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so he wouldn't send us a fuck-up. This guy's supposed to fit perfect in the mission plan."
    Yeah, the mission plan, thought Daniels. Taylor swore it was ingenious and unique, bound to succeed. Dangerous and risky, but it would work. They hadn't even seen it yet. Course it didn't reassure Daniels that Taylor had never done a field operation in his life. Still he had a near perfect record in planning and putting together teams to carry them out. Now Daniels and Rollie were holed up in this little Marina in Everglades City, waiting for the remaining team members to show up.
    Somebody named Matt Kelley and Kurt Rhineman.
    Taylor had shown them a grainy picture of Matt in LAPD uniform. Supposed to be a former Marine Force Recon Sniper currently with LAPD SWAT team. Matt had two additional qualifications: Experience with fixed and rotary wing craft. That meant he could fly helicopters and small airplanes. Taylor said the plan called for two pilots. Daniels was the second.
    Once the team members arrived, Daniels would take them into two deserted islands in the Everglades for training and evaluation. Seven days had been allotted to learn how to best work together, to find their strengths and weaknesses and how to offset them working as a team. Daniels' job was to blend this group of experienced combat veterans into a coordinated deadly machine. After the initial seven days, there would be three days in Langley where a mock up of the Durand's compound outside of Guadalajara had been prepared.
    * * *
    He was past middle aged and stooped. It didn't seem to slow him much as he crossed the dirt lot in front of the canal where the seaplane was docked. His face was brown and wrinkled like someone who'd spent a lifetime working in the sun. A few flecks of silver in a brush wire mustache were the only light spots in his face. Daniels and Rollie watched the man approach until he stopped a few feet from the edge of the canal. Definitely South American with probably a touch of Indian or Metizo, thought Daniels.
    "Pardon me Senor," he said, his accent thick with inflections of Mexico. His teeth stood out, brown, stained with chewing tobacco. "I am looking for Richard Daniels."
    Daniels jumped from the plane's wing to stand in front of the man. He saw Rollie getting up, his dark face frowning and glistening with sweat. No one outside of Taylor had been told they were here. The Marina people knew Daniels only as Mike Hauptman.
    "Who's looking for him?" Daniels said.
    "I would be looking for him."
    "And who are you?"
    "I am Juan Valdez. I have picked some coffee beans for him."
    Daniels frowned while Rollie let out a chuckle.
    "Juan fucking Valdez?" Rollie said.
    "Juan Valdez" nodded and suddenly seemed to grow about a foot. Daniels never quite figured out how he did that. Illusion or whatever, he was suddenly taller. He took a damp rag from his pocket and wiped his face. Daniels smelled some solvent. Where the man wiped his face, the skin turned from brown to a light pink and gold tan. The stranger ran the cloth through his hair where the dark brown and black turned to yellow. He wiped the rag across his front teeth and spat. He lowered his head and pulled back his eyelids removing brown contact lenses. The whole thing took no more than a heartbeat. When the man lifted his head again, Daniels looked into bright blue eyes.
    "Kurt Rhineman at your service. I lied about the coffee beans."
    Rollie burst into a belly laugh.
    "You still want to talk about blending? Shit, he'll do better than us."
    Daniels discovered that Kurt was strictly CIA field operations. He'd been recruited immediately after a four-year hitch with the 82nd Airborne. In his late twenties, he'd never seen combat but his training was exquisite and he possessed certain special skills that would be crucial on this mission. Although Daniels was in command, Kurt's role would be pivotal. He had reviewed the plan first. Daniels guessed they had to see if he could pull it off. The rest would