“How long do we wait?” I asked, but before either could answer, the younger one’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open and put it to his ear.

“It’s him,” he said in English. “It’s definitely him. What do you want us to do?”

The person on the phone said something. The two men stood, leveled their weapons. I closed my eyes expecting instant death, but then opened them again-if death was coming I wanted to meet it headon. And besides, I had a little ace in the hole that those two goons didn’t know about. Maybe take one of the bastards with me. That arrogant son of a bitch with the shotgun, perhaps.

But they weren’t killing me, they were adjusting themselves. The client wanted to speak to me first. The man with the 9mm gave me the phone. His eyes were expressionless. Cold.

“It’s for you,” he said with a sneer.

“Hola,” I said.

“Michael,” Bridget replied.

I recognized her voice immediately. I staggered a little and the man with the pistol had to steady me.

“You,” I muttered, unable to articulate anything more.

“Michael, if you’re taking this call it means that a man is pointing a gun at your head,” Bridget said.

“He is,” I agreed.

“He’s been instructed to kill you,” Bridget said.

“Aye, I gathered that.”

“I mean business,” Bridget said.

I knew she did. A year ago, in March 2003, when the U.S. Army was rolling into Baghdad and most people had other things on their minds, she’d sent a team of five assassins to get me at my hiding place in Los Angeles. A nasty little crew, but they’d screwed it up and I’d taken care of them. Still, I knew she’d come for me again. Honor demanded it. I had killed her fiancé, the mob boss Darkey White, and I had turned state’s evidence against all my old pals. A killer and a traitor. Bridget wanted me dead, even if all that had taken place in 1992-twelve goddamn years ago. You had to admire her tenacity.