"We'll have to use lights."

"Okay, but be careful. We're heading out there anyway, just in case. I'm tired of sitting on my duster back here."

"See ya," said Lewis.

Stick trimmed his sails and slid quietly past the end of the dock. The two guards were leaning against the side of the yacht, talking.

Stick studied the layout. The marina was to his left, separated from the private dock by a concrete wharf and twenty feet of water. A walkway led from the dock up to the house.

A hundred meters maybe, no more, from dock to house. Plenty of trees for cover plus a terraced lawn that led down to the water.

Two big lights on a pole at the end of the dock. f.u.c.k it, no problem,.

The house itself was one-story. That was good. No high ground for them. He swept the house with his night scope, planning his attack. From left to right, he made the kitchen, with a sliding panel out to a terrace; the main room, big, with a cathedral ceiling; a bedroom with a large picture window overlooking the water, and a circular waterbed in the center of it; and a smaller room at the end of the house. At first he thought that room was dark; then he saw a sliver of light streaming through the drapes. That's where they had to be. And they were here. He knew that because Nance was here.

He counted heads.

Three in the kitchen, including Bronicata.

Five in the living room, including Moreno and Pravano.

Chevos, Nance, and Costello in the bedroom.

Eleven, just as he had figured. He still had the touch.

Behind him, out over the bay somewhere, he heard a chopper whop-whop-whopping. He ignored it. He tied down the tiller, stung the ammo bag over his shoulder, grabbed the 180 and M16, and clambered over the cabin to the front of his boat, stretched out on the deck, and got the submachine gun ready. The sailboat sliced through the water and sailed into the orb of light from the two big dock lights.

The door opened and Costello was standing there.

He looked like Yankee Doodle Dandy: white slacks, a blue blazer, a red silk scarf flouncing around his neck.

"Well, well," I said, "it's Captain America."

By that time I was ready to take on the Russian army.

"You just never give up, do you, Kilmer?" he said, in that flat, no-nonsense lawyer's voice of his.

"Offhand, I'd say your little bubble has blown sky high," I said.

"You talk big for a man who could be sixty seconds from his own funeral," he said. "Notice I said could be. I'm all that's standing between Nance and a bullet in your head."

I ignored the threat. "You're going across, Costello. First murder, now kidnapping. I've been wrong about you. I thought you were smarter than the rest of these wahoos. You just wear cuter clothes."

Doe was hanging on to my hand like a drowning woman.

"Why don't you let her go?" I said. "This is between us boys."

"I didn't have anything to do with this," he said. "I've been out on the water for the past four hours. My cuffs are clean."

"I can hardly wait to see the look on the jury's face when you run that one by them."

He pulled a chair over and sat down in front of us.

"The monitor's turned off," he said. "So we can talk straight. First of all, Nance and you have had this hard-on for each other for a couple of years. I'm not responsible for his actions. And from the looks of him, you could be looking at a case of police brutality, anyway. "

"And what's the lady here guilty of, holding my coat while I did it?"

"I'll admit that bringing you two out here was bad judgment on somebody's part, but we can work all this out."

"Good, I'm glad you see it that way," I said. "If you'll just arrange for a ride back to town, we'll be leaving."

"Not quite."

"You're skating on no ice, Costello. You may not be guilty of kidnapping, but holding us against our will sure as h.e.l.l makes you an accessory."

"I'm just trying to arrange a negotiation here," he said, holding his hands out at his sides and smiling. "So everybody comes out happy."

"There's no way that can happen."

"You're all bluff, Kilmer. Right now you couldn't lick a postage stamp in a court of law, and you know it."

"I've got Donleavy cold for murder one," I said. "And I've got Seaborn and his bank against the wall. Before it's over, they'll both be singing like Pavarotti."

"I never had anything to do with either one of them," Costello said. "I may have said h.e.l.lo once or twice."

"Oh, I get it. It's Save Costello's a.s.s Week, that's what we're talking about here? Okay, here are my terms. You give us Nance for murder and kidnapping, Cohen and his books for violation of the RICO acts, Chevos for smuggling and accessory to murder, and you become a friendly witness for the Fed. I'll see if maybe we can get you off with five to ten."

"Dream on," he said with a laugh. It was his last.

The chopper was bearing in, coming closer.

Whah, whah, whah, whah . . .

Christ, he thought, just like the old days.

The guards didn't even hear the boat until it b.u.mped the dock. He was ready.

"What the h.e.l.l's that?" one of them said. They both turned toward the boat.

The laser's red pinpoint settled over the heart of the first one. He still had his shotgun over his shoulder.

Brrddtttt.

He went down like an elephant stopped on him. The other one started to scramble. He didn't have time to yell; he made a dash for the trees. Stick squirreled a burst into the sidewalk, twenty meters in front of him. A dozen rounds whined off the walk and tore through his legs. He went down on his face. The second burst finished him.

Stick jumped ash.o.r.e and ran toward the house. He blitzed the two big lights as he ran. The chopper was getting louder but Stick was committed. He didn't need any air for this one. This one was a piece of cake. Piece of f.u.c.kin' cake.

He dropped behind a tree, twenty yards from the door to the main room, swung the M-16 up, and checked the kitchen and the living room one more time. Bronicata was leaning over a large pot, sipping something from a spoon. The other two were standing next to him.

The five were still in the living room, gabbing. No women, thank G.o.d.

He swung the M-16 around and launched a grenade into the center of the big room.

It happened fast.

Chevos opened the door and said, "There's a helicopter coming in from the bay, flying pretty low."

"Probably some businessman coming home late for dinner," Costello said.

I could see through the door into a bedroom. Nance was sitting on a large, round waterbed, holding an icepack against his jaw. Beyond that there was a large, high-ceilinged room with half a dozen or so goons, and beyond that the kitchen. Bronicata was cooking something. Just a nice domestic get-together. The boys' night out.

Suddenly the living room erupted in a garish orange flash. The explosion followed an instant later and blew the room to pieces.

After that, everything happened so fast, I remember it almost like a series of still pictures.

Sweetheart Pravano was lifted four feet off the ground and thrown against the wall. His face was gone.

Another hoodlum went out the back window head first as if he had been bounced off a trampoline.

Another fell to his knees in the middle of the room, clutching a b.l.o.o.d.y mess that had been his chest a moment before, and fell forward screaming, "Mother!"

Bits and pieces of furniture were thrown around the room like dust.

In the kitchen Bronicata was almost knocked into his soup pan.

The explosion blew Chevos' face forward into the room.

I grabbed Doe, twisted her around, and went to the floor on top of her.

Costello was knocked off his chair.

An M-16 started chattering.

Bronicata did a toe dance in the kitchen while his pots and pans exploded around him, then fell across the hot stove as if embracing it.

His two pals were slammed against the wall and riddled.

In the other room Nance whirled and dropped to his knees behind the bed.

Chevos was on his knees, a 32 in his fist, his gla.s.ses hanging from one ear, hissing like a snake.

Costello rolled over and shook his head.

The smell of gunpowder flooded the room.

Nance turned toward me, his smashed face curdled with hate, his Luger in his hand.

I dragged Doe to her feet and pushed her toward the far corner of the room, away from the doorway.

The Luger roared and I felt the round twirl through my arm and hit the wall beyond. I knocked Chevos' gla.s.ses off, grabbed his arm, and twisted him around, turning his gun hand down and away from his body.

The M-16 thunked again and the waterbed erupted. Geysers of water plumed up from it. Nance dove face down on the floor, huddling by the bed.

Costello pulled a 38 and leaped for the corner, grabbing at Doe.

I got the 32 away from Chevos, shoved him out of the way, jumped across the room, got a handful of Costello's jacket, and threw him against the other wall. It didn't stop him. His lips curled back and he swung the .38 up. I shot him twice in the chest. He fell back against the wall and dropped to his knees. The gun bounced out of his hand. His knuckles rested on the floor. He stared at my belt buckle; then his mouth went slack and dropped open.

The window beside me burst open. The drapes crashed down, and then I heard the dentist's drill, an inch from my ear, hum its tune.

Brrdddtttt.

So much for Chevos.

I stuffed a handkerchief inside my jacket. The bullet wound burned. I could smell the almond odor or a.r.s.enic. The Stick jumped through the window with the grace of a dancer, the 180 submachine gun in one hand, the M-16 in the other. He held a finger to his lips and pointed toward Nance's room.

We heard footsteps run across broken gla.s.s and debris and smash a window. Stick jammed the 180 under his arm, pulled a .357 out of his belt, tossed it to me, and dove through the doorway into the bedroom, the chattering 180 back in hand as he went.

"He's heading for the water," Stick yelled, and went over the windowsill and into a garden behind the place. "Stay with the girl. He's mine."

A shot whined between us and smacked the windowsill. Stick hunched down and took off in a crouch, jumping this way and that, threading his way through the trees. He didn't make a sound.

I went back into the other room. Doe was facing the wall with her hands over her face. I led her outside, to the side of the house away from the shooting.

"Stay right here, don't move," I said. "You'll be safer here. I've got to check the rest of the house."

She nodded but her eyes didn't like the idea.

I went back inside.

A quick check turned up ten bodies in the house. n.o.body had survived. The bomb, or whatever it was, and the burst from the M-16 right after it, had killed five gunmen in the living room and three in the kitchen.

There was a shot outside.

A m.u.f.fled burst of M-16 fire.

I checked the .357 and half ran, half stumbled out the back door. Another burst, down near the water.

I started after them.

Nance was out on the dock. He started to get aboard the yacht. I heard the pumf of the grenade launcher, and the back end of the yacht erupted. Nance was blown back onto the dock. He got to his feet, kept running away from Stick. The big luxury boat started to burn. In the light of the flames, I saw Nance scramble aboard a sailboat at the end of the dock, her sails furled loosely around the boom.

The Stick was hunched near the bowline. He moved away from me, toward the shadows on the far side of the sailboat. Then suddenly he leaped over its side.

His submachine gun was chattering.

Nance got off three shots before he started his dance. He went up on his toes, spun around, slapping his body as if bugs were biting him. His hands flew over his head, and he fell backward onto the deck like a side of beef. One foot kicked halfheartedly and he went limp.

I picked up the M-16 and ran out onto the dock. The Stick was walking awkwardly toward the stern, where Nance was lying.