Salazar lay moaning on his back, blood covering his chest, his guitar in shards next to him on the ground, the strings loose and broken, the beautiful wood scattered like pieces of shrapnel.

Brannon shouted, "Dave, see to Salazar. Okay, guys, careful now. Disarm and cuff the wounded."

There was no victory cheer, no high fives, only heavy breathing, relief on every face as the agents went from man to man to find any still alive.

Griffin examined each man's face. The man he and Delsey had seen running down the alley the other night wasn't among them.

DEA agent Dave Parmenter, also a paramedic, went to his knees beside Salazar. "It's bad. We need an ambulance, Dix, right away." As he spoke, Dave was already pressing his hands with all his strength against Salazar's chest.

Griffin said, "We should call in a helicopter." He started hobbling as fast as he could back toward the pa.s.sage, but a DEA agent raced past him to the cave entrance and a cell connection.

Some of the agents got the two wounded gang members ready to walk or be carried to the front of the cave; another covered the dead with blankets.

Salazar still lay on his back, unconscious now, and next to him was a broken stalagmite streaked with blood.

It was Dix who carried Salazar out on his back. They were all standing outside the front cave entrance, Salazar still on Dix's back, when the helicopter blades whumped in overhead and the pilot brought it down in a narrow clearing, with feet to spare between the blades and the pine tree branches. Two medics jumped out of the helicopter, eased Salazar onto a collapsible gurney, and slid him in. "We can fit the other two wounded," the pilot called to them, and the men were loaded in. Dave climbed in with them, and the helicopter lifted off.

"Got to admire that pilot," Mac Brannon said, watching the helicopter blades whip so close to the tree branches that snow went flying.

The snow had stopped falling for the moment, and the sun glistened off the white hills, making the world look perfect again.

Dix straightened and twisted his back around, trying to loosen up. "I'd rather not do that again," he said. "I hope Salazar makes it. I'd hate for my back to have suffered for nothing."

Henderson County Hospital

"I hate this place," Griffin said, staring around the emergency room, the walls painted what was supposed to be psychologically soothing pale green but looked more like week-old artichokes to him. Only he and Anna had come to the hospital; all the other DEA agents had stayed at Winkel's Cave, doing an inventory of all the drugs and overseeing their removal. His last view of them was high fives and huge smiles. As for Anna, she couldn't stop smiling, either, a huge blazing smile. "An op that went perfectly," she said for the third time, rubbing her hands together. "Can you believe it, Griffin? It went perfectly!" She was manic, adrenaline still pumping a wild c.o.c.ktail in her blood. "I'm guessing at least five hundred kilos of cocaine. It's the biggest bust I've been in on. I wonder how long they've been delivering drugs at Winkel's Cave?" On and on she went, questions pouring out of her mouth. She was right, it was an amazing operation. And all the agents had survived, plus they'd closed down a big distribution center and wiped out the MS-13 gang activity in the area. At least for a while.

Anna pulled off her black wool cap and grinned up at him. "Did I tell you you're amazing, Griffin? You made it through the cave, even that one gnarly section. Let's find Dr. Chesney so she can look at your leg. You've got to get it strong again; otherwise, you'll never be able to hold my weight." Whatever that meant.

He lightly laid his fingers over her mouth to shut her up. He could feel her manic smile beneath his fingers. She said through his fingers, "I'm going to check on the status of the wounded gang members."

She was back in two minutes. "One gang member is on his way to surgery, two gunshot wounds, leg and belly. Will he tell us anything? Doubtful, since gang honor demands they keep quiet. We'll see."

"What about the other one?"

She shook her head.

Griffin watched her pace back and forth in front of him, unable to keep still. Griffin sat there smiling up at her while he rubbed his throbbing leg. She leaned down and kissed him, then she was off when she saw Mac Brannon walk into the ER with Dix and Ruth. He watched her talk, gesticulating with her hands. It had felt odd not to be in charge of an operation, but he couldn't complain. Everything had gone according to plan. It was a miracle. He wondered what Anna would say when she came crashing down from the ceiling.

He thought about a cup of hot black coffee. He thought about how he hated hospitals, even when they were warm and comforting. And his leg started aching like a rotted tooth, but he could stand that. He had no intention of letting Dr. Chesney poke around anymore.

Anna and her boss were still in animated conversation. He didn't know where Dix and Ruth had gone to. He made the trek to the cafeteria, bought himself a cup of coffee and listened to techs, doctors, nurses, cafeteria personnel, and a score of visitors talk about the huge drug bust in Winkel's Cave. He sat down and stretched out his leg and began to lightly rub it. He wondered idly if Salazar would survive surgery. At least he'd been alive when they'd wheeled him in.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Here he'd been driving across the country, enjoying seeing relatives and friends, excited about his new a.s.signment with Savich in Washington.

Three days ago it had all changed. You never knew what life would dish up, like a gorgeous DEA agent named Anna who'd shot an alligator when she was nine. He called Savich to fill him in on what happened.

Anna joined him, and they went to the surgical waiting room on the third floor. They sat together, not speaking now, because Anna's adrenaline levels were crashing, neither of them knowing if Salazar would live or die. Mac Brannon was sitting across from them, his cell phone attached to his ear.

Salazar had been in surgery for two hours. An OR nurse came out periodically to give them updates. Salazar was holding his own; he might make it. Then again, he might not were the unspoken words.

Griffin looked up to see Dr. Chesney staring at him, as grim-looking as his mother when he'd p.i.s.sed her off by leaving no gas in her car. He'd hoped Dr. Chesney was home making snow angels in her front yard, but no, there she was, looking at him from the waiting room doorway, her toe tapping. He gave it up and smiled at her. What followed was five minutes of questioning in an empty patient room, Anna standing beside him. He'd asked her to leave, but that hadn't worked. Dr. Chesney said, "Okay, let me see the leg. Drop your pants, Agent Hammersmith."

Anna, curse her, was grinning as he pulled his pants down and sat himself again on the side of the bed. "Nice boxers," she said. "I've always preferred commando, but black's good, too."

Dr. Chesney gently lifted the bandage from his wound, but it still hurt. "You're lucky," she said after poking around. "The st.i.tches have held, despite all the grief you put them and yourself through. Take some more aspirin when you need it. Like right now."

Anna brought him a cup of cold water from the fountain, and Dr. Chesney stood over him until he swallowed the aspirin.

She lightly touched her palm to his cheek. "No fever. Good. Take care of yourself, Agent Hammersmith," and she walked briskly out. Not a moment later a code red came over the loudspeaker.

"It's time for another update," Griffin said, and limped to the nurses' station, Anna behind him. Imagine a world-famous cla.s.sical guitarist, a professor at Stanislaus, and, to top it off, a big-time drug dealer. He wondered how long it would take the media to flood Maestro, Virginia. They met the OR nurse in the hall. "He's out of surgery, but his prognosis is uncertain. He's still unconscious, so there's no reason for you to remain. The surgeon told me to tell all your agents to go out and prevent snow accidents. As for you, Agent Hammersmith, he said you were luckier than you deserved, that if you'd ruined Dr. Chesney's excellent work by crawling around in Winkel's Cave, she'd stake you in the snow and leave you."

There was another code red over the loudspeaker, and Griffin thought, Oh, no, not Salazar.

Washington, D.C.

Tuesday afternoon

Savich parked his Porsche a half-block down from Peter Biaggini's apartment building on Willard Avenue, and they walked through the softly falling snow to its pristine lobby. They used the stairs and followed the long hallway to the last door on their left to find Mr. August Biaggini looking at the yellow FBI crime scene tape crisscrossing the open doorway. He stood unmoving, staring in, as if uncertain what to do.

Sherlock lightly laid her hand on his arm. When he turned, his face was curiously blank. She said, "Sir, I'm Agent Sherlock and this is Agent Savich. Let me say we are very sorry for the loss of your son."

"Yes, I remember you. They won't let me in. My wife is asking for Peter's blue suit to bury him in, but they won't let me in."

The beautiful lilting voice they'd heard two days before was flat, as if he were moving and speaking simply out of habit, with no emotion at all.

Savich said, "I'll speak to the forensic team leader. Wait here a moment with Agent Sherlock."

Savich ducked under the tape and met Jennifer Whipple in the large entryway. "Hey, Dillon, I called in about the father waiting outside. I mean, I can't let him in, now, can I? He could contaminate the scene-"

"It's okay, Jennifer. I'll stick with him. He wants one of Peter's suits for his son to be buried in."