"If she smells that on your breath, when you're working, she could fire you," Dannon said.

"Ah, she's so loaded she couldn't tell that she wasn't smelling her own breath," Carver said. He was a large man, thick through the chest and hips. A small head, with closely cropped brown hair, made his shoulders look especially wide. He had a 9mm Glock tucked into a belt holster in the small of his back, and, because he was slightly psycho, a little .380 auto in an ankle holster.

Dannon was less psycho, and carried only a single gun, a .40-caliber Heckler & Koch, butt-backwards in a cross-draw holster on his left hip. Of course, he also carried a Bratton fighting knife with a seven-inch serrated blade guaranteed to cut through bone, tendon, and ligament, on the theory that you should never bring a fist to a knife fight.

"Look at the ass on that bitch," Carver said, sipping at the Reserve.

"I don't want to hear that," Dannon said.

"'Cause you're totally pussy-whipped," Carver said, watching the billion-dollar woman arching her back, thrusting her breasts toward them, as she pulled the blue-striped pool towel across her back. "Though it is a pretty sweet billet. Kinda boring, though. Other than the fact we get to watch her rubbing her tits."

"Plenty of jobs outta Lagos," Dannon said, watching Taryn through the glass.

"Fuck Lagos. The goddamn Africans got gun guys coming out of their ass. They don't need me around."

"I knew this guy from Angola, black as a lump of coal," Dannon said. "Smart guy. Hired into the Bubble as a security guard. The first day he's there, some asshole raghead points his taxi at the Haleb gate ..."

More been-there-done-that Baghdad bullshit, but Carver listened closely, because he liked war stories. In this job, so far, there hadn't been much to do but remember the Glory Days and collect the paycheck. Before he'd gotten kicked out of the army, he got to carry the SAW, the squad automatic weapon. It was twenty-two pounds of black death, loaded, and took a horse to carry. He was the horse, and happy about it.

OUT IN THE ENCLOSED pool, Taryn Grant finished drying herself and pulled on a robe. Carver was right: she was drunk, Dannon thought. She'd always taken a drink, and this night, at a campaign stop in a Minneapolis penthouse, she'd taken at least three, and maybe more, and two more back at the house, before she went for her swim; and she'd taken a drink with her, to the pool.

He'd talked to her about it, and she'd told him to shut up. She could handle it, she said. Maybe she could. In Dannon's experience, alcoholism was the easiest of the addictions to control. Look at Carver, for example.

TARYN WAS PICKING UP a pack of magazines when the front gate dinged at them, then a quick, more urgent buzzzzz. Somebody had hopped the gate.

Dannon snapped at Carver, "Get the camera. I'm on the door."

He started toward the front door, and as he went, pushed the walkie-talkie function on his phone. Taryn's phone buzzed at her and didn't stop, a deliberately annoying noise, impossible to ignore. She picked it up and asked, "What?"

"Somebody's inside, on the lawn, hopped the gate," Dannon said. He pulled his gun. "Get in here with the dogs and stay on the phone."

"I'm coming," she said. This is why she had security.

Carver was on the same walkie-talkie system, and said, looking at the video displays in the monitoring room, "Okay, one guy, big guy, coming up the walk. He's not lost, he's walking fast. Wearing a suit and tie. Hands are empty."

"I'm inside, locking the doors," Taryn said.

"Guy's at the door," Carver said. "I don't know him."

The doorbell rang and Dannon popped the door, gun in his hand; looked at the man's face and said, "Ah, shit."

"Hello, mystery man."

TARYN HAD BEGUN DOING research for her Senate run two years earlier. She did the research herself-narcissistic personality disorder aside, she was a brilliant researcher, both by training and inclination. Much of the research involved selection of campaign staff, from campaign manager on down. She shared the research with Dannon, whose personal loyalty she trusted, because Dannon was in love with her.

Because of that loyalty, and because of his history as an intelligence officer, she'd had him set up the shadow campaign staff-spies-to keep an eye on her opponent, Smalls. He'd also identified other possible assets: among them, Bob Tubbs.

Tubbs was a longtime Democratic political operative, and had been considered for a staff job with the regular campaign, to be eventually rejected. "He's been involved in some unsavory election stuff, so I want to keep our distance," Taryn told Dannon. "But also, it's good to keep him on the outside, in case we need somebody on the outside ... somebody who could handle something unsavory."

The regular campaign staff, including the regular campaign manager, had no idea that the shadow staff existed.

When it had appeared that Taryn would lose despite a good, solid campaign, Dannon had met with Tubbs to discuss other possibilities. He hadn't identified himself, except as "Mr. Smith ... or Jones, take your pick."

Tubbs probably wouldn't have talked to him, if it hadn't been for the 25K in the paper bag, and the promise of another twenty-five thousand dollars if Tubbs found a solution to the problem.

Tubbs hadn't even needed time to think about it. "Porter Smalls has a history of sexual entanglements," he'd told Dannon at that first meeting. Then he'd told him how that might be exploited. And that he'd need a hundred thousand dollars to pull it off. "It's dangerous. People have to be paid," Tubbs had said.

They met twice more: Dannon had demanded details, and names. At the last meeting, he'd handed over the other seventy-five thousand.

"Time is getting short," he'd told Tubbs. "By the way-we expect results. We are not people to be fucked with."

"You'll get them," Tubbs had said. "We're already rolling."

TUBBS WAS A POLITICAL.

And this one time, a blackmailer.

As he walked toward Taryn Grant's door, a rippling chill crawled up Tubbs's back. He was about to commit a felony, blackmail, real blackmail, not for the first time in his life, but never before like this: the payout would be life-changing. A man had to take care of his own retirement funding, these days. Not that another felony would be a problem, if he got caught. He was already in it, up to his ears.

He reached out and rang Taryn Grant's doorbell. He knew she was home, because he knew her schedule.

The door popped open, and,

Surprise!

"Ah, shit," said the man inside.

"Hello, mystery man," Tubbs said.

TARYN GRANT WAS THERE with her two security men, in a robe, her hair still damp from the swim.

Tubbs said, "Look, I'll tell you right up front. You saw what happened this morning. And I realized, my political life could be over. They could figure this out. I'm willing to go down for it and to keep my mouth shut, but I need a little more cash. I need to fund my retirement."

Taryn asked, through gritted teeth, "How much?"

"You've got more money than Jesus Christ," Tubbs said. "I'd like ... a million. That's what I want. I swear to you, if there's a fall coming, I'll take it. And I'll never come back for another nickel."

"Fuck you," Taryn said. The snap in her voice caught the attention of the dogs, whose ears came forward, their noses pointed at Tubbs.