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anything in the surface that tips me off to Davidson s arrival. I would ve joined your little band of
mercenaries just to get out of this damn cold.
Aren t your bones supposed to be made out of ice?
If they were, it s all been melted away and replaced with sand and margaritas.
Sounds uncomfortable. I check my watch. The exchange is supposed to be happening right now
and my government contact is late. Has Rodrigo checked in yet? I sent Rodrigo back for what was
left of Garcia s body. If it was safe, he could pick up Rose for Ava s sake. After Duval s death, it
looked like Pucallpa emptied out pretty damn quick.
Not since you asked me five minutes ago, Norse replies with deceptive laziness. He s just as
keyed up as I am. The death of Garcia has hit us all hard. I m anxious and Norse is cracking jokes
about his balls, but it s all a disguise for our gut-sick feelings of loss.
A lot of the men that come to the island are there because they want to forget. In the sand and sun,
it s easy to pretend that there aren t any worries. Make that easier. You can t ever fully let go of the
past. All those gaps in your life are carved out by a rough, dull blade, and they don t ever heal over
properly.
Norse knows that as well as any. His perfect Viking visage and easy smile masks a hell of a past.
But I keep his secrets as I keep the secrets of everyone who is on the island. It s why Ava doesn t
belong there. Her life is wide open, full of pretty things and pretty smiles. She doesn t need or want
to be surrounded by a bunch of hard-ass mercenaries and run-down whores.
How do you think Davidson is going to take the news? Norse asks.
About Garcia? Davidson s handler had given us a couple of choices the National Mall, a
coffeehouse near the Pentagon, and an airport hangar. All of those seemed like a perfect place for
them to execute us and run off with the goods. I told them the exchange would happen in broad
daylight at the Air and Space Museum. We might not have been able to bring in our weapons, but
there s no way that they can kill us here without creating a massive unexplainable incident. About as
well as you think.
Right. He grimaces.
That s why he doesn t get a gun until we are on our way back.
Right. You going to tell him about Ava?
I pin Norse s ears back with a glare. Not her fault, man. She is responsible for getting us this
information. Without it we wouldn t have a donkey s chance in hell of getting Davidson back.
There is no question in my mind that had we failed, Davidson would ve gotten a bullet to his
brain. Garcia s death is mine alone to own. He was my man and those blows are mine to take, but
we ll all mourn him.
Maybe we should stop in Miami? Get him laid, liquored up before we let him loose on the
island.
Your call. If Ava was waiting for me, I would ve said fuck that noise and been on the first plane
home. But she s not waiting. I ve given Bennito instructions to charter her out of there at her first
request whenever she feels ready. I m not sure whether I want her to be gone when I get back.
Don t want to get back home? Norse eyes me appraisingly.
Nothing there for me, I manage to lie with a straight face. Truth is, if Ava s gone, I might have to
head to New York City. Even if she doesn t want me there, it d be enough just to be near her. To see
her on the street. To watch her from afar and know that she s safe.
She s it for me, even if I m not it for her.
Norse s raised eyebrow indicates that he doesn t believe me for a second, but the time for more
questions is over. Incoming, I murmur.
Norse straightens and his hand goes into his jacket. We share a grimace when he comes up empty.
Not being armed is hard on us.
Davidson looks good. Pale, as if he hasn t seen the sun in three weeks, but he s walking without a
limp and has no visible wounds.
On either side of him walk a pair of khaki-clad goons wearing windbreakers. I don t make the
mistake of believing that they are unarmed like Norse and me. The guy on the left is wearing a
Nationals hat. He s my contact, I mention quietly to Norse. He nods and slips to the side, making
sure that Davidson s two guards have to split up to keep an eye on us.
Rafe, good to see you. Agent Parker holds out his hand and flashes a wide, fake grin. Parker is a
hair under six feet, the top of his head coming up to my eyes. He s a wiry guy more wrestler than
bruiser. He d be no match for either Davidson or me.
Good to see you too, Parker. His eyes widen in surprise that I know his name. Yeah, I know
your name, the blonde you like seeing on Tuesdays that your wife doesn t know about, and the woman
you took to bed last night who is neither blond nor your wife. I might hate spy shit, but you should
know that your government came to me because there isn t a mission that exists that I can t carry out,
including finding out everything about your punk-ass self down to the fact you like to eat ice cream
with a fork.
That shit is weird, Davidson pipes up from beside Parker.
I grip his outstretched hand and pull him toward me. A couple of hard slaps on the back reveals
the holster hanging under his left arm. With a strong arm around his back, I hold him tight against me
with one hand and slip the gun out of the holster with the other. Davidson steps close and takes the
weapon from me, slipping it under his shirt. I stick the receiver, USB sticks, and the roll of papers
into the holster. Davidson steps back, does the hand-off to Parker, and then we re done.
Almost.
When we turn to leave, I don t. I shove Agent Parker backward, a hard steel-booted toe on his soft
leather one. He doesn t go far.
We re going now, I inform him. He gasps like a beached fish, his mouth opening and closing
without saying any real words. You ve got what you wanted.
With a nod to Davidson, we start toward the entrance, when Parker grabs my arm. Did you read
the information?
We re not paid for that, are we? He shakes his head. I give him a little pat on the side of his
face, the anger toward Garcia s death making me a little reckless. Then take your motherfucking
hand off me before I rip it off.
" " "
Davidson waits until we are clear of the museum and at the edge of the National Mall before he asks,
Where s Garcia?
The bleak expression in his eyes shows he knows already. He is just waiting for confirmation.
Didn t make it out of Peru, I say brusquely. We took gunfire in the middle of the night. Sniper
had night-vision goggles. We had none. Garcia had planned for every contingency but that one.
What were you chasing after?
A hit list. It s a list of people that heads of state have had killed for the last few years.
Jesus. Davidson shakes his head. He turns away to stare out at the glass-like surface of the
reflection pool. Don t suppose you d be okay with me going back and beating the ever-loving shit
out of those federal agents?
Nope. I wonder what memories Davidson is seeing in the water. The three of us getting
shitfaced in Berlin after taking out a terrorist cell or the time when we were in Thailand dragging
Garcia out of a lady-boy brothel. Or maybe it was all the way back when we were prisoners in the
desert, left to die and determined that if we ever made it to safety, we were going to be the captains of
our own destinies. I roll around the last memory I have of Garcia the one where he tells me of his
lost love and that he s ready to be with her again. I offer that small solace to Davidson. He told me
he was ready to go. That the Tears of God held no comfort for him.
Still seemingly mesmerized by the water, Davidson answers, The girl, right?
I nod in confirmation but Norse, who doesn t know Garcia s story, interjects, What girl? Ava?
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