"Ironman, what do you think?" Gadgets asked Lyons.

"I think I don't like it. Andy, can we ditch our liaison?"

"That's up to you. You three are the men working the operation. You make the decisions."

The cabin door opened. Midday tropical glare and the roar of jet engines cut off the discussion. Lyons saw two Chevy Silverado vans — one-ton pickups built for nine passengers — parked inside a hangar. Two men in sport suits waited there.

Pausing on the aluminum steps to put on his sun-glasses, Lyons scanned the immediate area. Directly in front of him, only twenty steps away, their Guatemalan liaison officers waited. Lyons looked to the hangars on the right and left.

He saw no technicians at the parked planes, no airport workers moving in the other hangars. A truck had its hood open. A tarp on one fender protected the paint from tools and parts, but he saw no mechanic. In another area, a pickup truck idled, cargo stacked in the back, smoke wisping from the exhaust pipe, the driver's door hanging open. A step from the truck, fizzing pink pop spread from a bottle, sunlight glinting from the bottle as it rolled on the concrete.

Lyons put his right hand behind his back, snapped his fingers to get his partners' attention, then straightened his forefinger and made the motion of cocking his thumb back like a pistol hammer.

"Receiving on your wavelength," Gadgets answered. "No video transmission necessary. We got the picture."

As Lyons clanged down the steps, his partners stayed in the jet. Blancanales turned to Gadgets. "When I walk down there, I'm going to embrace our brother officers of the law. Have any small gifts I can give them? So that I can always hear their voices?"