Luis stared at the scene with longing and sorrow. For that moment, Lyons studied the young man's old face. Lyons had already heard Dr. Orozco's horror. What had Luis suffered?

Looking down through a dirty skylight, they saw Colonel Morales. The colonel supervised a crew of workers packing what appeared to be clay inside the door panels of three cars — a battered Fiat, a gleaming black Mercedes, and a blue-and-white National Police squad car. Elsewhere in the warehouse, workers packed the clay into commonplace street objects: trash cans, striped street barricades, the underside of fiberglass park benches.

Blancanales leaned to Lyons and Luis. He pointed to a shipping crate, then motioned to all the objects the workers packed. "That's C-4. Plastic explosive."

"They are making bombs?" Luis asked.

Lyons nodded. He slipped back from the skylight to key his hand-radio. He whispered to Gadgets.

"Guess what? It's a bomb factory. Car bombs, booby traps. Enough to make this city Beirut-for-a-day. What's going on out front?"

"Nada, man. Zero. Guard number one's got a cigar in the car. Guard number two's asleep on his feet."

"The doctor's people in position?"

"First shot they hear, it's blacktop kill zone."

"Standby. Over."

Blancanales snapped his fingers to get Lyons's attention. He pointed down. "Two guards coming up," he hissed.

Lyons went to the stairwell housing, moving as quickly as he dared over the sun-cracked tar of the warehouse roof.

He felt the footsteps on the stairs before he heard them. Pressing his back against the housing, he thumbed back his silent Colt's hammer and waited.

Voices. Sentries. The door swung open, light fanning across the dark rooftop. Lyons saw one man with a folded-stock Galil autorifle in his hands. The man called out.