Tires screeching, the taxi stopped.

"Adios," Gadgets said to the elderly Latin driver as they got out.

"And a good journey to you, men," the driver replied in bizarre Scottish-accented English. He pointed to an open shop door. "There be your address."

Then they stood alone in the street. The taxi screeched around the corner, disappeared into traffic. "Derbies and Scots," Gadgets laughed. "Bolivia's weird."

Stepping through the doorway, Lyons smelled the foul-sweet odor of excrement and blood and cordite. Death. He reached back to caution Gadgets, felt the muzzle of his companion's Uzi. Lyons slid the Colt Python from his shoulder holster, continued forward.

Past an entryway was a hallway. A skylight cast a soft yellow light on the polished linoleum. Lyons saw the doors to several rooms. All were closed, but a pattern of light marked one door and the hallway floor. Silent in his soft-soled shoes, Lyons moved closer.

He pointed to himself, pointed at the door. Gadgets nodded. Kicking the door open, Lyons threw himself against the wall, waited. He and Gadgets watched the other doors. Finally, Lyons peeked into the room.

Rosario Blancanales lay on the floor, his face bluish gray, his chest and gut ripped open by point-blank shotgun blasts.

2

The dim hallway spun around Carl Lyons. He staggered back, fell against the wall. He gripped his Colt, steadying himself as his mind screamed: The Politician's dead, he's dead. My friend's dead.

Gadgets leaned over the corpse, staring intently at Rosario Blancanales' face. He squatted down and turned the dead man's head to study the profile. He had to push hard to make the neck of the stiffening corpse turn.

"Schwarz!" Lyons was aghast.

"I don't know about this..." Gadgets answered.

"All I want to know is who did it." Lyons went to the corpse. A vast pool of dried, coagulated blood crusted the floor. Lyons looked down at the blood of his friend.