baby, her rich brown hair pulled back in a French braid. She used to wear a pair of round glasses that made her look like a librarian. Bad genetics, his friends from the teams would joke, referring to her bad eyesight, but they wouldn't have joked if they'd known how right they were.
Since her father had asphyxiated himself on the fumes of his '77 Dodge Ram in the garage two days after she'd turned eleven, Jacqueline had been raised by her mother alone. By the time Jacqueline began high school, her mother was already having delusions, and around Jacque-line's sophomore year, she'd started hearing the voices of the three mon-keys and was moved to the Whitehill Psychiatric Institution. Jacqueline had been raised in Utah by a stern spinster aunt.
It had been difficult for Derek to admit that his wife needed to be institutionalized. He'd fought the reality for months and it had cost him everything. He'd never forget the morning he finally drove through the wrought-iron hospital gates and left her there with the battered brown suitcase she'd packed with three dresses and a rain slicker when she'd fled Utah for college. Now, one continent and nearly four thousand miles away, the images still maintained their vise-grip on him. It felt pretty barren now, his life, and it didn't look as if it would be changing anytime soon.
He was snapped from his thoughts when the building lurched, throwing his chair to the side. He grabbed hold of the balcony railing to steady himself, but it pulled free from the stucco and plummeted to the street. He staggered inside the hotel room, falling over and banging his head on a cruise box. His Sig Sauer fell from his belt. One of the walls was undu-lating so fiercely, he thought it might buckle. Pulling himself to his feet and wiping the blood from his forehead, he fought his way to the weapons box, the floor shuddering beneath his feet. He double- checked both padlocks, then turned, lurching out into the hallway in time to see Tank rush Rex to the stairs. The woman from next door flashed down the stairs to safety, the baby cradled to her chest.
Rex was grinning a madman's grin. 'Feel those compressional waves?' he yelled.
Derek pointed Tank down the stairs and Tank yanked Rex along with him. The stairs seemed to be swaying from side to side. The three men crashed through the lobby and stumbled onto the street. The quake finally subsided.
'Here,' Rex said, pulling them into an arched stone doorway across the street. People ran past in both directions. Shattered glass was strewn across the sidewalks, and a few fingers of asphalt had risen in the street, but no buildings had gone over. The hotel guards were arguing with a construction worker at the end of the block.
Derek felt for his gun and noticed it missing. 'Fuck!' he barked.
Eyes glowing with excitement, Rex didn't seem to hear him. 'We're practically sitting on the epicenter,' he cried, banging his fist into his palm. 'Those roller coaster waves-those are the shear waves. Usually there are all sorts of heterogeneities by the time they reach you, but those fuckers were clear as day.' He leaned out the doorway to look up the street, but Derek forced him against the wall, his forearm pressing into the top of his chest. 'That must've been a six!' Rex crowed, straining to see over Derek's arm.
They huddled together until some of the commotion settled on the streets. Soon it was quiet, save the long, wailing moans of a woman somewhere in an apartment nearby. Derek stepped cautiously from cover. He glanced up an alley alongside the building and realized that it was the same side street his room overlooked. He located his balcony and saw a man frozen in the window, looking right at him. He was the man they had seen earlier, the handsome guayaquileno with the unbut-toned shirt and gold chains. They stared at each other for a moment, then the man bolted from the window and Derek sprinted for the lobby.
A worker tried to restrain Derek at the door, but Derek sent him flying with a straight-armed shove. He was up the stairs two at a time, and he kicked through the door to his and Cameron's room, splintering one of the wooden panels. The cruise box holding the two spare ammo crates and all the jammed mags was empty, and Derek didn't see his pis-tol on the floor. The weapons box and the other cruise boxes were banged up, some of them flipped over, but they all seemed to be intact.
Cursing, Derek leapt back through the doorway and glanced in both directions. At the far end of the hall, a large window, newly shattered, looked out onto Calle Pedro Carbo. Derek sprinted the length of the hall and stuck his head out, cutting his hands on the bits of glass stuck in the bottom of the frame. Holding the last ammo crate, the man with the gold chains ran to a waiting truck. The back was covered, but through the flap, Derek saw the other ammo crate, and a bag he assumed held the Sig and M-4 mags. The man turned back and laughed, spreading his arms. He blew Derek a kiss, jumped in the passenger seat, and the truck was gone.
Derek stood for a moment leaning in the direction it had gone, breathing the heat, watching the truck's exhaust fade into the air. Behind him, a bare bulb dangled from a wire, its protective casing smashed. Light danced around the narrow hall as the bulb swayed from an after-shock. When Derek shifted his weight, he noticed the glass digging into his palms, so he lifted his hands from the sill. Turning, he sank to the floor, leaning back against the wall. He raised his hands to his face and pushed back the skin of his cheeks until his eyes slanted.
There was a momentous rumble from the stairs, then Tank ran down the hall toward Derek, Rex following close behind. Tank stopped before Derek, breathing hard. 'What?' he asked.
Derek lowered his hands. His cheeks were smeared with blood from his palms, two crimson marks like war paint. 'The ammo,' he said. 'They got the ammo.'
The squad convened at the hotel immediately following the earthquake, Cameron having successfully rounded up the others. Derek sat in the wooden chair, the soldiers circled silently around him. The cuts on Derek's hands were superficial; Justin had easily picked out the glass, then applied antibacterial gel. They all stared at the boxes, which Derek had already opened and inventoried.
'At least they didn't take the geodetic equipment,' Rex said.
Szabla's smooth cheeks drew up in a squint. 'The black marketeers will be devastated.'
'I contacted Mako, who put me in touch with the UN colonel who runs this AO,' Derek said. He spoke in a soft, angry voice. 'As you can imagine, the colonel was less than helpful in fielding my request for replacement ordnance, despite the fact that this happened in their fucking backyard. The UN does not seem to be making us the highest prior-ity, which in light of the ammo shortage down here, puts us somewhere worse off than shit out of luck. They did promise armed transfer to the airport tomorrow.'
'Whoopee,' Szabla said.
Tank started checking the weapons to see if anyone had accidentally left a round chambered. 'Nothing left?' Tucker asked. Tank shook his head.
Derek said, 'Both crates and the mags. They got it all. We're essen-tially without weapons.'
Savage thunked his boot down on the edge of Derek's chair. He pulled up the leg of his pants and yanked his blade from the ankle sheath. 'Not really,' he said.
'Yeah,' Justin said. 'I'm sure we could take on an army with that bad boy.'
Derek knocked Savage's foot off his chair. 'That's the good news,' he said. 'We don't need to take on an army. We lift out tomorrow morning, and the islands are a docile environment.'
'How do you know that?' Rex asked.
'Guayaquil's basically a docile environment,' Szabla said.
'Yeah, you guys seem to be breezing through this leg of the mission.'
Szabla stiffened. 'Look, you fuck-'
'I have been assured that the islands are not hostile,' Derek said, 'aside from the obvious seismic complications against which weapons will hardly be useful. Our mission is to assist you in distributing the GPS gear, which we can accomplish without ordnance.'
'I'm just nervous about bandits, or random…' Rex stopped, looking around. 'Well, it is a concern. The situation in Galapagos has gotten increasingly desperate.'
'I think you'll find the seven of us adequate bodyguards,' Derek said.
Szabla held up a hand, fingers spread. 'One of us would be an ade-quate bodyguard.' She rose from the bed. 'But remember your request for a massive misallocation of resources? You see, to impress you and all the contacts you called in-'
'Szabla,' Derek said, his voice raised in warning.
'— we all have to waste a week and wave guns around so you feel like you're well taken care of in a city less dangerous than New York on an average Saturday night.'
'Szabla!' Derek barked. She looked down, fuming.
Rex applauded her performance. 'Love the drama,' he said. 'And you're right, Guayaquil is much safer than
