"I told you all I know!" Bob squealed.

You know what? I believed him. How about that?

"So what do you suggest I do with you?" I asked calmly. Normally I don't give my victims a chance. They always have to die. But I was feeling a little magnanimous.

"Let me go! I won't tell Savage anything! I didn't get very far anyway!"

"Do you know the significance of the name Doc Savage?"

Bob shook his head.

I sighed. "Too bad for you," I answered as I hit him with the frying pan I never used. As he slumped forward, I thought I probably shouldn't use it to make my son pancakes anytime soon.

For your information, Bobby John woke up several hours later, naked and penniless, on top of a Dumpster outside a biker bar in east St. Louis. Hey, at least he wasn't dead.

Chapter Eleven.

(Practicing in a mirror before his high school reunion.) "Hi, I'm Martin Blank; you remember me? I'm not married, I don't have any kids, and I'd blow your head off if someone paid me enough."

-Martin Blank, Grosse Pointe Blank Grosse Pointe Blank

"You're such a normal guy," Leonie said before shoving a forkful of fettuccine into her mouth.

"No, not really." And she would know that if she'd been at my house at two a.m. to see Bobby John naked and tied to a chair in my kitchen. But she wasn't. We were at my favorite Italian restaurant having a typical, average date. It was only natural that she'd think I was normal. Of course, I wasn't sure what a mortician's idea of normal was.

Leonie nodded. "Sure you are."

No, I'm not. "You just haven't gotten to know me yet," I replied. "You just haven't gotten to know me yet," I replied.

Leonie rested her head in her hand. "Let me guess: good college, white-collar degree with postgraduate work, thinks he's God's gift to women, and prefers blondes."

"Shows what you know. I'm an agnostic." Maybe my cologne gave me away? Or was it the Italian loafers? I was pretty sure it wasn't my hair. I'd achieved perfection in that arena.

"So, am I right?" She smiled, and I thought about taking her right there on the table. Of course, I would not be welcome here again.

"Somewhat. I have a master's in marketing from an Ivy League school. I'm a consultant. And I'll admit to a less-than-healthy respect for blondes. But that was before I met you."

Leonie smiled again, and my blood pressure skyrocketed. Suddenly I forgot what color blonde was.

"Well, maybe I can hire you to help me with Crummy's."

I felt a sharp stab of guilt. I'd left Paris pretty much in the lurch, and we had to go to Santa Muerta for our presentation in just a few days. He was even babysitting for me tonight. I made a mental note to make it up to him tomorrow. Flowers? Wine? Maybe one of the blondes at Gin's spa?

"Okay, but my prices can be steep."

Leonie laughed. Dinner went beautifully. By the time dessert rolled around we were swapping bad pickup lines.

"I think my favorite has to be, 'Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?' " Leonie said with a smirk.

"You're kidding. Someone actually used that on you?" Hmmm. Hmmm. I'd have to write that one down later. I'd have to write that one down later.

She nodded. "And I was wearing hiking boots at the time." She took a drink from her glass of wine. "I'm having a great time, Dakota."

I smiled. "Me too. And you can call me Dak."

"So, what's up next, Dak?" she asked with a wicked grin. I knew what I wanted to do. But did morticians do that on the first date?

A strange beeping noise broke into my fantasy involving Leonie and me naked . . . anywhere. This would be my first time with a redhead. It almost made me feel like a virgin all over again.

"Shit," Leonie said.

Oh. The beeping came from her. I watched as she pulled a cell phone from her purse. Leonie frowned at it before putting it away. The beeping came from her. I watched as she pulled a cell phone from her purse. Leonie frowned at it before putting it away.

"I'm sorry, Dak. I've got to go. People are so inconsiderate-dying at the most inopportune moments."

Oh. Right. In her line of work she probably got calls at all kinds of weird hours. In her line of work she probably got calls at all kinds of weird hours.

I tried to hide my disappointment. "It's okay. You go, and I'll take care of the check." I rose from my seat.

Leonie came around to my side of the table, threw her arms around me, and kissed me hard on the lips. She smelled like rose water and vanilla and tasted like cabernet. I reached up and tangled my hands in her hair, kissing her as if I were devouring chocolate. I wanted her so badly I thought maybe the stiff (as opposed to my stiffy) could wait. What's a few hours when you're already dead, anyway?

Finally she pulled away. "You're a peach, Dak! I'll make it up to you!" And then she was gone.

My head was spinning as I paid the tab, grotesquely overtipped the waiter, and flew through the air to Paris's place.

"Hello, Paris, my man!" I swung the door open wide and danced into the living room. Louis was curled up asleep on the sofa.

"Isn't he the greatest kid ever?" I beamed at my son.

Paris raised one eyebrow. "Are you drunk?"

"No, I'm not!" I took my best friend and cousin in my arms and started waltzing him around the room.

He pulled away. "Oh, my God. It's happened. I owe Liv two thousand dollars."

I stopped and looked at him. "What's that?"

"Nothing," he rushed. "We only have two days till we leave for Santa Muerta. I'll expect you right after you take Louis to school in the morning."

"Fine," I answered as I scooped the boy up into my arms and carried him to the car. Once in bed, I thought for a brief moment about what Paris had said, then traded in those thoughts for fantasies about Leonie, her kisses, and her long red hair.

"Did you say something about owing Liv money last night?" I asked Paris when I got to his place the next day.

Paris chuckled-presumably at my expense. "Yeah. Liv and I made a bet ten years ago that you'd never fall in love. As you got older, the pot grew higher."

I stared at him. "You bet money on that?"

He nodded. "And it looks like I lost, by the way you were acting last night."

"I am not in love with Leonie. It's a phase. I find her career choice . . . interesting."

"Riiiiiiiiiight." Paris had a smug look on his face, and I really wanted to punch it off.

"Let's just get to work," I snapped. Now, why in the hell would it bother me to think I had feelings for Leonie? I shoved that thought aside for now. We had work to do.

Paris typed into his laptop. "Okay. You had the right idea wondering why our assignments have decreased. I called a few contacts, and it seems that there's another firm competing with the Bombays." He slid the notebook over to me.

"National Resources?" I frowned at the generic name on the generic Web site in front of me. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing, presumably. There's no mention of who they are or what they do. Just a hidden e-mail address I can't hack into."

"Who did you talk to at the agencies?" I asked, not taking my eyes off the bland screen with nothing but a contact button.

"Neil over at Langley. Anders at Mossad."

"Ha!" I snorted. "Remember that time the four of us got so drunk we woke up in Bogota wearing lederhosen?" Good times Good times.

"Yeah. I remember that. Especially the part where you tried to sell me to that pair of white slavers from Yemen."

Oh. He remembered that. "Moving on . . ." I mumbled. To be honest, I wasn't really going to sell Paris to those guys. It was just a fraternity prank. Although Ali and his brother weren't terribly amused at the time. He remembered that. "Moving on . . ." I mumbled. To be honest, I wasn't really going to sell Paris to those guys. It was just a fraternity prank. Although Ali and his brother weren't terribly amused at the time.

"Anyway, National Resources underbid us a few years back on a case. The agencies have been using them ever since."

"When were Neil and Anders gonna tell us?" I was pissed. The four of us had been really close since we had shared the same dorm room freshman year. Now that I thought of it, it was kind of weird how we all ended up in the professions we did.

Paris shook his head. "It wasn't easy to get that out of them. I had to use blackmail. I still have those photos of them posing with Air Supply at the concert in Milan."

I laughed. We really came down on them when we found out they ditched us at the brothel to meet Air Supply. I mean, come on! Air Supply?

"Neil says these guys are good. They're also cheaper than we are, and they wear suits when they make their hits. That's why our contracts are down."

"Grandma's gonna be pissed. Especially since they have a Web site."

Paris looked pretty grave. "She called. The meeting's been moved up. We're expected in Santa Muerta tomorrow. And there's something else."

"Tomorrow? I can't do tomorrow! I have a date with Leonie! And what about Louis? I can't ditch him for a couple of days!" I, Dakota Bombay, started to panic. I'd never really had any reason to turn Grandma down before. Well, there was that time I was on a ski trip in Aspen, but I made it back before the three Austrian nurses got cold.

"You have to bring Louis. She wants to meet him."

Oh, shit. "She knows about Louis?" I wasn't ready for that. "She knows about Louis?" I wasn't ready for that.

Paris nodded. "She wants Missi to run a DNA test on him while we're there."

I slumped into my chair. A DNA test. Of course she'd want that. In the Council's paranoid brain, Louis could be a midget spy. They'd have to make sure he was of the Bombay blood. Missi was the family's version of James Bond's Q. There would be no margin for error in her results.

"I really like Louis," Paris said. "I'm sure the test will prove he's your son."

He was telling the truth. I knew that. Paris may have been irritated with me lately, but he was still my right-hand dude. And of course he and Louis had hit it off. They were a lot alike. But it was what he said that struck me. I never really believed that Louis wasn't mine. And if he wasn't a true Bombay, what would the Council do with him? He would have been to Santa Muerta, and with that kid's brains, they wouldn't allow him to leave. Not alive, anyway.

I wasn't going into this with just Paris having my back. The Council was ruthless-even though they were family (or maybe especially because because they were family). They'd threatened to kill my niece, Romi, just six months ago. They wouldn't hesitate to take Louis out of the picture. He'd be seen only as a threat to them. they were family). They'd threatened to kill my niece, Romi, just six months ago. They wouldn't hesitate to take Louis out of the picture. He'd be seen only as a threat to them.

I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed. There was only one person who could help me now: Mom.

Chapter Twelve.

Hannibal King: "We call ourselves the Nightstalkers." "We call ourselves the Nightstalkers."

Blade: "Sounds like a reject from a Saturday-morning cartoon." "Sounds like a reject from a Saturday-morning cartoon."

Hannibal King: "Well, we were going to go with the Care Bears, but that was taken." "Well, we were going to go with the Care Bears, but that was taken."

-Trinity

The next day found me, my son, my mother, and my cousin on the family's private jet headed to Bombay HQ-the island of Santa Muerta. I'm not sure how long the family has had the island. It's my understanding that no one was really interested in meeting in our own homes. I mean, who wants an army of assassins (isn't it bad enough that they're family?) over for a potluck? Consider yourself lucky all you you have to endure is dry turkey, instant potatoes, and Aunt Katy's incontinence problem. At Christmas, when I was sixteen, Uncle Lou used me to demonstrate a new choke hold he developed that rendered you unconscious in half the time. have to endure is dry turkey, instant potatoes, and Aunt Katy's incontinence problem. At Christmas, when I was sixteen, Uncle Lou used me to demonstrate a new choke hold he developed that rendered you unconscious in half the time.

"You're a big, strapping kid now!" I recall Lou saying as he dragged me over to him. I had bruises for a month. (I told everyone they were hickeys, of course.) Where was I? Oh, yeah. So the Bombay family just started coming up with excuses for not hosting reunions, holidays, etc. You know, stuff like, "Our metal detector's down," and the old standby, "With a house full of weapons and two teenagers going through puberty, this isn't a good time for us." And using the neighboring church or community center was out. Somewhere along the line one of my relatives found an island named Saint Death and said, "That's it!"

No one ever lived on the island before us. Well, I guess that's not entirely true. A bunch of sailors were shipwrecked there a long time ago and decided that murdering and eating one another was a good alternative to coconuts. The mainlanders didn't seem to think the island juju was good, so we swooped in and got it for a song. Yay, us.

When I was growing up I thought it was pretty cool that our family owned an island. Paris and I loved running through the jungle, catching crabs on the beach, and shooting high-powered sniper rifles at a dummy in a car from a rooftop in a mock city-you know, the typical boys-of-summer thing. I only recently discovered that Paris had a secret tunnel he used to sneak off to when he was poetically inclined. But that's another story.

We liked to pretend this was Dr. Benton Quest's secret island, although we always fought over who was Jonny and who had to be Hadji. Too bad we didn't have a Race Bannon. During our training I guess Mom filled that bill. But she refused to wear a white crew cut (no matter how much we begged), and it was disturbing to imagine Race in a jumper decorated with kittens (insert shudder here).

The island has it all. A large, resort building with rooms for every member of the family (keyed in to our biometrics, of course, so we don't have to mess with keys or plastic cards-I hate those). All the resort amenities are there-pool, staff that understands only Spanish (all men, though-I always wondered why), and a penthouse for each member of the Council.