counting, had been counting since Finn’s knife had appeared.
Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.
“Time’s up, pendejo.”
Even with that warning, the foreman was not prepared for the speed of Finn’s attack. Before
Franco could blink, Finn had seized Franco’s middle finger and bent it flat along his palm in an
agonizing grip.
Franco paled. Other than that, he gave no sign that he felt pain.
“That’s what I thought,” sighed Finn. “One of the tough ones.”
Finn started to lead Franco away.
Deputy Branscomb stepped halfway in front of Finn. “Now I’m the last one to question God’s
will,” said Branscomb easily, “but I’d sure like to know why you’re going to do whatever you’re
going to do with Salerno’s Mexican.”
Finn decided it would be quicker to explain than to push back.
“You know what machismo means?” asked Finn.
“Balls. Manhood. Something like that,” said Brans-comb.
“Close enough. Franco here is muy macho, so whatever I get from him will be the hard way.”
Finn shrugged. “His choice. But I don’t have time to beat the truth out of him, so I’ll have to use
this.”
The knife glittered as Finn moved it abruptly. He spoke in Spanish. The field workers gasped
and stepped back. A few crossed themselves. Franco did not move because he could not, but
sweat slid from his forehead to his dark cheeks.
“What did you say to them?” asked Branscomb.
“I told them that Franco will either talk to me or he won’t have any manhood to protect.”
Finn brushed past the deputy. Franco moved in unwilling lockstep, prisoner to Finn’s
excruciating grip. In the silence, the remaining men could clearly hear boots crunching over
broken glass. The two men disappeared behind a vat of raw wine.
Finn’s voice cut through the silence. “Talk to me, pendejo.”
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The waiting men heard no answer. Then came the sound of a man spitting. Something heavy
slammed against the vat. There was a grunt, then the snarl of ripping cloth. Franco shrieked,
high and terrible, a sound of primal terror. The sound climbed unendurably, then stopped as
abruptly as it had begun.
Finn appeared suddenly out of the vat’s odorous shadows.
“Tú!” said Finn, pointing to Griego. “Ven acá! Pronto!”
Riley stared. For the first time he confronted the fact that this might be more than a brutal bluff.
Finn’s voice was as frightening as the bloody knife in his hand.
Griego looked around hurriedly, but there was no escape. He began speaking so quickly that his
words sounded alike. Finn listened. Gradually his face lost its savagery. He asked a few clipped
questions. Griego answered eagerly. Finn spoke again, gesturing to the vat behind which Franco
lay. Griego nodded.
Finn put his knife back in his boot.
Riley started breathing again until Finn grabbed Griego’s left foot, looked at the sole of the
huarache, then released the foot so quickly that Griego staggered.
“Bueno,” said Finn. “ándale!” He turned toward Riley. “Go up to the house and call Coughlan.
Tell him to surround the Fragrant Petal flower shop in Little Tokyo. Surround it, seal it off, but
don’t go in. Understand? I don’t want anyone leaving that place, and I don’t want anyone going
inside until I get there.”
“Right,” said Riley. He hesitated. “Look, you didn’t really hurt that guy, did you?”
“Make the call,” said Finn, turning back to the braceros. “I’ll clean up here.”
San Francisco
28 Hours 39 Minutes After Trinity
The curtain fell into place. Vanessa turned and moved across the room, passing Hecht without
looking at him.
“The mortuary was closed,” he began, closing the door behind him. “I couldn’t hear anyone
moving around there or next door. The garage was open.” He watched Vanessa warily. “There
weren’t any vehicles inside, not even a hearse. I tried the inside door and – are you listening?”
Vanessa opened her purse, screwed the silencer onto her pistol and went to the door. “The
shops were locked, one garage was open, there was nothing inside,” she summarized. “Anything
else?”
“The door inside the garage was locked, too.”
“That’s all?”
“Uh – yeah.”
“Then shut up.”
Vanessa stood with one hand on the doorknob. In her other hand, the silencer made the barrel
of the gun look unbalanced. She listened intently. Suddenly she opened the door, keeping it as a
shield between herself and the hallway.
Slaven hurried into the room, dragging a Mexican teenager with him. The boy stared around the
room, his eyes large and dark. “Where’s Uncle Refugio?”
Vanessa looked at Slaven, who had not let go of the boy’s arm.
“His name is Jaime Reyes. He stopped for gas,” said Slaven tersely. “He works in his father’s
mortuary.”
Jaime looked at the people in the room, confused. Then he focused on Slaven, the man who had
known so much about his uncle. “You said Refugio needed me.”
“Yes,” said Vanessa smoothly. “He wanted you to tell us about the Japanese man in the Army
uniform.”
Jaime looked at each face, white skin and light eyes – strangers. He looked away. “All the
Japanese left a long time ago. They went to prison camps.”
“This one came back.”
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Jaime shrugged. “Then you know more than I do, se?orita.”
Slaven raised his hand. Jaime did not see the motion, but Hecht and Vanessa did. She shook her
head slightly. Slaven’s hand returned to his side.
“The Japanese man met Refugio at the Fragrant Petal yesterday,” Vanessa said coolly. “Refugio
was sick. Now the Japanese is gone. Where did he go? Did he take Refugio with him?”
“Quien sabe?” said Jaime indifferently.
Vanessa’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll pay you one hundred dollars if you answer my questions.”
Jaime looked at her with contempt. “Only a gringo would sell his family for one hundred
dollars.”
“I see,” said Vanessa. “How much do Mexicans charge? Two hundred? Three?”
Jaime spat on the floor and turned to leave. Slaven’s open-handed blow sent the slightly built
boy reeling into Hecht’s lap. Jaime’s eyes were wide and dark with shock. Blood lined his lips
where flesh had split against teeth.
Slaven advanced on the boy.
“He can’t be more than fourteen!” protested Hecht, struggling up to block Slaven’s advance.
“Communists don’t make war on children!”
Slaven turned to Vanessa. “Do we really need this bourgeois shit?”
Vanessa looked at Hecht. He glared back, showing more resolution in defending the enemy than
he had in aiding her.
If Jaime were killed, Hecht would rebel; and it was clear that Jaime would have to be killed. Her
silenced gun coughed twice. Hecht crumpled, his eyes wide with disbelief. Vanessa prodded him
in the groin with her foot. When he did not move, she faced Jaime again.
“Tell me about Refugio and this Japanese.”
Jaime stood mute, staring at Hecht and shaking his head in silent negation. Vanessa hissed a
Russian epithet. The impact of Slaven’s fist sent Jaime spinning. Feet tangled with Hecht’s legs.
He fell, unconscious, before Slaven could hit him again.
“Not like that, you ox!” Vanessa snarled. “He’s no good to us with a broken neck!”
Vanessa slapped Jaime awake with quick, measured blows. His eyes focused. Fear and pride
fought for control of him. Pride won. He would not show weakness in front of a woman. He
spat in her face.
The spittle slid down Vanessa’s cheek, but she seemed not to notice. She seized Jaime’s hand and
bent his index finger backward until it broke. Jaime’s scream was cut off by Slaven’s big hand,
but the boy’s writhings continued as Vanessa ground bone against broken bone.
Suddenly, Jaime was talking, words tumbling out, saying whatever would stop the pain.
“The Japanese man – told us to go for three days. He stayed – with Refugio.” Jaime’s breath
shuddered, but his voice did not break. “The Japanese man stayed. Refugio is – very sick.”
“Are they still in the funeral home? Tell me quickly!”
Jaime cringed. “I don’t know! I was one of the first to leave!”
But Jaime’s eyes had shifted away from hers, undermining the plea in his voice. Vanessa’s hand
closed over his. Jaime screamed again.
“They were afraid of you! Velasquez told my uncle about you. The Japanese decided to leave.
They talked about prison camps. I think – I think they will take Refugio there until he is better.”
“Where?”
“Where all the Japanese went. Over the mountains. Manzanar.”
Vanessa crouched over Jaime, her eyes hooded, weighing what the boy had said. It made sense
except for the part about Refugio going to Manzanar. From Hecht’s description, he was too
weak to make the trip. He was probably dead, laid out on a tabic in the Rincón mortuary. If not,
he soon would be. She would see to it.
“The Japanese man,” said Vanessa suddenly. “Who is he?”
“They called him Kestrel,” said Jaime weakly, faint with pain.
Vanessa tweaked Jaime’s broken finger.
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“Please,” he said, crying hopelessly, “That’s all I know about him. Japanese – Kestrel. Refugio
knew him in Mexico. That’s all, I swear on my mother’s honor.”
Before Vanessa could touch the boy again, Slaven called her name. She looked up. He was at the
window, watching the flower shop. His body was tense, poised, a fighter waiting for the bell to
sound.
“What is it?” said Vanessa.
“Cars. Four, five, six. Four men to a car. More in the alley, I’ll bet.”
“Police?”
“No uniforms,” said Slaven, “but they’re police. You can smell it.”
“Are they coming here?”
“No, they’re surrounding the Fragrant Petal. They’ve got guns out. They kicked in the door of
the shop.”
Vanessa swore savagely. If Refugio were still alive, he was now out of her reach. So, perhaps,
was the uranium.
“What now?” said Slaven.
Vanessa glanced from Hecht’s body to Jaime, pale, sweating, cradling his maimed hand. He
could tell her nothing more, but he could tell the Americans everything. She knew he was too
young to read the death in her eyes. He would suspect nothing until the instant he felt the cold
mouth of the silencer against his ear.
The soft sound of the shot drew Slaven’s attention away from the street for an instant. Vanessa
stood, letting Jaime’s body slide to the floor. She went to the window, careful not to show
herself. A half-block away, the street was filling with men in dark suits.
“Put them in a closet,” said Vanessa.
“And then run?”
“No. We’ll wait and see what the Americans find.”
San Francisco
29 Hours After Trinity
Finn woke up quietly, completely, like an animal sensing the approach of its prey. He sat up in
the seat. San Francisco sped by him on either side, a kaleidoscope of buildings and people. Riley
glanced at Finn, then turned his attention back to the city streets. He gunned through a traffic
signal just as it changed to red. Finn said nothing. He had not spoken since leaving the winery.
He had simply tossed Riley the car keys, wedged himself into the front seat of the car and fallen
asleep.
“Don’t worry,” Riley said curtly. “I won’t include your stunt in my report. Mr. Hoover wouldn’t
understand. He doesn’t believe in intimidating crooks – just agents. His motto is don’t hit or
threaten the bad guys, just convict them.”
Riley looked quickly at his passenger. Finn’s expression was bleak, but not as forbidding as it
had been when he had walked out of the winery.
“No,” continued Riley, “Mr. Hoover doesn’t appreciate scare tactics at all.” He drew a deep
breath. “That was a scare tactic, wasn’t it? I mean, you didn’t really castrate that poor
sonofabiten.”
Finn looked through Riley. He had dreamed of children and Okinawa again.
“Did you?” Riley repeated.
“What would you have done?”
“I’m not you!”
“That’s right. You’re not me.”
Riley looked away from Finn’s pale, measuring eyes. Neither man spoke again until Riley
stopped the car in front of the Fragrant Petal. Finn took one look at the flower shop’s splintered
door and began swearing in soft, vicious Spanish.
“I told Coughlan to wait for us,” said Riley.
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Finn grabbed the radiation counter, slammed the car door and stalked toward Coughlan, who
was standing with a group of agents on the sidewalk in front of the shop.
“ – and the old lady two doors down said that they all left about an hour ago,” continued an
agent, looking at his notes. “I’m not sure about that last bit. You know these people. If you’re
not one of – “
“Coughlan,” snarled Finn, “you were told to stay the hell out of this place.”
Coughlan lit a cigaret, blew smoke over Finn’s shoulder. “That so? The word I got was to
surround and take the Fragrant Petal.” He looked over Finn’s shoulder to Riley. “Right, kid?”
Riley studied Coughlan for a moment, then said, “Wrong.”
Coughlan covered his surprise with a shrug. “That’s the problem with verbal orders – no
records.”
“Hijo de la gran puta!”
“What’s that mean?” demanded Coughlan, turning back toward Finn.
“It means you’re a lying bastard whose mother sold her cunt for a living.” He felt rage stretch
over him like a tight, hot skin. “Get out of my way.”
Coughlan flushed. His hands became fists. Finn waited, smiling, his eyes pale and intent. After a
long moment, Coughlan stepped aside. Finn walked past him to the shop’s splintered door.
“Your information was crap,” Coughlan yelled after him. “There’s nothing in there but flowers!”
Without answering, Finn switched on the radiation counter and began sweeping the shop. The
odd, clicking box drew curious glances from the agents who were tearing the flower shop apart.
“What are you looking for?” asked one of them.
“Same thing you are.”
“Shit,” said the man in disgust, throwing aside a dripping bouquet of flowers and peering into
the bottom of the vase. “You don’t know any more than we do. How in God’s name can you
look for something without knowing what the hell it is!”
“It’s smaller than a bread box.”
“Fuck you,” said the agent, reaching for another soggy bouquet.
The counter clicked slowly, indicating normal radiation. Finn moved quickly to the rear of the
shop, sweeping the probe in front of him as though searching for land mines beneath the floor.
When the probe passed near the narrow bed, the counter’s clicks blurred into a buzz.
The agent who was dismantling the bathroom stuck his head out to locate the source of the
noise. He walked over to the bed.
“Out,” said Finn, jerking his head toward the front of the shop. “Poison.”
