Horton caught his partner's shoulder and shoved him against the gully side. He put a hand into the sand and silt to find moisture.

"Rub this mud on my shirt," Horton whispered. He slapped the white short-sleeved dress shirt he wore.

Butterfield understood. He wore a dark sports coat over his white shirt. But Horton, in bleached and starched white, would stand out like a beacon.

They slapped mud on one another, on their faces and shirts, as the pickup bounced over the desert. His face masked desert-brown, Horton eased his eyes above the gully.

Against the light of the flaming car, he saw a skirmish line of four men heading toward them. The truck paced them, high beams and side-mounted spotlights bathing the desert. A weapon popped from the pickup bed.

No, not a weapon, not a rocket or a grenade launcher, Horton realized as a white sun seared away the night.

A flare.

He turned to Butterfield and saw him staring up at the blazing magnesium. "Don't look at it! It'll kill your night-vision..."

"Oh, God, Al," Butterfield groaned. "We're up against paramilitaries..."

"It's all right, it's all right. It's a big desert and they only have fifteen minutes to find us. We don't have to shoot it out. We just have to stay out of sight."

Slugs ripped through the brush above them. Butterfield flinched, then scrambled away on his hands and knees, dragging his shotgun through the sand and grit. The barrel and stock clattered on rocks. The shadows around him shifted rhythmically as the flare swung on the end of its miniature parachute.

Horton waited until the flare sputtered out, then ran after Butterfield. He heard another flare pop. He threw himself down on his panicked friend. As the second flare's white glare lit the area, Horton held Butterfield down and whispered to him.

"Don't move while the flares are up. They can only see us if we move while the flares are up. It's a big desert, thousands of square miles, they can't find us. Keep cool, they can't find us."