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beneficial. In 1984, however, with thetheft of billions of dollars from Lopez’s main operating account, the balance of power had shifted.
    In order to avert his own possible execution for the massive loss of cartel funds, Lopez had traveled to Colombia, murdered the only person who could order his death—his father—and taken control of the cartel. He had saved his own skin, but, heavily in debt, and with rival cartels circling, Lopez had been forced to go, cap in hand, to the cabal in order to survive.
    The cost of survival had been servitude, something Lopez had never had a talent for. As lethal as an asp, approximately eighteen months previously, he had manipulated his cabal “keepers,” threatening exposure of their secretive and politically powerful organization if they didn’t allow him entrance into their upper echelon. The cabal had acted swiftly, executing their own people in order to neutralize the threat and setting a trap to take down Lopez. But with federal agencies—including Interpol, MI6 and Mossad—now locked onto both Lopez and the cabal, the damage control was too late.
    A missile blast in Colombia had vaporized the Chavez fortress, located in Macaro, hundreds of miles east from Bogotá. Unfortunately, the cabalhad missed killing Lopez and his right-hand man, former FBI agent Edward Dennison, by seconds. A further attempt to take Lopez out at a meeting in El Paso had also failed, and resulted in a state of war between the two organizations. Lopez had escaped, taking a wounded Dennison and his leverage with him—a book that exposed the cabal members. He had also left behind an interesting array of corpses—one of them Senator Radcliff, a bona fide, paid up member of the cabal’s upper echelon.
    Lopez had gone underground, only to surface months later as the lead suspect in a series of clever murders, which had systematically decimated the upper echelon of the cabal, leaving one lone member—the powerful but elusive Helene Reichmann, daughter of Heinrich Reichmann, the original architect of the cabal.
    The series of murders had been chilling and effective, demonstrating Lopez’s power and destroying a number of leads in Bayard’s investigation. Ultimately, the murders had proved to be a godsend, throwing the workings of the cabal wide and providing a huge investigative platform that meant Marc had been able to systematically take down both the cabal and Lopez’s networks.
    The rich scent of coffee filled the office, overlaying the faint, lingering scents of the morgue that still clung to his clothes and skin. He hadn’t eaten—neither of them had—so while he waited for the coffee he called in some takeout.
    Despite the caffeine, Bridges was a health nut. He rarely ate red meat and almost keeled over at the sight of fat, so Marc limited the selection to salads and sandwiches. In any case, after seeing Jim and the hollow emptiness in Jennifer’s eyes, he didn’t particularly care what he ate.
    Bridges handed him a cup. “Willard’s in Florida. Rossi’s home sick.”
    Otherwise Rossi would have been with Corcoran, and the hit might not have taken place. Supposition, maybe, but Marc doubted Lopez would have risked taking on two federal agents.
    The fact that Lopez had known Corcoran was on his own could have been the result of inside information, but that didn’t necessarily follow. If his surveillance was good enough, and it probably was, he would simply have recognized the opportunity and acted on it. “Willard’s on his way back. They’re both on leave until further notice.”
    Bayard studied the view from his office window while he drank his coffee. Ever since hehad seen Corcoran, the back of his neck had been crawling. He had run through possible motivations, but the only one that linked both Powdrell and Corcoran was the investigation into Lopez. It was also a fact that the murders uncannily