A week before, in the Sierra de Chucus of Guatemala, Lyons had assaulted a Huey troopship in an attempt to block the escape of the would-be Nazi dictator of Central America, Miguel de Unomundo. While Blancanales and Gadgets and a squad of Quiche Indians annihilated the last soldiers of Unomundo's army of Fascist mercenaries, Lyons dueled with the troopship's doorgunners — his full-auto twelve-gauge Atchisson against an M-60. Lyons killed one gunner, then another, but suffered a wound: as he took cover behind a burning truck, a burst from the dying gunner's weapon smashed through the door and windshield of the truck, a slug throwing the truck's rearview mirror into Lyons's arm.

"Why don't you take a break?" Blancanales said. "Let that heal before..."

"It's nothing," Lyons told him.

"Yeah? It's okay already?" Blancanales poked a fingertip into the wound. "How's that feel?"

Lyons recoiled, his left hand clawing with pain, his face going tight. He clenched his right fist. "Son of a bitch!"

"How's it feel when you're slamming it into that punching bag? You getting into pain? Macho masochism?"

Lyons grinned against the pain. "Nerve noise. Just nerves transmitting noise to my brain. Nothing real."

Blancanales cocked back his fist. "Ignore this one!"

Deflecting the fist with his shoulder, Lyons hooked a foot behind his partner's right foot, dropped him onto the grass. He went into a down-strike, as if to finish Blancanales with a fist to the temple. As the fist came down, Blancanales rolled to the side, scissored his legs around Lyons's legs, dropped him.

On his ass in the grass, Lyons laughed. "You know all the tricks. So what's this party you're talking about? April set us up with some of her friends? No thanks!"

"No, this is a Washington party. A reception."