Nine

Julio didn’t either. Even though Adrianos had betrayed his trust, Julio didn’t feel good about betraying Adrianos’s in return. Julio considered himself to be a man of honor. He kind of thought of himself as a knight who had taken an oath to protect Adrianos, and here was his liege lord-lying facedown in the piss pan. Julio was surprised to find that his stomach was a little upset.

He heard a sound and whirled, his.45 out and aimed as the restroom door opened. A young man stepped in, his black boots loud on the tiled floor. He seemed oblivious to the weapon. Julio had seen him before, although he didn’t know his name. Part of their agreement was that Julio would not learn his name. Julio reholstered the gun, one of two he wore during almost any waking hour. He had other means of attacking or defending as need be. This was no time to start being careless.

The young man had changed out of the clothes he had worn when pretending to be Adrianos’s waiter this evening. The athletic shoes had been replaced by the boots, which made him seem even taller-Julio thought he might be six five or so in his stocking feet. The apron and white dress shirt had given way to a finely tailored black sports coat, long-sleeved silk turtleneck, and a pair of jeans. Easier now to see how muscular he was-playing the role of waiter, he had slouched and behaved subserviently, while now there was nothing of the servant in him, either in looks or posture.

Julio believed that under other circumstances, he would have been able to spot this man as a threat. How had Adrianos failed to notice that the hands of his waiter were so large and powerful? He was probably about five years younger than Julio, so was somewhere in his mid-twenties. Julio assessed him with a certain professional detachment, wondering if he could take him. He told himself he could but acknowledged that it would be experience that made the difference.

The kid had dark hair and a handsome, almost angelic face-until you looked into his eyes. How had Adrianos failed to noticed those eyes? Unless Julio missed his guess, this guy enjoyed his work.

He started thinking of the man as “the mechanic.” It didn’t help his stomach to settle.

The mechanic studied Adrianos. He said, “Thank you,” without looking up at Julio.

“No problem,” Julio said.

The mechanic pulled Adrianos away from the urinal and rolled him over onto his back. Adrianos was a big man, weighing about two hundred and fifty pounds, but the mechanic didn’t seem to have any trouble moving him. He didn’t ask for help and Julio didn’t offer it.

“We’ve taken care of Mr. Adrianos’s other friends,” he said. “Except Ricky, of course. He left half an hour ago. One of my team members is waiting in the van in the alley outside. He’ll drive you to your next job.”

“Ricky’s gone?”

The mechanic looked up at him. “Is that a problem?”

“No, sir.” There really wasn’t any problem. Julio didn’t care what happened to the other bodyguard. Adrianos was dead, and Julio was rich. That was all that mattered. He let out a long breath. “Okay if I wash my hands?”

“Of course.”

As he washed up, Julio kept an eye on the other man, who seemed faintly amused by something. A phrase kept going through Julio’s head: Better the devil you know…

But that was bullshit. Adrianos wasn’t a better devil. Even if this was a double-cross, Julio now had a chance to survive. He was good at survival. There was no future with Adrianos. That was for damned sure. Julio looked at his former boss again and thought about how easily this had all gone down. These new guys were pla

“He’s fine, but he’s no longer the owner. You ask a lot of questions.”

“Sorry.” Julio dried his hands and adjusted his coat, making sure he’d be able to reach his weapons, and started to leave. He heard Adrianos groan and turned in surprise.

“No, he’s not dead yet,” said the mechanic. He was taking something out of his jacket.

Julio moved his hand back to the.45, then relaxed as he saw that the mechanic had removed a little leather pouch with a syringe and a small vial in it.

The mechanic filled the syringe, then stabbed it into Adrianos’s neck. He removed the needle without putting pressure on the plunger, and stabbed it in again.

When he did this a third time, Julio said, “Trouble finding a vein?”

He looked up at Julio and smiled. “You’re right, of course. Better to wait until he can feel it.”

1

Sunday, May 18, 1:17 P.M.

The Rocky Mountains, Colorado

A black-winged bird swooped past Kit’s left shoulder, and he shied away from it, crouching down low, half losing his balance. The heavy bundle he carried fell from his arms, landing on the leaf-strewn path with a soft thud. This seemed to him another ill omen, and he quickly and silently apologized to the canvas-wrapped form. He cowered there for a moment, cringing as the raven circled back-but the bird flew higher this time and soon was gone from sight. He waited in vain for his fear to follow it.

What did it mean, a raven coming so close to him?

Make sense, he warned himself. Don’t think crazy thoughts about birds.

But fear proved tenacious, and his mind caromed through a maze of remembered terrors. He began shaking.

He made a determined effort to steer his thoughts toward the logical. The raven was a bird, not a supernatural creature. The raven had been attracted to the burden Kit carried into the woods.

You are not a boy, he told himself. You are a twenty-six-year-old man. Don’t act like a child.

He told himself it was the chill of the autumn air that made him feel cold-not his dread, not his superstition. Not that he had dreamed the digging dream just last night.

A beetle moved over the canvas, and he brushed it away, then gently lifted the bundle again. “I’m sorry,” he said once more and continued into the woods.

When he was first deciding on a place for the burial, Kit had thought of one with a view. But no one knew better than he did that killers often buried their victims in such places, and so he had searched for a location only he could find again, where the markers would not be so obvious to anyone else.

When he came to the chosen site, he carefully set the bundle aside and steeled himself for the next chore.

The digging.

The ground was not as hard here as in other places in the woods, but he found this task so difficult to begin, he nearly decided to choose some other way. A glance at the canvas bundle brought back his resolve-the other choices were not fitting.

Inside his leather gloves, his hands were slick with perspiration. He took hold of the small spade. The grating ring of its first stab into the earth made him dizzy, but again he took himself to task. He looked at the hard muscles of his arms, his large hands, his booted feet. He fitted his strength into a harness of remembered movement-thrust and step and lift and swing, thrust and step and lift and swing-settling into a rhythm divorced from thought, a familiar cadence that lulled him into the mindless completion of his work.

Still, he was weeping by the time he settled the small body into its resting place, and wept as he covered it. He placed a layer of stones within the grave when it was half-filled, to discourage scavengers. This he covered with soil. When he finished, he gathered leaves and spread them over the surface, so that it blended in with its surroundings. He stood back and looked at the grave from several different angles. When he felt confident that it was unlikely to be found, even by someone who was looking for it, he packed the spade away.

He had a kind of expertise in burial.