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still sweeping around and in the cold the tires wouldn’t grip as well. He forced himself to hold back – just a second or two more. Beyond Grimes Point the road was perfectly straight for four miles and if there was no other traffic he would open the throttle, letting the bike carry him to the horizon as quickly as it could.
     
     
     

 
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    VINCENTKEOGHFOCUSSED his binoculars on the corner.
    Still nothing. The spotter by the gate had confirmed that Gant had left the base and the man he had sent to Grimes Point that morning with the scope had just radioed to say that he was headed their way, fast. Three miles to the east the third member of the support team had reported that the road was clear as far as he could see. He looked over his shoulder, checking again that the van was out of sight. Across the road the police cruiser was hidden behind a large hoarding announcing the imminent construction of a power plant at Eight Mile Flat. He nodded to Arturo, his squat bulk in the dark blue uniform of the Nevada Highway Patrol waiting patiently at the wheel for his signal to roll it out.
    They were ready.
    He brought the binoculars up again, adjusting the focus slightly. He was uneasy. He wished again that Flood was with them. They were a team, Flood, Arturo and he, had been for over twenty years, since before they had been recruited. He had served with both men in the 10 th Special Forces during the Gulf War, had seen the red-haired Irishman drink muddy water from a ditch in the stifling heat of Khafji, had watched him eat things that would have made a hyena puke while they had waited for the Republican Guard in the mountains near Al-Zabr. And now the man had been laid low by some stomach bug most likely picked up from a roadside diner.
    He should have stood them down of course, allowed another team to be flown in to take their place. When after the first day Flood still couldn’t move from his bed he had almost done it. But then, sitting in a bar in Fallon, cursing his luck and preparing to make the call that would take them off the job, Arturo had suggested it.
    The two of them could handle Gant. The bonus for his capture was a million dollars apiece, money they would lose if they let another team replace them. And who knew when another candidate might be found – this was their first in sixteen years. He had mulled the idea over while Arturo had gone to get them more drinks.  It was a lot of money to give up, and no mistake. They were paid well enough, but it wasn’t like the job came with a pension plan and none of them were getting any younger. With the bonus from Gant’s capture they could hire a few guys, set up a security firm of their own, maybe even try to go legit.
    And Arturo was right; picking up Gant shouldn’t be a problem. Once they’d got him into the back of the van there was nothing to do but drive him to the drop off point. They could collect Flood on the way and El Conde would be none the wiser. Which was important; their employer was not someone whose instructions you disregarded lightly. Not that they’d ever met the man, of course. Even after all the years they’d been working for him they still had no idea who he was. Their orders came through the German, Friedrichs. Occasionally they worked with other teams, but that was it.
    It had made him a little uneasy at first, knowing so little. But El Conde took his personal security very seriously. They knew what he was looking for of course; they wouldn’t have been able to do their jobs without that piece of information. The rare blood group he seemed so desperate to find, together with the seemingly limitless means he had at his disposal was what had prompted Arturo to call him El Conde Vampiro in the first place. The name had stuck. And it had proved apt; it was clear from the work they did for him that El Conde had no scruples. Keogh was certain he wouldn’t give a second thought to disposing of any of them if for a moment he