ugly weapon cradled there in the pistaco' s arms.

Deep, throat-clearing cough, spiteful shredding whine.

Then there was only impact, a sense of being tugged violently backward, a split second of the sky and Colca' s steep-angled sides tilting and spinning, and then everything was gone.

Carl Marsalis sprinted past the ruins of the first familia gunman, closed the gap with the second while the other man raised his shotgun and snapped off a useless blast from the hip. This one was already panicked beyond any professional combat training he might have had, the remote-triggered firecrackers in the lead mule' s panniers, the sudden explosive death of his comrade. Carl ran in firing, too far out for the sharkpunch to have any serious impact yet, but the boy ahead of him flinched and staggered with the few shards that found their mark.

It wasn' t an ideal weapon for the circumstances, and out of the water it was too fucking heavy for comfort. He' d had to drape the long elastic sling it came with around his neck, and stick a cling patch on his right thigh to hold the damn thing still under his coat. His leg ached with the extra effort of walking with the weight. But the patented Cressi sharkpunch had the sterling advantage that it was classed as sub-aqua sports equipment, which meant he' d gotten it through security in his baggage without a second look, when second looks were the last thing he needed. And a gun that punched razor-sharp spinning slivers of alloy through water hard enough to eviscerate a great white shark did have some considerable reach in air, even if the spread made accuracy a joke. The young guard had blood running down his face as he fumbled at the slide on his shotgun, he was probably dazed from the sound of the explosions, and he was clearly terrified.

Carl closed the gap, pulled the trigger on the sharkpunch again. The boy slammed back against the side cables of the bridge. Large chunks of him slopped through and fell into the river; the rest collapsed skeletally onto the suddenly blood-drenched planking.

Over.

The mule carrying the firecrackers had, not unreasonably, panicked as much as anybody else. It was headed up the path along the riverside, bucking and snorting. No time to hang about. Carl loped after the animal, ears open for the sounds of other humans.

He met a third gunman a couple of hundred meters along the river, hurrying down the path toward the sounds of gunfire, a matte-gray Steyr assault rifle held unhandily across his body as he jogged. The man saw the mule, tried to get out of its way, and Carl darted around one side of the animal, threw out the sharkpunch, and fired more or less blind. The other man went down as if ripped apart by invisible hands.

Carl scanned the path up ahead, saw and heard nothing, and stopped by the ruins of the man he' d just killed. He crouched and scooped up the Steyr left-handed out of the mess, dumped it immediately with a grunt of frustration. The guy had still been holding it across his body when Carl shot him, and the anti-shark load had smashed the breech beyond repair.

Fuck!"

He picked and prodded his way around the shattered carcass, sharkpunch still leveled watchfully over his knee at the path ahead. Came up finally with a blood-soaked holster holding a shiny new semi-automatic.

He tugged the gun loose and held it up to the light- Glock 100 series, not a bad gun. Pricey, shiny ordnance for backwoods muscle like this, but Carl supposed even here the power of branding must hold sway.

Tight, adrenaline-crazy grin. He put down the sharkpunch for a moment to work the action on the other weapon. It seemed to be undamaged, would be accurate to a point, but...

Still no decent longer-range weapon. The shotguns they' d been packing back at the river had no more reach than the sharkpunch, and he still had no clear idea how many more of Bambaren' s security there were between him and Greta Jurgens' s winter retreat. Outside of actual location, Suerte Ferrer had been hopelessly vague.

He shrugged and got back to his feet. Tucked the Glock into his waistband, hefted the sharkpunch again, and moved past the shattered man on the ground. Up ahead, the path seemed to rise slowly out of the rock-walled groove where it ran along the riverside. The mule had bolted on ahead, seemed to have finally found open ground off to the right.

Carl settled the leather hat a little more carefully on his head and followed. The combat high pounded through him. The mesh picked up the beat, fed it. The grin on his face felt like it would never come off.

" You need to get a sense of geography about this, Suerte."

Suerte Ferrer glowered up from the holding cell chair as Carl walked around him. Immigration had cuffed him there. Don' t need no fucking geography lessons from you, nigger."

The insult twanged through him, freighted with memories from South Florida State. It was the first time he'

d heard it since Dudeck.

Of course, he' d heard the word twist a few times in the interim.

I see you' re acclimatizing to Jesusland culture pretty well." Carl completed his circuit and leaned on the table at Ferrer' s level. Their captive was stil grimy and tired looking from his border transit in a false-bottomed crate purporting to contain experimentally gene-modified rapeseed oil. He flinched back as Carl went face-to-face with him. You want to go back there, maybe, Suerte? That what you want?"

Quiros said- "

Carl slammed the table. I don' t know this Quiros. And I don' t fucking want to know him. You think we pulled your autohauler out of the line for luck? You have been sold, to me, and by someone a lot farther up the food chain than your pal Quiros. So if you think you' re going get some slick down-the-wire Seattle lawyer come pull you out of here, you' re wrong."

He went around the table and took a seat again, next to Norton, who' d done nothing but sit with his legs thrust out in front of him and stare somberly the whole time. Carl jerked a thumb toward the cell door, which they' d left promisingly ajar when they came in.

Out there, Suerte, you' ve got a highway that goes in two directions. It goes west to the Freeport, or it goes east back into Jesusland and a bust for illegal crossover. Your choice which direction you get to take."

Who the fuck are you people?" Ferrer asked.

Norton exchanged a look with Carl. He leaned forward and cleared his throat. We' re you' re fairy godmothers, Ferrer. Surprised you didn' t recognize us."

Yeah, we' re looking to grant al your wishes."

See, this identity is blown." Norton gestured at the tabletop, where the documents Ferrer had been carrying were spread out. Carlton Garcia. RimSec have a warrant out on you under that name from San Diego to Vancouver and back. Even if we hadn' t fished you out here, you' d get about three days into the Rim before you tripped something and ended up either busted or yoked to some gang-master who' d put you to work fifteen hours a day in a trench and expect you to suck his dick for the privilege."

Carl grinned skullishly. Was that the Rimside dream you had in mind, Suerte?"

Go west, young man, go west," Norton said piously. But go with some cash and a decent fake ID."

Both of which we' ll give you," Carl told him. Together with a bus ticket right into the Freeport. And all you' ve got to do is answer a couple of questions we have about your cousin Manco Bambaren."

Hey!" Suerte Ferrer backed up in the chair. His hands chopped a flat cross out of the air in front of him.

I don' t know nothing about Manco' s operation, they didn' t tel me shit about any of that. I didn' t live down there more than a couple of years on and off anyway."

Carl and Norton swapped another look. Carl sighed.

That' s a shame," he said.

Yeah." Norton started to get up. We' l tell the migra boys not to rough you up too bad before they dump you back over."

Hope you' ve enjoyed your brief stay in the Land of Opportunity."

Wait!"

Greta Jurgens' s hibernation retreat was an environment-blended two-story lodge built right into the side of a cliff face set back a couple of dozen meters from the riverbank. Fifteen meters or more of scrubby open ground from where the path from the bridge rose out of the groove it followed along the river, rounded a worn rock bluff, and petered out in the scrub a handful of paces from the front door. The upper-story windows were blanked with carbon-fiber security shutters, but downstairs there was activity. Motion visible through a wide picture window, and men darting in and out of the open door with weapons in their hands. Carl counted five before he slid back into cover, none of them yet fitted out in the weblar jackets the three down by the river had worn. One of them, older and apparently in charge, was already on the phone for further orders. Carl crouched where the rock wall on the right of the path still rose over a meter high and listened to the reports of his coming.

... sounds like a whole fucking squad." Voice panicky and small across the distance and the steady white-noise pour of the river in the background. I can' t raise Lucho or Miguel down at the bridge. There'

s a fucking mule here with panniers that look like they fucking blew up or something. I don' t know if- "

Pause.

All right then, but you' d better make it quick." A shouted aside. You fucking idiots get your jackets on."

Shit.

Well, not like you weren' t expecting this.

He went around the corner of the shallowing rock wall at a taut, bent-kneed run, sharkpunch slung and cling-padded to his thigh once more, Glock held out in both hands at head height before him like some kind of venerated icon.

It took them the first three meters to spot him, another two before they realized he wasn' t one of their own. He held fire until they realized, didn' t want to waste the shots. But as the yel s erupted and weapons came up, he squeezed the trigger and the pistol yapped in his hands like a badly behaved little dog. He came on in, same rapid pace, straight line toward them, Make the shots count.

The older guy with the phone, jittering in front of his own men' s guns, tugging a pistol loose from somewhere. Carl' s third and fourth shots put him down, staggering back against the wall and doorjamb behind him, clawing for support, sinking fast. One down. More yelling, boiling confusion. Someone got off return fire- At fucking last, Jesus where' d you get these guys, Manco- but it crackled nowhere near, and the mesh made him ignore it. No time, no time, still firing, the steady, flat smack of the Glock rounds, the picture window starred and cratered, had to be security glass. Another guy with a Steyr, shooting wildly from the hip, correct right with the Glock and knock him off his feet like some tugging trick with a wire. Two down. The others were in the game now, cacophony of gunblasts, automatic stutter, and the dull boom of shotguns. Pale dry earth erupted from the ground to his right and in front, he darted left, lost some focus, thought he tagged a third target as the guy darted back inside the lodge, couldn' t be sure.

The two remaining outside huddled back toward the door as well, weapons held higher; they' d be getting the range. Shotgun blast, he caught the outer edge of the spread, felt a couple of pellets sting through in his legs. He sprinted the rest of the way in, emptying the Glock as he came. A slug finally caught him somewhere low in the ribs, hammer-blow impact, and he staggered, jerked to a halt, nearly went over. His hat came off, bared his face to the light and his remaining opponents. He saw the shock in their eyes. He snarled and got the Glock back in line, kept pulling the trigger. One of the two men jolted, stumbled backward, firing wildly, one-handed, winged but not down. The Glock locked out on the last round, he threw it away. Less than half a dozen meters now, he ripped the sharkpunch clear and up, aimed vaguely for both men, pulled the trigger.

The picture window shattered in the center, became a sudden, jagged-toothed mouth. The two men were both hurled back off their feet and hard against it, the remaining glass suddenly awash with red and clots of gore; the bodies fell in shredded chunks. Carl got to within two meters of the door, put another shot through on general principles, and then stopped.

Listen.

Faint scrabbling sound from within, off to the right. He threw himself inside, falling and twisting in the air, saw vague movement above the rise of a breakfast bar, and fired at it. Another gun went off at the same time, and he felt a second impact in the ribs. But the edges of the bar ripped apart in flying splinters, and the darkened form in the kitchenette behind blew backward. Wet, uncooked meat noise and a shriek. He hit the ground, skidded painfully into the back of a wood-frame armchair.

And everything stopped again.

This time for real.

" It' s simple enough," he told Norton, after the interrogation was done. They were playing an inept game of pool on the garish orange table. I don' t have to find Onbekend now. He' ll come to me."

If he doesn' t just have you picked off at whatever airport you' re planning to use."

Yeah, wel , like I said they' re kind of busy right now. And I' ll be going in under a fresh identity. No COLIN badge, no UNGLA accreditation, no weapons, nothing to ring any bells."

Norton paused, chin hovering over the cue. No weapons?"

Not as such, no. I aim to look like a tourist."

And this fresh identity." The COLIN exec rammed his shot home. I assume you' re looking to me for that."

No, I' ve got a friend back in London can handle that for me, have the stuff couriered across inside a day. What I need from you is the cash. Free wafers, untraceable back to COLIN. My credit still good for that?"

You know it is."

Good. And can you persuade RimSec to keep Ferrer locked up somewhere until end of next week?

Make sure he doesn' t have a change of heart and go squawking down the wires to Bambaren?"

I suppose so." Norton looked vainly for position, tried a double, took it too fast and missed. But look.

You don' t know this Jurgens will be there. What if she' s not sleeping yet?"

It' s November, Norton." Carl chalked his cue. Jurgens was almost flaking out when I talked to her three weeks ago. She' s got to be under by now."

I thought they had drugs that' ll unlock the hibernation."

Yeah." Carl lined up his shot, eased back with due regard for the scarred yellow wall behind him. Sharp snap and the target ball disappeared into a corner pocket as if sucked there by vacuum. The cue ball stood solid in its place. I knew this hibernoid back on Mars, we used to go the same tanindo classes. He was a private detective, occasional enforcer, too. Very tough guy, always getting into scrapes. I don' t think I ever knew him when he wasn' t carrying some kind of injury. And he told me that no beating he ever took hurt as much as the time he dosed himself with that wake-up shit."

Yeah, but if they' re worried about- "

Norton, they don' t know any reason why I' d be coming after them like this. They don' t know Ertekin was anything to me. And if there' s going to be any COLIN fallout in the air, the very best thing Onbekend can do with his girlfriend right now is put her away somewhere safe and cozy for the next several months.

Believe me, she' s there. Just a question of getting to her, digging in, and waiting for Onbekend to come running. And then kil ing the motherfucker."

He slammed the next shot, rattled it in the jaws. It didn' t go down.

He peeled off his coat, unslung the sharkpunch, and dumped it on the kitchenette bar. He checked himself for damage. The Marstech impact jacket, disguised through airport security as part of his scuba gear, had soaked up the slugs he' d collected and left him with no worse than bruising, maybe a couple of cracked ribs. He pressed on the tender areas, grimaced, shrugged. He' d gotten off lightly.

So far.

He stripped the dead men of their weapons, piling them up on the shot-splintered breakfast bar. He dragged the worst of the wreckage from the man he' d kil ed in the kitchenette out the door and left him with his companions. He' d get the rest with a mop and bucket if there was time.

In the upstairs gallery of the lodge, he found a room that extended back into the cliff the house was built against. There was a heavy-duty lock on the door but he shot it out with one of his several newly acquired handguns. The door swung weightily inward on a curved womb-like space lit by subdued orange LCLS paneling at knee height along the walls. He found a panel of switches next to the door and flipped them until a harsher white light sprang up. Assumption confirmed- he' d found Greta Jurgens.

She lay like some dead Viking noblewoman on a broad, carved wood platform with lines that vaguely suggested a boat. Thick tangles of gray-green insulene foam netting supported her and wrapped her over. Carl could smell the stuff as he stepped toward her, the signature nanotech reek of tightly engineered carbon plastics. He' d used the netting on Mars a lot, camping out on expeditions in the Wells uplands.

- Flash recall of sitting out in the warm glow of a heating element while the Martian night came on in all its thin-air glory, thick shingles of stars everywhere and the tiny, on-and-off tracery of burn-up from the leftover seed particles as they kept coming down, decades overdue for their date with atmospheric modification. Sutherland, staring up there at it all, pleased smile on the scarred ebony features, as if all of it, the sky and everything in it, had been put there just for him. Musing, nodding along with whatever it was the young Carl Marsalis had been bitching about. Soaking it up, then turning it around so Carl' d have to look at it from an angle that hadn' t occurred to him before. You ever wondered, soak, if that doesn' t just mean...

Jurgens stirred just barely as the lights came up, but the down end of her cycle had her buried too deep for any substantial reaction. She was naked in the foam, skin taut and shiny with the adipose buildup, lidded eyes bruised and gummed shut with the secretions of the hibernoid sleep. Carl stood looking down at her for a long while, handgun at the end of his arm like a hammer. Images of the last month flickered behind his eyes like flames, like something burning down.

South Florida State. The Perez nanorack. Sevgi Ertekin beside him on the beach. New York, and the futon she made up for him. Gunfire in the street outside, the first warm crushing pressure as he flattened her under him.

Istanbul, the walk to Moda. The gleaming, glittering grins-in-darkness escaping feel to everything they did.

His mouth twitched upward in echo.

The wind across the stones at Sacsayhuaman. Sevgi leaned against the jeep at his back, the tight feeling of cover, of safety.

The road to Arequipa, her face in the soft dashboard glow.

San Francisco and Bulgakov' s Cat, the predawn view out of starboard loading. Don' t gloat, Marsalis. It' s not attractive.

Sevgi dead.

The smile fell off his face. He stared down at the sleeping woman.

Greta Jurgens is Onbekend' s?

So it would appear. A curious match, is it not? But then they do at least have in common that they are both objects for the hormonal hatred the rest of humanity seems constantly to need a target for.