As for Jessup, he was tired of jerking off.

This midnight, they had parked beside a narrow blacktop ribbon south of Cowlic, east of Santa Rosa, in the barren no-man's-land of Pima County. At their backs, the Comobabi Mountains hulked against a velvet sky devoid of moonlight. It was as black as sin outside the cruiser, and Roy was about to try the night glasses again when pinprick headlights made their first appearance on the dark horizon.

"Lookee there, now."

Elmo reached across to get the glasses, and Roy let them go, knowing the cars were still too far away for a visual scan. They were still on the Mexican side, heading north, but distance could be deceiving in the desert, and especially after dark.

"How long you figure?"

"Twenty minutes, give or take, unless they turn around."

Roy Jessup felt a prickling sensation on his scalp, and there was sudden gooseflesh crawling on his arms despite the desert's warmth. At midnight, the temperature was close to seventy-five degrees, and twelve short hours earlier it had been one-ten in the shade, if you could find yourself a patch. However, the sudden chill he felt bore no relation to the outside temperature. There was something of anticipation in the feeling, but he recognized that there was something else as well.

And Jessup knew that something else was fear.

Why should he be afraid? How many times had they staked out this highway, or some other lonely stretch of blacktop, stopping border runners for a little hands-on scrutiny? Not often, when you thought about it. Almost never, if you really put your memory to work. So why were four cars — make that five — approaching in a midnight convoy from the south?