4. The Crimson Halo

Here I am, heading back to Mexico six months later, to see who or what is after Sands. We're about an hour away from landing at the coordinates RC gave us, when my phone rings again.

"I've heard from Lucifer again," announces my boss. "He wants me to recall you, but I think he needs backup whether he'll admit it or not."

"What's going on? Does he know who's following him?"

"He found out it's someone he knows, but there was an exchange of gunfire and he's on the move."

On the move? I can track him via the signature of the PSCS - a little refinement I never got around to mentioning to its wearer. "It sounds like he could use an assist," I say coolly.

"Maybe. His exact words were, 'I'm not going to have time to babysit your little techno twink'."

"Or I could just kill him myself!" I yelp, outraged. "That self-centered, clueless, egotistical shitweasel!" Oh, boy, do I go off; RC - who knew damn well I wasn't going to ignore an insult like that - is chortling in my ear, which only makes it worse. Lee gives me side-long glances out of the corner of his eye, probably debating whether he has a prayer of snagging a chute and bailing out on the crazy woman. "What are you looking at?" I snap at him. "Just fly the goddamn plane!"

Lee lands on a dirt road on the outskirts of town, and is back in the air as fast as he can haul the plane up. I'm on my own now. It's a short hike to the warehouse leased by Millennium during RC's jaunt here last year. I have copies of the keys, although my previous trip didn't bring me out to this place. There's a jeep, I've been told - but when I enter the bay of the warehouse, I find a second car as well: a long, low-slung Studebaker probably two decades older than I am. It's black with red quarter panels under a layer of dust - it looks like the Batmobile gone to seed.

Lead me not into temptation; I don't even have to hot-wire it. One of the keys I have fits the ignition. I try to talk sense to myself - the Jeep, which isn't quite old enough to vote, is probably the better vehicle - but the Studie calls to me. I listen to the muted thunder of its V-8. Jeeps are a dime a dozen compared to the Batmobile. When's the last time you saw a Studebaker?

Techno twink? Fuck it, I'm taking the Studie. I don't know where it came from, but I'm gonna drive it like I stole it.

After spending an hour cross-crossing the streets of Culiacan, I'm ready to start exploring its alleyways and cul-de-sacs on foot. In one area, I got a burst of feedback from the locator I hastily contrapted in the warehouse's workroom. That strikes me as the best place to start. I'm not familiar with the town, but I've got my bearings to an extent, at least in relation to my other visit. This doesn't strike me as the greatest neighborhood. I wish I'd had time to install an alarm on the Batmobile. Yes, I've got a gun - another reason I don't fly commercial - and believe me, I have it out and ready to go as I make my way between two buildings.

Some pooch digging through a trashcan almost crosses the rainbow bridge right then. Okay, so I'm a little jumpy. I'm used to gacking people from a distance, or, if I have to get up close, I tend to favor poison. I've shot exactly one person during the course of my career - he tried to rape me before I could slip him a dose. I get out to the gun range a couple times a year; I'm reasonably competant but nobody's going to mistake me for Annie Oakley.

Up ahead is an open space, and the whine of the finder in my hands intensifies. There's a plaza or courtyard at the center of the block, inaccessible except on foot. The unit in my hands keens sharply, and I play hot and cold, ending up near one of the far walls.

No Sands, just the shiny graphite of the PSCS, discarded on the brick cobbles. My heart sinks. Then I see a boot, protruding toes up from behind the rim of a chipped, tiled fountain. I dread the thought of telling RC I got there too late.

Still no Sands. This guy looks like a native, and he has eyes. At least, I presume he does-unlike Sands, he has eyelids, too - which are closed at the moment. Dead? A modest pool of blood surrounds his head like a halo, and I can see a nasty-looking wound on the left side of his skull. There's no telling whether he's a cartel thug or an innocent bystander, but at the moment, he's the only lead to Sands's whereabouts that I have.

I turn off the finder and tuck it into my shoulder bag. Still covering the prone man, I lean over to check for a pulse.

Faster than thought, his hand grabs mine, and then I'm in the middle of a real-live Mexican standoff - he's pointing a gun at me, and he looks like he knows how to use it. Guess I don't need to check for a pulse, after all. He's a live one.