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broke into thirty uninterrupted seconds of obscenities, standing right in J. T.’s face. The insults were primarily in Hebrew but everyone got the gist. She eventually stopped to gulp air.
    J. T. blinked at the five-foot-six human tornado standing toe-to-toe with him.
    The agent who played bartender raised one hand, as if he were in a classroom. “Um, boss? Yeah. FBI dude didn’t fuck up. Perkins there, did. Thugs woulda killed him for sure and Daria, too, wasn’t for this guy.” He jacked a thumb in Ray’s direction. Ray seemed to be studying his dusty loafers.
    J. T.’s face turned red. The young ATF agent lying on his back moaned, one leg twitching.
    â€œYou’re saying it was Perkins’s fault?”
    Ray stepped away from the GM pickup with the dead coyote bungeed to the hood. “No, it was your fault.”
    J. T. shot the taller man a combative grin. “Really, Boy Scout? ’Cause the way I see it—”
    â€œYou’re Laney. I’ve been doing some research on you. You’ve gotten three undercover agents killed in a little over seven months.”
    â€œThis is a dangerous job we—”
    Ray plowed through him. “Lovely operation here. Real pro. You’ve got two agents in a beat-up truck out front of the bar, but the truck’s got four brand-new, expensive four-ply treads. Perfect for chasing someone across the desert. If that didn’t look suspicious enough, you’ve got two guys inside. Only thing is, you’ve got one behind the cash register and one at the pool table. Which puts Daria in a perfect crossfire position. And all of that would be bad enough, Agent Laney, but to make matters worse, your pupils are so dilated I can hardly see them. You’re working stoned.”
    J. T.’s face went from red to purple. He drew his Glock 9 from his belt holster. As his hand cleared his hip, Ray Calabrese’s fist darted out, and somehow he ended up holding the Glock. His eyes never left those of J. T. Laney. Ray ratcheted the slide and quickly, expertly, dismantled the auto, dropping its component parts contemptuously at J. T.’s feet.
    The other agents glanced at one another. None of them actually saw Ray take the gun. It had happened too fast.
    The unit leader tried to regain his cool. “Daria’s here because she wants to be here, asshole! She chose the job. She’s fucking outstanding at it. You got no rights, you got no say in it!”
    â€œJustice Department might have a different take on it. Let’s you and me—”
    But Daria touched Ray’s arm. He stopped, turned to her.
    â€œGo home, Ray.”
    He looked down at her. She kept her hand on his forearm, very dark eyes locked on his.
    â€œYou don’t have to be doing this.”
    â€œI know,” she said. “I’m choosing to do this.”
    â€œThis asshole is going to get you killed!”
    Daria offered Ray a sad little half smile. Her Israeli accent was back now. “It wouldn’t be a war if that weren’t one of the outcomes. Thank you, Ray. Now go home.”
    He studied her. She looked up into his eyes, unflinching.
    And after a while, Ray walked to his rental, pulled out, and left a dust trail in his wake.
    J. T. spit on the sidewalk. “What a fuck—”
    Daria’s voice dropped an octave. “Don’t,” she warned, eyes on Ray’s car. “Not ever.”

5
    R ENEE MALATESTA KITTED UP and did her run around the walled city of Segovia, her anger thrumming like a guitar string. Andrew had returned to the States.
    Malatesta, Inc., was a small firm. Andrew and four other designers were the engineering heart and soul. Renee was the chief financial officer. They had four employees, all clerical.
    The company had started with the first circuit boards Andrew had designed in a U-Store-It facility they’d turned into a makeshift lab. There had been times, at the beginning, when he’d