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pulled his pistol from his belt with his right hand, aimed it at the back of Rodriguez’s head, and fired. The cowboy hat flew off as the little man tumbled limply down the ravine to the creek.
    Delgado took a deep breath and slid the pistol back into his belt. He hated snitches, even ones who were just doing it for selfish reasons. Not as much as the D-VI people, but almost. This way of life—neighbors spying on neighbors—had to end if Cuba was ever going to be a place where people really wanted to live. He glanced down the ravine to see if he could spot the body—he couldn’t—then turned and headed back toward the driver’s side.
    When he got back to the Cruz farm, he would order the three lieutenants out to the jeeps, then inform Mr. Cruz that Mr. Rodriguez had suffered a terrible accident and would no longer be able to manage his farm. That Mr. Cruz would now manage the Rodriguez farm, too. It was a small battle he’d won tonight—not even a skirmish, really—but you had to start somewhere. He’d learned that during his years as a military officer. You couldn’t take Rome in a day. Or Havana.
    Delgado slowed down as he neared the accident scene, easing to a stop when he spotted the dead cow lying beside the road, barely visible in the deep grass and brush. He jumped out of the jeep and hurried to the animal, kneeling down beside its head and pulling out a knife. Then he cut away the small metal tag that had hung by a leather strap from the animal’s neck for many years, checking the state-issued serial number etched into it before slipping it into his pocket. This would be the sign.
             
    MELISSA HART sat on the young man’s lap—the seat filler she’d made eyes at before she’d won her Oscar. He was cute and nice and they’d hooked up at a party in Beverly Hills after she’d left Elaine’s. She hadn’t returned to her seat once she’d shocked everyone in the Kodak Theatre, so she’d sent him a message via another seat filler before taking off in the limo to meet her four friends. Now it was after nine thirty and the Oscars had just ended. She’d been up since early this morning, so nervous about what she was going to do, but she wasn’t tired at all, just exhilarated. She couldn’t remember how many glasses of champagne she’d drunk, but the hell with it, this was her night. Victory
and
retribution all at once.
    God, she felt good. She’d won the Oscar and she’d gotten back at him—in front of the whole world. Now everyone knew what a real shit her father was. Maybe it would break his grip on Hollywood. Maybe people wouldn’t be so damn afraid of him anymore now that the press really had something to dig their teeth into about him. There was more, too, more where that had come from—not just what he’d done to her mother. She intended to tell the press what that was.
    As Melissa turned back toward the young man, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up. It was Bo Martin, one of Hollywood’s biggest directors and not a big fan of her father’s, though Bo kissed the ring when he had to, she knew. “Hi, Bo.” She’d been looking forward to his congratulations.
    “Hello, Melissa.” Martin smiled grimly. “Quite a performance tonight. Maybe even better than the one you got the Oscar for.”
    “Thanks.”
    Martin glanced around uncomfortably.
    “What’s wrong?” she asked.
    “Right, look, here’s the thing. I need you to send that script back to me. The one I overnighted you last week.”
    Melissa sat up, suddenly aware of how much she’d had to drink. Her head was spinning and she grabbed the young man’s leg to steady herself. “
What?
Why?” She loved that script, mostly because she was going to be the star. No more supporting actress with a quarter of the screen time.
    “You know why, Melissa. You don’t embarrass the king in front of his court like that on national television and expect life to go on normally, even if you are his daughter.”