"They call them Communist terrorists… fourteen dead… no weapons, but some of the dead men had holsters for pistols… it is now being investigated by the army…"

Lyons keyed his hand-radio to brief Blancanales and Gadgets.

"We're monitoring the police units at the bomb factory. The police have turned it over to the army to investigate. Seems they think it was a Communist terror operation."

"What about Colonel Morales?" Blancanales asked.

"Nothing.

"… they have no witnesses…"

"Anything about three North Americans?"

"Nothing yet."

Luis continued to translate as he followed the winding freeway through the night. "…there is another report… an army colonel murdered by guerillas on the highway… Colonel Crespo."

"You know this Crespo?" Lyons asked.

"Did you take his name to Unomundo?" Luis demanded of Senora Garcia, who rode silently in the back seat, her hands cuffed behind her, plastic handcuffs looped around her ankles. "Answer me!"

But she only cried. Luis cursed her in Spanish. He told Lyons: "The president appointed him to reform the National Police. Colonel Crespo threw out those who kidnapped and tortured and murdered. And now he is dead, machinegunned in Chimaltenango. By hombres desconocidos. Unknown men. It was unknown men who killed my wife and baby. Are you proud of that, puta! Puta fascista!"

"I killed no one. My husband killed no one."

Luis flashed a glance of hatred at the woman in the back seat. "You think your lies will save you? I saw the lists! I know..."

He went quiet to listen to the military-police radio. "Roadblock! They will search cars for the Communists."

"Where?"

He pointed ahead.

"Pol. Wizard. We got problems. We're going into a roadblock."