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“I love you, Daddy,” his angel whispered in his ear.

  He squeezed her bare shoulder.

  “Enough being with your old father. Go with your friends now,” he said. “Enjoy yourself. You are a young woman now. This is your day.”

  Salinas watched his daughter walk away, then headed toward his ranch manager, standing at the edge of the dance floor. His name was Tomás, and, like all the staff on the ranch, he was a local Tarahumara Indian. Tomás and the entire staff, from the security to the waiters to the members of the three mariachi bands, were wearing bright-white linen uniforms purchased solely for the occasion. No expense had been spared today.

  “Please inform my partners that they are to join me in the billiards room, won’t you, Tomás? Tell them to come alone. No security. This is my daughter’s day, and this meeting is to be as quick and discreet as possible.”

  Tomás nodded and smiled, his crooked teeth very white in his dark-brown, lean face.

  “Just as you say, sir,” Tomás said. It was what his loyal employee always said. “Would you like a drink first?”

  “No, please,” Salinas said. “With all this ceremony, I’ve needed to take a piss for about an hour. But have some refreshments brought into the billiards room, if you would.”

  “They’re already there, sir,” Tomás said with a nod.

  Salinas patted his manager on the back.

  “Of course they are, Tomás. How could I have doubted it for a moment?”

  Salinas sighed as he went into the air-conditioned house. Glancing to his right, he spotted the reason he had built the house, at an enormous expense, up here in the middle of nowhere.

  The view of the Copper Canyon through his immense bay window had to be one of the most spectacular sights in all of Mexico, if not the world. His favorite aspect of the majestic vista was just a little bit off center, the thin, silver sliver of an eight-hundred-foot waterfall spilling down the face of one of the sheer canyon walls. He loved this house, this view. It was like living in an airplane.

  He ducked into the hall bathroom outside the billiards room to relieve himself. He smiled and winked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he worked his zipper. What a day!

  He was just about to urinate when he heard the distinct click of a billard ball. He zipped back up and went out and poked his head inside the billiards room. Unbelievable. A man in white linen, a staff member fucking off, no doubt, was bent at the table, about to take another shot. On the large-screen TV above the bar, a soccer match was playing with the sound off.

  “Hey, you there! Asshole!” Salinas barked.

  The man remained bent, surveying the lay of the balls before him. Was he deaf!?

  “Are you having fun? Who the fuck do you think you are? Get your ass back to work before I break your legs with that cue.”

  Still, slowly and insolently, the man took his shot. The cue ball cracked into the eight, sinking it effortlessly. Then the man turned. Teodoro’s eyes went wide. It took everything he had to keep his full bladder under control.

  Because it wasn’t a staff member.

  It was Manuel Perrine.

  “Oh, but, Teodoro. I am at work,” Perrine said, chalking his cue. “Isn’t that right, Tomás?”

  Salinas felt something hard tap at the base of his head. It was the bore of a shotgun, pressed against his brain stem. Salinas suddenly felt like he was tumbling inside, a sudden free fall through the core of himself.

  “Just as you say, sir,” Tomás said, pushing Salinas into the room and locking the door.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE MARIACHI BANDS WERE resting and a DJ was playing some American dance music when the loud thump came from the stage. The music stopped immediately as a microphone squawk echoed throughout the tent.

  As the crowd in attendance looked up from their plates, they could see that the entire staff of white-linen-clad Indians was now holding automatic rifles. The Tarahumaras went amid the crowd, knocking over tables, slapping people, sticking guns in faces.

  The security men of the multiple drug dealers in attendance were quickly disarmed and handcuffed. Tables were moved aside, and all the chairs were lined up, like at an assembly. The gunmen sat the people back down roughly, threatening to kill on the spot anyone and everyone dumb enough to make the slightest move.

  A moment later, Manuel Perrine walked out onto the stage, holding a microphone.

  “Hello, friends,” Perrine said in his most elegant Spanish, smiling hugely. “To those of you who know me, I can hardly articulate how pleasant it is to see you again. To those of you who are unfamiliar to me, let me say what a truly wonderful time this is for us to get acquainted.”

  He put his hand to his ear as he stared out at the pale, scared faces.

  “What? No applause?” he said.

  Some clapping started.

  “Come, now. This is a party, is it not? You can do better than that.”

  The clapping increased.

  “There you go. You did miss me. How touching. Now, at the risk of breaking protocol here at this beautiful quinceañera celebration, I would like to make a few announcements about another coming-of-age here today. The coming of the age of Manuel Perrine and Los Salvajes.”

  A terrified murmur passed through the crowd as Teodoro Salinas and the two other leaders of his cartel were brought into the tent from the house. Salinas had a black eye. All three had their wrists bound behind them.

  Three chairs were set at the edge of the stage, and the three men were seated with their backs to the crowd.

  “Now, without further ado, the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” Perrine said as one of the Tarahumaras handed him something long and thin.

  The sickle-shaped, razor-sharp machete Perrine held up for the crowd to see had been his father’s cane knife. The antique blade was beautifully weighted behind the cutting side, like a golf club, and had the manufacturer’s stamp engraved in the blade, above the handle: COLLINS AXE COMPANY, CONNECTICUT, USA.

  They just don’t make ’em like this anymore, Perrine thought, hefting it lovingly.

  The first man he stepped before was Salinas’s second-in-command. The man had actually undone his binding, and he threw his hands up protectively as Perrine swung. No matter. The blade sliced the man’s arm off neatly midway between his wrist and elbow and buried itself deep in the man’s collarbone.

  Several women in the crowd fainted as the man screamed, blood spurting as he waved around his amputated stump. Perrine, after two tugs, finally worked the blade free. Then he stepped back and swung.

  There. Much better, Perrine thought as the man’s cleanly severed head rolled off his shoulders and off the stage.

  That was when the second man kicked himself off the stage. It was the plaza boss, who actually thought he could take over Perrine’s turf in Río Bravo. He managed to make it halfway across the dance floor before Perrine nodded to Tomás. Half a dozen automatic rifles cracked at once, cutting the man down. He slid across the dance floor in a thick trail of blood, followed by his Bally shoes.

  Perrine had to tip his hat to Teodoro Salinas. The man didn’t flinch in the slightest as both of his partners lost their lives. The big, handsome man looked like he might have been waiting for a bus as Perrine stepped forward. Perrine nodded respectfully, then swung and took the elegant host’s head off with one swipe.

  As his enemies bled out, Perrine turned toward the crowd. His face was covered in blood, his linen uniform, the blade of the cane knife. The women who were still conscious were completely hysterical, the sound of their babbling moans like that of people speaking in tongues.

  Perrine lifted the fallen microphone.

  “Please. I know all this is shocking, ladies and gentlemen, but facts must be faced,” Perrine said, waving the dripping cane knife for emphasis. “These men thought I was defeated. They thought because I was in hiding that I was no longer valid. That they could take what was mine.”

  He turned and looked at the dead men behind him and s
miled.

  “Has anyone ever thought more wrongly? I cannot be defeated. I cannot even be diminished. The good news is, you are not as obstinate as these here, whom I have been forced to punish. The good news is that now, with the last of our detractors eliminated, we are one.”

  Perrine smiled.

  “Don’t you understand? We all work for Los Salvajes now. We have ambitions that transcend mere Mexico. In the next few weeks, you will see what I am talking about. I know this is a sad moment. You see this now as butchery, I can tell.

  “But soon, you will change your mind. Soon, you will see the opportunity I have given you. You will come to realize this isn’t the end but the beginning, and you lucky few are being let in on the ground floor.”

  Perrine checked his Rolex.

  “Does anyone have any questions? Comments?”

  He looked around. Not surprisingly, the only hand he saw was at the end of the disembodied arm lying at his feet.

  “Excellent. All relevant parties will be contacted in the next few days with instructions,” Perrine said. “You are all free to go now. Have a nice day.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, WE’D just done the milking at Cody’s and were getting out of the vehicles back at our place when we saw dust rising in the distance to the north. By the main road, a light-blue sedan I didn’t recognize was approaching slowly.

  Immediately, I could feel my heart start to pound. Despite our new, peaceful rural existence, I hadn’t forgotten our situation for one second. Besides the mailman, we’d had exactly no visitors at all.

  “Guys, inside, now. Seamus, Mary Catherine, go get them,” I said immediately.

  “Yeah?” Seamus said, looking at me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m not kidding. Go help Mary Catherine now.”

  All the kids quickly went into the house. A moment later, Seamus and Mary Catherine came back out. Seamus was holding a shotgun, while Mary Catherine had two guns strapped over her shoulder. Then the door opened again, and Juliana and Brian came out, holding shotguns as well.

  It didn’t thrill me to see my young teenage kids standing there holding firearms, but it was what it was. Teaching the older kids how to use a gun was a thoroughly necessary evil. Because the thing was, Perrine really, really didn’t like me. Not only had I broken his nose when I arrested him, but I’d actually killed his homicidal wife in a raid.

  If the ruthless drug lord ever found out where we were, there was no way he would stop at killing just me. My children needed to be able to defend themselves.

  Mary Catherine came down the porch steps and handed me the 30.06 deer rifle.

  I quickly put it to my shoulder and peered through its telescopic sight at the car. It was a Ford Taurus. The driver seemed to be the only person in it. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a woman.

  The car disappeared briefly as it drove down alongside a small ridge below the house. When it reappeared, it was close enough for me to see the driver’s face.

  I squinted again through the rifle before I lowered it. I stood there, blinking, as I watched the car come. I actually knew who it was.

  “What’s up, Mike?” Seamus said.

  “It’s OK. Put the guns back into the cabinet. It’s OK. We’re safe.”

  “Who is it?” Mary Catherine said as the car pulled into the driveway. Before I could answer, the sedan stopped and its door opened, and a woman got out. My old pal and partner, Special Agent Emily Parker from the FBI, took off her sunglasses and smiled as she stared back at everyone glaring at her.

  “Hi, Mike. Hi, Mary Catherine. Hi, Seamus,” the FBI agent said. “Long time no see. So this is where you have been hiding yourselves.”

  CHAPTER 9

  MARY CATHERINE PROMPTLY LEFT Mike and Special Agent Parker outside and went in to put on coffee.

  After she locked up the shotguns in the front-hall gun cabinet, she went into the kitchen and washed out the coffee filter and threw in several scoops of Folgers. As she placed some scones in the oven to warm them, she heard a sudden commotion coming from the family room.

  When she walked in, everyone was yelling and laughing as Ricky and Fiona flung each other around the room in an epic tug-of-war over the TV remote. The volume on an inanely cackling SpongeBob SquarePants episode rose and fell as they went sprawling onto the couch. Mary Catherine crossed the room and immediately turned off the blaring set.

  “Out!” she said, snatching the remote and pointing it at the back door. “The lot of ya. No more TV. No more video games. I don’t want to see hide nor hair of any of you in this house for the next hour, at least. I know your father ordered you inside, but this is ridiculous. The shame of it, to be in here like a tribe of screaming baboons, wrestling while your father is out there with a guest. Now get going out that back door!”

  After they left, Mary Catherine tidied up the living room and went to the front door to see what was taking Mike so long. Mike and Agent Parker were still out by the car, talking. She folded her arms as she stood at the screen door, watching them.

  Mary Catherine had met Emily Parker before, when Mike had worked with her on other cases, back in New York. She could see that the agent’s coppery auburn hair was as thick and lustrous as ever as the wind tossed it around. Mary Catherine looked the agent over meticulously. She was so stylishly out of place in the farmhouse side yard, in her heels and nice office clothes. Then Mary Catherine looked down at herself, her hoodie, her old jeans.

  “Coffee’s ready,” she finally called through the screen door.

  Parker went into the powder room to freshen up as Mike came into the kitchen.

  “Hey, something smells good,” he said.

  “Scones,” Mary Catherine said as she split one with a butcher knife. “Fresh from the oven. So, what’s the story with your FBI friend? Is something up?”

  “I’m not sure yet. She said she needs to talk to me about a case,” Mike said, taking a bite of a scone.

  “Are the phones down or something?” Mary Catherine said.

  Mike shrugged as he chewed, a puzzled look on his face like he actually wasn’t sure what was going on. But Mary Catherine knew Mike. He was a bad liar. Playing dumb was definitely not his forte. Something was going on. Something bad. As if they needed that now. As if they needed more turmoil.

  “Well, I’ve put on coffee for you two,” Mary Catherine said, heading for the back door. “The kids are all outside, so you’ll have the place to yourselves.”

  “Oh. Thanks for going to all the trouble, Mary Catherine,” Mike said. “This looks great. I appreciate it.”

  “No trouble at all,” Mary Catherine said quietly as she turned her back on him and went out through the shrieking back door.

  CHAPTER 10

  EMILY AND I BROUGHT the coffee and the scones into the dining room.

  I stole a sidelong look at Parker as she reached into her bag. She was as attractive as I remembered. Besides being smart and quite pretty, even north of thirty-five, there was this delightful, hard-to-describe, brave, and bright-eyed girlish quality to her that made people—men especially—sit up quite straight when she entered a room.

  Actually, she was more attractive than I remembered, I thought, as the light caught the copper in her hair. Had she lost weight? No, I realized. She had actually put on a little. Wow. It really suited her. I realized now that she had been too thin when we’d worked together, sort of bony. She was curvier now, more voluptuous.

  She was also more chic than I recalled. Her looser, fuller hair was salon cut, her cream-colored blouse made of silk. My breath caught a little when I got a whiff of her perfume. Oranges? Flowers? It smelled expensive. Delightful indeed.

  “This has to be about Perrine,” I said quickly as she straightened up and placed a laptop on the table. “Something bad, or why would you come in person? Let me guess. He killed someone I know. One of my neighbors. The super of my building?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, Mike. I
t’s almost worse than that,” Parker said, slipping on a slim pair of red-rimmed reading glasses. “We’re getting crushed. The massive federal and local task force put together to capture Perrine is in shambles after all these Mob murders. Each strike was carried out by highly trained professional mercenaries with an almost surgical precision. We have no forensics and absolutely no leads. That’s why the assistant director himself sent me out here to talk to you. My mission is to, quote, ‘pick your brain.’ ”

  “Pick my brain?” I said. “At least this won’t take too long. How long have you been on the task force?”

  “Oh, about two days. There I was, happily reading in my Behavioral Science cubicle at Quantico. Then somebody told the director that you and I had worked closely together on some other cases, and now here I am.”

  I stared at her.

  “The FBI director told you to talk to me?”

  “I guess they didn’t know if you would want to cooperate. Apparently, you were dismissed pretty harshly by the bureau after Perrine broke out of the courthouse. I guess I’m what you would call an official Department of Justice I’m Sorry card.”

  “Well, I must say, the director has good taste in stationery, but ‘pick my brain’? That’s the new plan? That does sound pretty desperate.”

  Parker moved her glasses down to the end of her pert, upturned nose.

  “Is it? You’re the most tenacious investigator I’ve ever worked with, period. You’re also the only one who’s ever actually caught Perrine, Mike.”

  “Sure, I caught Perrine, but then I lost him,” I said.

  Something flashed in Parker’s intelligent blue eyes.

  “Bite your tongue. You did not lose him, Mike. He wasn’t in your custody when he escaped. You and I both know that he bought off a whole bunch of people in order to get out of that courthouse. You weren’t the one who was paid to drop the ball.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so,” Emily said. “Anyway, since I’m here, do you think you could take a look at what we have?”