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the years he had lived in Paris, London, Washington, and now New York, he had never been robbed, never even been menaced by street thugs. He had anticipated the remote possibility of Russo's greed getting the better of his good sense, perhaps setting up something to steal back his money. But these two were just hungry cats who'd had a mouse walk right up to them.
    “How about you give me the cash, the watch so I know what time it is, and the little suitcase for carrying stuff.”
    “Ralph?” Herman said.
    “Yes, sir?” the answer came.
    Herman saw the large man's ravenous expression change at the sound of the new voice. Herman turned to see that the smaller of the two was looking to his right, where a man dressed entirely in black had materialized. Ralph had the small man's wrist in his left hand, and the knife in the Mexican's fist was quivering like the hind leg of a dying rabbit. There was a silenced pistol in Ralph's left hand that was aimed at the large man's heart.
    “Or how about this?” Herman suggested as he slid the money back into his pocket. “I keep my cash, and Ralph teaches you scions of the alleyway one final lesson.”
    Herman sidestepped the larger man and walked down Pine Street swinging the metal attaché. He didn't look back. He knew that the cops would soon come upon two very unpleasant, drug-addicted thugs lying on the sidewalk who had squabbled over something and killed each other with a single cheap knife.
    Of all his men, there were only two he trusted totally—Ralph and Lewis.

6
  
Concord, North Carolina
Sunday

    An hour before the sun rose Winter climbed from his bed, dropped to the floor, and did one hundred push-ups. Immediately afterward he locked his ankles under the bed's frame and did as many crunches. Over the course of a day he would try to do another two hundred of each to stay limber and maintain his muscle tone.
    He put on shorts, a gray T-shirt, and his running shoes. On the way out, he unleashed Nemo from Rush's bed.
    Winter and Nemo ran around to Union Street, picking out an even stride that would take them to the end of Union, to Highway 136, back the five miles to Corban Street, and home.
    On his street Winter saw a figure leaning against the grill of a pickup truck. As he approached the man, Nemo started wagging his tail.
    “Howdy, old pal,” the man said as he bent to stroke the dog's head.
    “Hank,” Winter said. “What brings you all the way up here?”
    “Lydia's coffee.”
    Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Hank Trammel was Winter's boss. Trammel was exactly what most people would expect a U.S. marshal to look like. His preretirement paunch protruded over his belt, obscuring the big buckle—a Texas-size silver and turquoise oval. Test samples of paint in the weather-abuse simulators at the Dutch Boy laboratories didn't get the wear and tear Hank's skin had received as a child on a ranch exposed to wind-driven sand and scorching sun. His duty piece was a stag-handle 1911 Colt .45 cradled in an Austin holster designed by Brill and made by the El Paso Saddle Company in 1950 for a new Texas ranger named Trent Trammel, Hank's father. Hank's father and grandfather had both died by the gun.
    “I wanted to congratulate you on the Tucker capture. Media's going to be all over it. They'll be after interviews.”
    “They'll waste their time, because I'm not talking about it.” Winter never spoke to the media unless he was ordered to, but normally there was someone else involved who was happy to instead.
    “You could have congratulated me tomorrow,” Winter said.
    “There's this. Faxed to me yesterday morning.” Hank reached into his pocket and handed Winter a folded-up sheet of paper.
    Winter read it, then offered it back. “I'm not interested.”
    “I didn't see where it asked if you are interested.”
    “Aw, come on, Hank. Why me?”
    The chief deputy shrugged. “It's got to be a big deal. You see the signature.”
    “Hank, the twentieth is Rush's birthday. That's