the white sand.

Rodriquez went to his belt with his right hand, pulled out a mini-Uzi, and chambered it. 'Cocksucker!' he roared.

Then the muzzle flash of automatic gunfire lit the dark beach.

But it was Rodriquez, not Shane, who flew backward. Most of the Mexican's head was missing when he flopped onto the sand a few feet away.

Shane, startled and exhausted, looked over and saw Jody standing in the dark, holding a short-barrel Heckler amp; Koch machine pistol.

After a moment of silence, Jody walked over and pried the mini-Uzi out of the dead man's hand. 'Dig a hole… Let's get him buried.' For the first time since he'd known him, Shane thought his old friend looked shaken.

Shane's eyes found Victory Smith behind Jody… The weight lifter's pockmarked face was stretched into a grimace of hate. Shane knew that Smith had somehow managed to talk Rodriquez into the attempt on his life. Now, with Hot Rod dead, Victory Smith was not going to be held in check, no matter what Jody said.

Shane watched from the doorway of the motor home as Tremaine Lane dug the shallow grave, then Lane and Wood dragged the near-headless body of Hector Rodriquez over and laid him at the edge of the fresh pit. Victory Smith teetered on his crutches in smoldering silence.

Jody came to the motor home, opened a side compartment, and pulled out a five-gallon can of Coleman lantern fluid. 'We're gonna give him a Viking funeral. No invitation required. Come on,' he said.

They walked to the edge of the hole where the three other Vikings stood, expressionless.

'Okay, let's get something straight,' Jody said. 'Rodriquez died because he couldn't focus on the problem. I talked to Papa Joe this afternoon, and the plans have changed. He wants us up in the Springs tomorrow night to meet the other players. That means we gotta get movin' now. We've got a week, maybe less, before we cash in. After that, we don't ever have to see each other again. But I can't pull this off if we keep losing people.' He looked around at their sullen faces. 'Starting tonight, no more drugs. This guy's dead 'cause he couldn't keep the spike outta his arm. I'm friskin' everybody 'fore you get on the coach. If you don't ditch your stash, you don't leave with us. The Lord of the Skies will fly you back, and you lose your cut.' Nobody spoke, but they all stood there, glaring. 'Okay, let's plant him.'

Tremaine Lane and Lester Wood rolled Rodriquez into the hole. He thudded when he hit the bottom, three feet down.

'Anybody wanna say anything?' Jody asked.

'Motherfucker sure used a lot of X,' Tremaine finally murmured.

Jody emptied half a can of Coleman lantern fluid onto the body, then dropped in a match. The body exploded in fire. They stood there, around the flaming grave, watching Hot Rod burn until they could no longer make out the shape of him.

As Shane watched, he felt another wave of soul pollution that darkened his world and deadened his senses. The moment stood as a dark premonition of the path his life had taken. The depression brought with it a listless loss of self that made everything seem unimportant- even Alexa's murder.

The body crackled and burned, until finally all that was left was glowing ash.

'That concludes the service,' Jody said softly.

Chapter 23

LISA

SHANE SAW THE distant lights of Palm Springs shimmering on the horizon like a counterfeit jewel. The motor home was crusted with brown sand from the rutted dirt roads they had taken in Mexico before finally crossing the border at Mexicali, then turning northwest toward the Cochella Valley.

The entire way across Baja and into California, nobody had mentioned the shooting of Rodriquez, but the memory certainly lingered.

Then they were driving through downtown Palm Springs, on North Palm Canyon Drive, past Arby's barbecue joints and faux French restaurants, past golf courses and Bentley dealerships.

They left Palm Springs proper and started to pass through neighboring towns, strung back-to-back along Highway 111 like brightly painted beads. They passed Smoketree Village and Palm Springs Heights, with their estate homes built low on the desert hillsides… Then drove through Cathedral City, the only tarnished bead on this expensive necklace of resort towns. Used-clothing stores and taco stands stood side by side like passengers at a skid-row bus stop trying desperately to ignore one another.

They drove through Rancho Mirage and Indian Wells, finally arriving at the exclusive development community of La Quinta.

The same three architects must have been making a killing in the Cochella Valley. Everywhere he looked, Shane saw Spanish arches and terra-cotta tile. In La Quinta, every palm tree was bathed in its own 2,000-watt xenon 'up-light.' All of this costly, brightly lit architecture was draped in colorful purple and red hibiscus and bougainvillea.

La Quinta was upscale housing that stretched along several world-class golf courses.

Jody had driven the last leg of the journey and now turned the big, dusty motor home into a new 'behind the gates' development project called La Quinta Esperanza. He pulled up to the guard shack and tapped the horn. An octogenarian in a crisp brown uniform decorated with shiny yellow shoulder patches came out of his flower-draped shack with a clipboard and limped over to the driver-side window.

'Howdy,' Jody said, grinning. 'I'm Lewis Foster. I think I'm expected. I'm a guest of Jose Mondragon's.'

The man scowled at his clipboard as if it contained the results of his last prostate exam. 'Can't see with these glasses,' he muttered. 'Gotta get me a new prescription.'

'Lemme help,' Jody said, reaching for the clipboard. He found his alias and pointed to it: 'Lew Foster. Right there,' he said, handing over his phony driver's license obtained by the ATF Undercover Documents Section.

The old man grabbed the clipboard back and nodded. 'Yep… Yep, sure 'miff, there she is,' he muttered. 'I'll get the keys.' He returned Jody's license, then limped painfully back into the shack.

'They musta got this plastic badge from Geezers 'R' Us,' Jody growled. 'If this dinosaur is our security, we're gonna have t'post our own watch. Inky Dink, you got the first duty.'

There was a groan from Tremaine Lane in the back of the motor home, then the old man came back and handed Jody a set of keys. 'It's the big Spanish one… Very end of Desert Flower Drive.'

The house was at least five thousand square feet and sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. Jody pulled into the circular drive and parked the Vogue coach in front of a four-car garage. Fairways from the adjoining golf course bordered the hacienda-style home.

The Spanish structure was two stories and, from the landscaping, looked as though it had just been completed. Topiary trees cut into veterinary shapes were lit by pale moonlight and haunted the perimeter of the house, rustling in the desert wind like restless spirits.

They climbed out of the motor home, then passed through the side gate into the courtyard, where a wing of guest suites horseshoed around an Olympic-size pool. A few shanked golf balls were submerged in the deep end.

One by one, Jody opened up the guest suites with his keys, and members of the Vikings picked their accommodations. All of the rooms were big, with kitchenettes, living rooms, and remarkable views of either the fairway or the mountains beyond.

Shane's room had a phone jack but no phone. Not that he would attempt to contact Chief Filosiani under these circumstances. He was supposed to get loose and call in, but so far he'd had no opportunity. Also, he didn't know what to say to the Day-Glo Dago, how to explain the 'cop killer' bullet Jody had put in the breech of his gun that resulted in Alexa's death.

He undressed in his bathroom, then put his clothes in the suite's apartment-style vertical washing machine and dryer. He set the wash cycle; then wearing only a terry-cloth robe he found in the closet, Shane went outside to swim a few laps. He hoped some exercise would help get his head clear. He shrugged off the borrowed robe and

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