Germ

compound's morgue. Before Gregor had left, he witnessed the opening of the body bag the first Atropos had brought. Inside was another Atropos, grotesquely wounded.

Their grief had been great and wretched.

He understood now how Matheson and the Parker brothers had hurt them . . . him. They referred to themselves in the singular, as though, like their name and appearance, they shared one mind, one personality, one soul. If giving them the same name and treating them as one had been their father's way of making the world think one person was as powerful as four, he had succeeded; but in so doing, he had also made his sons completely dependent on one another, like one person split into four.

They wanted revenge. They wanted to see Allen Parker suffer and beg for death, a torture Karl's germ provided in spades.

And now the other two responsible for Atropos's loss were within striking distance.

Why did Karl even have to know they had arrived? That was a can of worms he didn't want to open. And Atropos would gladly remedy this problem.

They were back out at the planes, waiting for Allen to manifest the virus, waiting to torment him as he died. Gregor would tell them he had arranged for the arrival of their brother's other two killers. His gift to them.

He showed his face to the black tile next to the door, which opened. As he stepped though, heading for the stairs that would take him topside, he marveled at his skill at turning complications into advantages.

Karl's microscopic bugs may be the future of assassination, he thought. But I've got today's model right here, right now. Times three.

eighty-two

Julia and Stephen stepped out of Aka Haruja-—the Pig's Eye Tavern, the owner/waiter/barkeep had told them. Their bellies were full, and a mug of homemade beer had taken the edge off Julia's nerves. From their table near the front window, they had watched the rain abate and then ramp up again as they paid the check.

The streets were still empty. The sky was still black, a swirling cauldron of low clouds.

Julia nudged him. She was looking at a station wagon on a side street a block away. It was parked, its headlamps and cabin dark.

'Is that the cab?' Stephen asked.

While they watched, the tailpipe burped out a puff of exhaust. The downpour muffled the engine noise. The headlights came on, dim cones of light catching the drops passing through them. The vehicle rolled forward and turned onto their street, heading for them.

Stephen angled his arm across Julia, gently pushing her back an inch.

'It is,' she said.

He looked back at the tavern's door. He could grab Julia and be through it in three seconds.

The station wagon approached slowly. Its right front tire dropped into a pothole, splashing out muddy water. Stephen sensed the headlamps illuminating his legs, then his chest, then his face, growing brighter. He took a step back, forcing Julia to do the same.

'Let's see what he wants,' she said.

'How could this be good?'

'We're not going to get anywhere if we don't take chances.'

'Didn't you say we can't trust anyone?'

'He already knows our business. Maybe he's thought about it and wants to sell us some information.'

Stephen expected the car to make a roaring lunge at them, but it simply coasted alongside and stopped. He could see the cabbie's smile as he leaned to roll down the window.

'Hey!' the cabbie said. 'Other place food no good?' Acting natural.

Julia leaned around Stephen. 'What do you want?' she asked.

'Get in. Rain no good.'

'Come on,' Stephen said and took a step toward the tavern.

'I have news,' the cabbie called. 'Good news for you.'

'Like what?' Julia said.

The driver's smile faltered. 'My mind came back. You asked about place in the northwest, yes? There is something.'

'What?'

'Get in.' He read their expressions. 'Is okay. Look, I have nothing.'

Stephen leaned closer. On the passenger side of the bench seat were loose papers, a tattered magazine, and a mobile phone, a brick-sized thing from a decade ago.

Julia stepped past him and tugged on his shirt. She opened the back door and climbed in. Stephen followed. The heater was blasting out scalding air; it smelled like burning plastic.

The car started moving.

'We'll talk here,' Stephen said.

'This street no good. Bad . . . uh . . . element . . . kids.' He turned a corner.

Stephen looked at Julia. She lowered her head, whispered, 'If this turns bad, jump out your side. Don't worry about me.'

He nodded. 'Are you buying any of this?'

'If nothing else, it's a lead, it's something.'

The car made another turn. All the streets looked alike: empty, dark, and wet.

Julia poked him in the thigh. 'Listen. If something happens to me, go to the American Consulate. It's probably in Asuncion.'

'Nothing's going to—'

The car braked hard, throwing the two of them into the seat in front of them. Rain hit Stephen's face. The driver's door stood open. The driver was gone, three quick, splashing footsteps, then nothing.

Stephen jerked his door handle up. Julia grabbed his arm. Blood was smeared on her upper lip, leaking out her nose. She was peering over the front seat, through the windshield.

He looked. There was nothing out there but a disappearing red-dirt road, rust-colored puddles, millions of little stalagmites of water pinging upward, wavering sheets of heavy, dark rain . . .

And a man.

Walking toward them in the center of the street. Just a silhouette. Rising and falling with each step. Gone now, lost among the cascading beads. There! Closer! Broad shoulders. Tall. Wearing a . . . cape? No, a long coat, an oilskin slicker. It took a few seconds to realize the figure had stopped moving; the rain maintained the illusion of movement. Then it slacked.

'The Warrior,' Stephen said. The wound in his side seemed to throb, as though confirming the killer's presence. He became aware of the dome light, making their faces visible to the man outside. Atropos waited at the far edge of the headlights, appearing blurry and grainy, a 1970s eight-millimeter version of himself.

'He knows where Allen is,' Stephen said.

'We're not ready,' she said. 'He'll kill us. We need to do this differently.'

'Like how?'

'We need to be the ones surprising him, not the other way around.'

'Too late.'

'Why's he just standing there?'

'He's grinning,' Stephen said. He felt his muscles tighten with anger.

Atropos swung his arm up. A red light glimmered, then his hand appeared to explode in white light. Windshield glass shattered over them. Then again. Stephen turned to cover Julia, but she was already falling out of her open door. He shouldered open his own door and tumbled out into the mud. He rolled to the rear and fell into Julia, crouched at the bumper. The back window ruptured; glass pellets washed over them.

He looked at her hard. 'You run,' he said. 'I'll distract him.' He started to rise. She lunged at him, encircling his neck with her arm. Her face, mud peeling off it with each strike of raindrop, was all he could see.

'You're not doing that!' she said. 'You didn't come this far to die in the mud. I can't save Allen alone. I need you.'