"Because they're killers. And once you get on the wrong side of killers-and trust me, we're both on their wrong side-the only way to deal with them is to get them before they get you. If you don't, I guarantee you'll regret it. Because someday they'll find you-maybe by accident, maybe on purpose, but someday your paths could cross and then they'll snuff you out without hesitation. Or at least they'll try to."

Jack's casual, matter-of-fact tone chilled her.

What have I got myself into?

"Here they come," he said.

Alicia looked and saw two figures charging out the front door. She recoiled when he grabbed her arm, but he held her firmly.

"This way," Jack said. "And stay low."

In a crouch, he guided her to the car and carefully opened the driver side door. The courtesy lights stayed off-now she understood why he'd jammed the b.u.t.ton with a toothpick. He motioned her in ahead of him.

"Crawl across and keep your head down," he whispered.

He got in beside her and eased the door shut. He inserted the key in the ignition but didn't turn it. Instead he leaned close to her and stared at the house.

"Now... watch. Won't be long."

Fighting panic, Kemel crouched by the flat rear tire of the rusting truck in the front yard and watched the house. The mercenary he'd followed here huddled beside him.

How could so many things go wrong in one evening? How was it possible?

Earlier he had been upset, especially after learning that two of the guards had been killed. Two corpses could lead the police directly to Kemel, and thus to Iswid Nahr. He would be humiliated before Khalid Nazer. Baker had said he would make the corpses "disappear," but how much of that was bravado?

Perhaps none. Kemel had to admit that he had been quite impressed with the way Baker handled his men. They seemed well trained and responded with military precision to his commands. And he'd had the foresight to plant a tracer on the Clayton woman.

Baker was rising in his estimation. If only he weren't so headstrong...

But then the situation had rapidly deteriorated. One dead, another pinned in the house like an animal in a trap, and the house ready to explode in a few seconds.

And where was Baker now? Why was he still in the house? Was he trying to defuse the bomb?

Suddenly the mercenary who had been trapped, the one they called Briggs, burst through the front doorway closely followed by Baker and a redheaded mercenary.

Briggs ran toward the pickup while Baker and the other flattened themselves in the gra.s.s. Kemel ducked and held his ears.

A second later he faintly heard a retort-sharp, quick, like a shot.

After waiting a few more heartbeats and hearing no explosion, Kemel cautiously raised his head enough to see over the pickup's rear cargo bed. He saw Briggs standing on the far side, holding his b.l.o.o.d.y arm.

"You sons of b.i.t.c.hes!" Briggs shouted. "You lousy f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! You left me in there to be blown to h.e.l.l and the only thing that exploded was a firecracker!"

"What?" said the mercenary beside Kemel as he rose to his feet.

"That's right, Toro!" Briggs screamed as he staggered toward them. "A f.u.c.king M-80! And look at you a.s.sholes hiding behind that truck like the yellow-bellied rats you are!"

One of the mercenaries who had been guarding the rear of the house ran up to the truck.

"What the h.e.l.l's going on?" He stared at Briggs's b.l.o.o.d.y arm. "What happened to you?"

"You want to know?" Briggs said. "Toro, tell DeMartini how you-"

"Run!"

Kemel glanced toward the house and saw Baker on his feet, backpedaling and pulling the redheaded mercenary around to the side of the house.

"Get away from the truck!"

The other three mercenaries weren't paying attention, but Kemel decided if Baker was running, so would he-as fast as he could.

"Yeah!" Briggs shouted behind him as Kemel turned and sprinted away. "Run! You yellow-bellied Arab rat! Run before I-"

The explosion caught Kemel by surprise. One moment he was running, the next he was flying, as if a giant hand had slammed against his back and hurled him through the air. The night was full of sound and light and flying metal.

Kemel landed and rolled and stayed down, lying flat with his arms over his head, pressing himself into the cold hard earth.

And then it was over.

Kemel shook his head as he rolled over and rose to his knees. He could barely hear through the high-pitched hum that filled his head. He looked around and saw burning bits of wreckage strewn about the yard. The mercenary who had been behind the truck with him was a still dark form on the lawn. He was sure the wounded Briggs and the one called DeMartini were in a similar state on the other side of the smoking hulk.

But someone was moving. Baker... returning from the side of the house, shaking his fists at the night. Kemel could see the rage in his face, and knew from his wide-open mouth and the bulging cords in his neck that he was screaming into the night.

But Kemel could not hear him. And he was glad of it.

He looked back to the road and noticed that the white car they'd followed here was gone.

Kemel lowered his head and prayed. It was that or burst into tears.

Yoshio found himself laughing aloud as he watched from his car.

Tonight had been a thing of beauty. When he had heard shots from within the house, he had a.s.sumed the worst: That Muhallal and his hirelings had killed the Clayton woman's ronin ronin. But when Yoshio had seen figures hurrying from the house and taking up position behind the wrecked truck in the front yard, he had expected a firefight to follow.

But how could there be a firefight when Alicia Clayton and the ronin ronin were slipping into their car across the street? were slipping into their car across the street?

The explosion had made everything clear. A small explosion-or the impending threat of a larger one-had driven everyone from the house to the supposed safety of the outdoors. And what better place to shield one's self from flying debris than behind the oh-so-conveniently located truck rusting in the front yard?

But the house was not rigged to explode. Why destroy a perfectly good house when you can drive out invaders with a fake bomb and induce them to cl.u.s.ter around the real bomb?

And as the debris from the derelict truck was still flying though the air, the ronin's ronin's white car had begun moving, rolling down the street with its lights out. Slipping away into the night. white car had begun moving, rolling down the street with its lights out. Slipping away into the night.

Yoshio clapped his hands. So simple. So elegant. Bravo, ronin-san! ronin-san!

Fortunately, Muhallal had survived. Yoshio wanted the Arab alive. He was the only one besides the Clayton brother who knew why the Clayton house was so valuable.

He watched Baker rage at the night as the remaining man he had sent to guard the rear raced back to the front yard. Yoshio rolled down his window to hear what Baker was screaming.

"Who is is this guy? I want him! I this guy? I want him! I want want him! Who are you, you f.u.c.ker? Show yourself! Let's do it! You and me! That's all! No tricks! Just you and me!" Baker's voice rose to a screech. "Who the f.u.c.k him! Who are you, you f.u.c.ker? Show yourself! Let's do it! You and me! That's all! No tricks! Just you and me!" Baker's voice rose to a screech. "Who the f.u.c.k are are you?" you?"

Good question, Yoshio thought. Who is this ronin! ronin!

Obviously, he was more than mere hired muscle. He was a man who was comfortable with violence but used it judiciously, and with style. He was a man experienced in his line of work and intended to stay in it for the long run-as witness this skillfully b.o.o.by-trapped house. The house told Yoshio that the ronin ronin planned far ahead and might well be prepared for almost any eventuality. planned far ahead and might well be prepared for almost any eventuality.

Which meant Yoshio would have to be especially cautious in his next move.

For Yoshio was determined to meet the ronin ronin before Muhallal and Baker, by some blind luck, blundered into him and killed him. Yoshio was sure the before Muhallal and Baker, by some blind luck, blundered into him and killed him. Yoshio was sure the ronin ronin knew something, had learned something in that house. knew something, had learned something in that house.

He resisted the urge to gun his engine and follow him. He calculated the risks and decided it unwise to drive past the house right now. Baker or one of his thugs might empty a clip or two from their a.s.sault pistols at him. He had little faith in their accuracy, but a lucky slug might pierce his gas tank or-worse yet-pierce him.

No, he would catch up to them back in Manhattan.

Then he he would learn what those two had discovered in the Clayton house. would learn what those two had discovered in the Clayton house.

"Really, Jack," Alicia said. "I want to go home."

Or at least get out of the car. She felt queasy.

Instead of heading back to the city, Jack had continued east, racing toward the tip of Long Island. He'd taken them into the Hamptons, and then turned north until they'd come to the quaint houses and deserted marinas of Sag Harbor. Now they were pulling into the parking lot of something called the Surfside Inn. Alicia knew there was no surf in Sag Harbor; in fact, this crummy-looking motel wasn't even near the water.

"We can't risk heading back to the city," Jack said. "They're hurting, but I don't know what kind of reserves that Arab's got. He could have spotters waiting out on the highways, looking to follow us back home. So I say, let's take the long way home."

"All right, let's." She just wanted tonight to be over. "So why are we stopping here?"

"To spend the night." He held up his hand before she could speak. "Trust me. We head back in the morning, no one will find us. We try it tonight, there could be more rough stuff."

d.a.m.n him, she thought. He knows exactly what to say. The last thing she wanted was more violence.

"All right," she said, surrendering. "But can't we find a better place than this?"

"We're not exactly in season," Jack said. "This place is open, it's got its 'Vacancy' sign lit, and we'll only be here half a dozen hours or so. And best of all, its parking lot isn't visible from the road. Wait here."

Before she could object, he was out of the car and heading toward the office.

Alicia closed her eyes, trying to blank her mind. This was all a nightmare. None of this had happened. Soon she'd wake up and find it all had been an ugly dream.

She jumped at the sound of a tap on the window: Jack-holding up a key and motioning her toward a row of doors to the left of the car. With a groan, she got out and followed him. Her limbs dragged... her marrow had turned to lead.

Jack opened a door marked "17" and held it open for her. As she stepped inside, he followed and closed the door behind him.

Slightly better decorated than Jack's "country place," but just as mildewy. Flowered drapes matched the spreads on the two double beds, but not the rug.

"Which do you want?" Jack said.

"Which what?"

"Which bed."

"You've got to be kidding," she said. "We're sharing a room? Look, things maybe be tight, but I can spring for-"

"Money's got nothing to do with it. It's the safest way." He pointed to the beds again. "So, which one?"

Alicia pointed to the one nearer the bathroom. G.o.d, she wanted a shower-she craved craved a shower-but she had no clean clothes to change into, so what was the use? a shower-but she had no clean clothes to change into, so what was the use?

"That one."

"All right," he said, sitting and bouncing on the other. "Then this one's mine." He lowered his voice to a Charlton Heston baritone. "But let's get something straight, young lady: I know you're mad crazy about me, but I don't want you getting any ideas."

He's trying to rea.s.sure me, she thought, and had to smile. "Somehow I'll manage to restrain myself."

"Good," he said. "Because I'm taken."

Alicia sensed he wasn't kidding about that last part. She watched Jack a moment, trying to sort out her feelings for this man. So much about him terrified her... he was a deadly, murderous creature-how many men had he killed tonight? Yet here she was sharing a motel room with him and not only believing him when he said he was taken, but almost envying the woman who had won his heart.

I can't deal with this right now, she thought as she headed for her bed. I need sleep, a break, time out.

Too much had happened tonight. Returning to that house, seeing her old room, that man's room, then the murders in the backyard... that had been more than enough. But then that small army chasing them, the shots, the screams, that truck exploding, lighting up the night...

Alicia felt as if she were enveloped in a gelatinous fog, moving in slow motion toward that bed, that glorious bed.

Too much... too much... circuit overload circuit overload... need downtime need downtime...

Finally she reached the bed. She pulled back the spread and crawled between the sheets.

"Good night," she said, and pulled the covers over her head.

Silence... and darkness... blessed darkness...

"Good night," Jack said, watching Alicia curl into a lump under the covers.

A weird one, all right. But then, everything named Clayton seemed to be weird in some way.

Now what? he wondered. He should take a cue from Alicia and sack out, but he was too wired to sleep. The key... where did it fit? And that d.a.m.n little Land Rover... something about its persistence in trying to get to the front yard of the Clayton house nagged at him.

Jack got up and headed for the door. He unlocked the Chevy, plucked the little truck from the backseat, and carried it to the middle of the parking lot.

"All right, Mr. Rover," he said, pushing the on switch, "let's see where you want to go now."

He placed it on the pavement, facing in the direction he a.s.sumed to be east, and let her go. The little truck raced away and almost immediately veered to the left. Jack expected it to wheel into a U-turn and head back toward him, but it came only three quarters of the way around, then angled away across the lot.

Jack raced after it and grabbed it before it ran under a parked Accord.

The truck should have headed due west, back toward the Clayton house-or rather, toward its front yard. Did he have his directions screwed up?

He scanned the stars. Good thing it was a cold, clear winter night. He traced the Big Dipper, ran a line up from the leading edge of its cup, and found Polaris. Okay. That was north.

He backed up to his original spot, pointed the truck east... and d.a.m.n if it didn't make a beeline for that same Accord.

He found Polaris again. Back in Murray Hill, the truck had insisted on heading uptown-due north... toward the front yard, he'd a.s.sumed. But now it wanted to travel northwest... away from the front yard.