the windowpane in the lower right corner of the frame.
It popped out, falling inward.
Here was where the downpour was working for them; the sound of the glass falling inside and breaking would never be overheard over the rattle of rainfall drumming on the echoing tin roof.
Jack peeked inside through the gap. As they'd guessed, the window lay in a dark corner of the shedlike structure. The interior was vast, gloomy, cavernous, the dimness broken by a series of floodlights hanging overhead on wires suspended from a rafter beam that ran along the building's central axis.
It was an old building, filled with a lot of old junk, stacked piles of metal truss braces long since gone to rust, massive blocky mounds wrapped in greasy, age-darkened tarpaulins, worktables and benches that hadn't been put to use in decades.
The real action was going on in the center of the space, where a knot of men were loading bundles of material into the backs of several SUVs that were parked inside. The long west wall was broken by an open bay door; floodlights mounted outside the bay and atop it threw cones of light onto the pier, illuminating slanted lines of rain that sliced through the glow.
Still, there was nothing about the activity to suggest whether it was lawful business or illicit doings; Jack and Pete needed a closer look.
Jack hooked his hands together, giving Pete a boost so he could reach up inside the empty square where the pane of glass had been. Pete's hand was still wrapped in the folds of the raincoat, protecting it. Groping around at the top of the window, he located a catch; he turned it, unlocking the window.
He stepped down from Jack's knitted hands, planting both feet on the pier. Hinge-mounted to the frame along its upper end, the window swung open and inward as Pete exerted pressure against it, easing it open until the space was wide enough to accommodate the passage of a man.
The dark corner on which the window opened was hemmed in by some wooden packing boxes stacked to the left of the frame; beyond the corner of the stack, a view opened to the center of the building, where the loading of the SUVs continued uninterrupted, the handlers seemingly oblivious of the activity at the far end of the structure.
Pete unwrapped the raincoat bundled around his arm, letting it fall to the pier. Jack was in better shape, so he gave Pete a boost up, allowing the older agent to enter first.
Pete wriggled headfirst through the opening, squirming down the side of the wall to the floor. He kicked his feet clear and tumbled to the concrete floor, moving into the square of shadow cast by the pile of packing cases. Rising, he motioned to Jack that the coast was clear.
Jack gripped the lower end of the frame, chinning himself up and over the opening and going through headfirst, slipping noiselessly to the floor. He was just gathering his feet under him when moving shadows fell across him and Pete.
Three men stepped out from behind the stacked packing cases, where they must have been lurking. Backlit by the lights on the center of the building, they were shadowy forms, their faces hidden. Reflected light glinted on the guns in their hands, guns leveled on Jack and Pete.
One said, 'Hold it!'
Pete made a try, throwing himself to one side and grabbing for the gun worn in a holstered side clip at his hip. His piece hadn't even cleared the holster when a shot rang out, a muzzle flare spearing from the gun barrel of the shooter, the man in the middle.
Pete toppled, dead weight slamming to the concrete floor. He rolled into the light, his upturned face revealing a hole in the center of his forehead.
Jack stayed in place, keeping his empty hands clear of his body. Pete had reached against a drawn gun, an impossible try. Just as Colonel Paz had tried to go against Jack when the latter had the drop on him. Paz had had a gun in his hand, and he still hadn't had a chance. Pete's hand was empty, making the odds against success even more astronomical.
Possibly he'd gambled that he could take a few hits to the body and still return fire, giving Jack a fighting chance to go for his gun. But the gunman standing in the center of the trio was too good; a dead shot, he'd drilled Pete squarely through the middle of the forehead. And that with a hip shot made while Pete was in motion, too; the killer was an ace marksman.
The shooter stepped forward, a line of gun smoke curling from the barrel of his gun. Turning to one side to face Jack, he moved so that his face was partly in the light.
He was young, in his mid-twenties, dark hair slicked back straight from the top of his forehead and worn long in the back, curling over his collar. Cleanshaven, with chiseled features, he had bright blue eyes that stood against a deep tan.
Smiling with his lips, he said, 'You want some, too?'
Jack stayed in place, motionless.
The shooter took a step forward, toward Jack. He said, 'A snoopy guy, eh? This is what happens to snoopy guys.'
He slammed the flat of his pistol against the side of Jack's face.
Jack dropped, all going black.
20. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 12 A.M. AND 1 A.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME
Jack came to. He was soaked, dripping. Blood?
No, it was water, a bucketful of water that had just been dashed in his face by a hulking goon who stood looming over him.
Jack was sitting up, in a straight-backed, roller-mounted swivel chair. Damned near antique, by the looks of it; it was made not of steel and plastic, but of old brown wood, nicked and scarred.
His hands were secured behind his back. He could barely feel them; they were lumps of meat. He tried to wriggle his fingers to see if he could; they responded, producing agonizing sensations that wrung a groan from him.
A voice said, 'Don't bother shamming; I know you're awake.' A familiar voice, crisp, well-modulated, slightly accented. The speaker had to speak loud to be heard from the rain drumming on the rooftop.
Jack's eyes came into focus; he looked around. He was in a different part of the building, a corner square that had been partitioned off into a sizable office space.
The partitions were ten feet tall; the top had not been roofed over but left open.
Overhead, a cable dangled down from a rafter beam, terminating in a half-shaded lamp suspended about ten feet above the floor.
The partitions were old, too, made of age-darkened wood; starting at shoulder height, their upper halves were made of frosted, translucent glass, no doubt to let some light into the space.
There was a rectangular wooden desk, as dark and scarred as the partition walls; it contrasted with the layout of computer towers and monitor screens arrayed on the desktop. Some filing cabinets stood in the corners where partition walls met.
The office space had no door, only a door-shaped opening that served as an entryway, set in a partition opposite the rear wall, one of the walls of the building. The office looked like it dated back to the 1950s; the high- tech equipment assembled there was brand-new.
To one side of the entryway stood an old wooden table; atop it were a number of glass cases, terrarium- style, each containing its own set of nasty nature specimens.
One case held a mess of wriggling coral snakes, brightly colored with their bands of red, black, and yellow. They were incredibly venomous; a bite could easily kill a full-grown man. Another held several water moccasins, entwined among one another — black snakes, the inside of whose mouths showed white when they bared their long, curved, poison-dripping fangs, a distinguishing mark that had given rise to their nickname of cottonmouths. A third was stocked with foot-long black centipedes, each of whose bite could make a human limb blacken and swell
