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have identification?”
    Sam patted his jacket, where the ID should be.
    Hell. Was it in the car, maybe? On the coffee table?
    Held up from work by a fucking
detail
.
    A couple of agents came out from the interior offices and sized up Sam. One of them was an older guy—must’ve been nearing mandatory retirement. He had thinning silver hair, a big nose blazed with capillaries. Sam knew him, couldn’t quite place his name.
    “Must’ve left it at home,” Sam told the rookie. He felt the situation slipping away from him. “Cut me some slack.”
    The agents exchanged looks. By some silent agreement, the silver-haired one stepped forward. “Hey, Sam.”
    “Yeah?” Sam said.
    “Let’s take a walk.”
    “I don’t want a walk.”
    The old guy put a hand on his shoulder and steered him back toward the entrance.
    “You know me?” the old guy asked.
    “Sure,” Sam said.
    “Pacabel,” the guy said.
    Immediately, the name slipped around him like a comfortable shoe.
    “Joe Pacabel,” Sam said, confident again. “Sure, Joe. Let me get to work, will you? Tell these jokers.”
    Pacabel looked at the floor. Beige tiles, which seemed wrong to Sam. It should’ve been carpet. Green industrial carpet.
    The other agents were trying not to stare at him.
    “Look, Sam,” Pacabel said, the words dragging out of him. “You’re a little confused, is all. It happens.”
    “Joe, my case . . .”
    “You’ve got no case, Sam.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    Pacabel’s eyes watered, and Sam realized it was from embarrassment. Embarrassment for him.
    “Sam, you retired from the FBI,” Pacabel said gently. “You haven’t worked here in twenty years.”
             
    Halfway across town, Gerry Far was pulling dead people out of a trailer.
    He hated this part of his job, but he had to help out personally. Otherwise his employees would panic. He’d learned that from his mentor, Will Stirman.
    The driver this time was a fruit trucker from Indianapolis. This was his first run. It was all Gerry could do to keep him from calling the police.
    “Help me with this
hombre,
” Gerry told the trucker. “Jesus, he’s heavy.”
    The smell in the truck was enough to kill—overripe mangos and excrement and body odor. When they’d opened the trailer, the temperature inside had been about a hundred and ten degrees.
    As he hauled the big corpse over to the incinerator, Gerry did the math. Fifty-three illegals. Three hundred dollars a head. Twenty-one had died, but of course they’d paid up front.
    The thirty-two who lived would be sold off to Gerry’s clients—sweatshops, labor ranches, brothels—to “earn credit” for further transportation to Chicago or Houston or wherever they dreamed of going. In reality, none of them would ever be allowed to leave. They’d bring Gerry a sale price of two to five hundred dollars each, possibly more for young women. That was the beauty of the Stirman system—the illegals paid to get here, then Gerry got paid again for selling them into slavery. Welcome to America.
    Gerry would have to give the driver his cut, plus a little extra to calm his nerves. There would be a hefty fee to the guy who ran the incinerator. Still, Gerry figured he would walk away with ten grand from this load.
    He was dragging out the last body when his spotter, Luke, ran up, looking paler than the corpses. “You hear the news?”
    “What the fuck are you doing here?” Gerry said. “Watch the goddamn gate.”
    “Stirman’s free. Broke out yesterday afternoon.”
    Gerry dropped the body he was carrying. “You sure?”
    Luke swallowed, held up his cell phone. “I just got the call.”
    “From who?”
    Luke hesitated. If Gerry had been thinking more clearly, he might’ve picked up on the fact that something was very wrong with the way Luke was acting.
    “Just a friend,” Luke said. “Wanted to be sure you were warned.”
    “Shit.”
    “Where you going?” the trucker called.
    But Gerry was