Fifteen miles out, I could see El Rayo sketching a false horizon as far as the eye could see, a glowing wire stretching east to west. As we drew closer, the taller structures of the city lifted against the fire. The tallest within view was a cathedral that had formerly been known as Nuestra Señora del Rayo, this referring to an apparition of the Virgin that had manifested in the burning red light, witnessed by thousands of the devout. The church had been constructed without a back wall, open to the curtain of fire at the very spot where Our Lady had materialized, just in case She decided to do a second show. It was now a part of the Carbonell's compound, organized religion having retreated to safer climes. Ramiro Carbonell and his two sons occupied the rectory, and the two buildings were connected by tunnels and roofed passageways to a dozen lesser buildings, and this warren was segregated from the remainder of Barrio Ningun by high heavily-patrolled stone walls.

The dirt streets through which we drove were thronged with heavily armed, heavily tattooed young guys. Carbonell affiliates. They moved aside grudgingly as the Rolls nosed toward the cathedral; they flicked lit cigarettes at us, flourished their pistols and spat, then—as we moved beyond them—turned back to their card games and their whores. Pariah dogs cast uneasy glances at us and skulked off into alley mouths; naked toddlers chewing sugar cane and tortillas stood in candlelit doorways and looked on in wonder; teenage hookers tried to peer at the rich people hidden behind the darkened glass. Pastel casitas with smoking charcoal stoves; drunks with bloody heads lying maybe dead in front of cantinas with no doors; a beshawled mother lifting a sick baby with fly-encrusted eyelids up to the red light and asking for a miracle. Soon the houses gave out into vast acreage of hovels made of plyboard and cardboard, tires, crates, what-have-you. Thin smoke rose from makeshift chimneys everywhere, like the issue of souls into the body of God: the oily gray cloud they formed overhead. And on the far side, towering above El Rayo like a last holy dream on the edge of hell, stood the cathedral. We could have driven through that place a hundred years before, and it would have been more-or-less the same. Poverty was humanity's most enduring tradition, and Barrio Ningun one of its great temples.

We pulled up beside the compound gate. I stepped out, showed myself to the two guards who stood atop it. "Eddie Poe," I told them.

One of the guards, a guy with some years on him, his chest bibbed with a salt-and-pepper beard, said, "You're good, Poe, but Sammy don't pass."

Behind me, Childers was standing on the running board of the personnel carrier. A couple of raggedy children were staring up at him and giggling.

"I cleared this with Ramiro," I said. "Sammy comes inside, or we head on back."

I gave a circular gesture to Childers. He spoke to someone in the carrier. Dennard, Morely, and Fetisov jumped out and established a perimeter. Childers joined them. The kids quit giggling when they saw Sammy's guns, and the curiosity seekers who had crowded in behind us backed away.

"Hijo," I said to the guard. "Lemme in, or I'm gon' tell Sammy to cut me a new road."

"Think I give a shit about these putos?" The guard laughed. "Kill 'em all. I don't fuckin' care."

The street cleared quickly; a handful of tattooed guys remained, too stoned or too stupid to worry about the consequences.

"Three minutes," I told the guard. "Then we're leaving. You makin' the wrong move, coño. Better talk to Ramiro, or you gon' be takin' a ride on El Rayo tonight."

The two guards vanished; in much less than three minutes they returned. "Bueno," said the bearded guy. "Pasen."

The gate rattled back and we drove into a courtyard paved with broken flagstones. A kid in baggy fatigues beckoned for us to pull up by the cathedral steps. The house of God had aquired a post-apocalyptic gloss since the last priest fled. Much of the ornamentation on the face of the building had been shot away or defaced with graffiti; sheets of metal had replaced the stained glass windows, and the white marble steps had been sprayed green white and gold, and chains of black symbols, like magical equations, had been inscribed atop the paint. From the steeple flew a red banner bearing a black circle. I wouldn't have been surprised to see demons peeking from behind the columns that flanked the carved wooden doors.

Lupe scrambled out and began instructing Frankie to shoot this and that. "We're goin' live again," she whispered to me. "Act like you care!"

Except for our party, the only other person in the courtyard was the kid. He was scrawny, fourteen tops, with shoulder-length hair and a wispy mustache. Large dark eyes brimful of hate. A narrow chin and a beaklike nose a couple of sizes too large for his face. The Carbonell physiognomy. Probably, I thought, a grandson of Ramiro's. He stared at me with a surly hauteur. Even the children were crazy. That's why the Carbonells had risen so high. They outcrazied everyone else.

I told Childers to check out the church. He and Fetisov sprinted up the steps and disappeared inside. Frankie was scuttling across the facade of the building, from broken angel to broken gargoyle, shooting down at Lupe, who was striking poses and delivering her introduction to the Carbonells, telling how Ramiro's fortune, built on kidnapping and drugs, had evolved into an empire founded on vice but with heavy investment in legitimate concerns. Zee stood gazing up at the church. Judging by his contemplative expression, you might have thought he was planning to redecorate. The courtyard was enclosed by a high whitewashed wall, some inset with dark doors that led into the family warren. The guards on the gate had disappeared. The sounds of the street were muted. I did not have a good feeling.

Childers appeared at the cathedral door, trotted down the stairs to my side. "The supressor field's on. The minute we got inside, the weapons computers went screwy. Fetisov scanned the place. No trace of non-computerized weaponry. Felix is packing a knife, but that's not a problem."

"If the supressor field goes off," I said, "you got my permission to fuck em up."

Childers shot me a bemused look. "You know what will happen if we waste the Carbonells."

"Nobody's gonna waste anyone. That's why I hired you people. To make sure of that. Even the Carbonell family's not gonna wage war on Sammy."

"Oh, yeah," said Childers, deadpan. "They'd have to be nuts."

"Okay, man," I said, turning to Zee. "It's your party."

He blessed me with a smile, started up the steps. Lupe followed, chattering into her throat mike. Sammy and I brought up the rear.

The Carbonells had gutted the body of the church, replacing pews with a long mahogany Spanish Colonial banquet table and matching chairs; but they had left the altar intact, and it was a sight that might reorder anyone's notion of a benign Christianity. Draped in white silk, appointed with four golden candlesticks and an intricately carved gold chalice, and surmounted by a thirty-foot-tall golden cross. Supported by invisible wires, it appeared to have materialized from the wall of red fire that supplanted the rear wall. The other walls were scorched and pocked with bullet holes. A scent of old explosions hung in the air. Our Lady of Napalm, I thought. Nuestra Señora de la Guerra Mundial. The banquet table was situated directly beneath the altar, so close you could hear the hum and feel the heat of El Rayo on your skin. Sitting along one side of it were Ramiro Carbonell, his sons Felix and Ruy, and two guys of about Ramiro's age, late fifties, who I assumed were his advisors.

Ramiro was a big prideful-looking brown-skinned man, his body settling into slabs of fat, with a thick head of sleeked-back gray hair and a bushy mustache. He wore white slacks and a tight-fitting shirt of mauve silk that accentuated the bulge of his belly. Gold rings, chains, a cruxifix. Felix and Ruy were leaner, taller, clean-shaven versions of their papa, but their personal styles were so at variance, they seemed dissimilar. Ruy's dark blue suit made him look like a mestizo undertaker, but Felix reminded me of the little stores full of cheap flashy souvenirs I'd passed on the way to Cruzados. He was shirtless, dressed in a black leather vest and matching pants. His chest was adorned with a live ink tattoo that flowed between the image of a rainbow-colored scorpion and what seemed a depiction of a man raping a full-breasted woman. His hair fell in long whiplike braids into which chunks of gold had been woven; his sunglasses were tinted purple, and he probably had on five pounds of chains and bracelets and rings. Whereas Ruy sat straight and alert on his papa's right hand, Felix—on the left—slouched in his chair and affected disinterest in the proceeding. A dozen bodyguards, representative of the tattooed minions we'd seen in the streets, stood a distance behind the Carbonells. Judging by the anxious way they followed Sammy's every move, I had the suspicion that they felt outnumbered. This set off my detectors. It wasn't like Ramiro to be casual in his attention to security.

Ramiro was all smiles during the introductions, especially when it came to Lupe. "I never miss your show, Señorita Bernal," he said, taking her hand. "It's a great privilege to be a part of The Border Rose."

"Mucho gusto," said Lupe. "You know my associate, Mister Poe."

"We have spoken," Ramiro said, his eyes not straying from Lupe's cleavage. He introduced Lupe to Ruy, who bowed, and Felix, who said nothing, only stared. "Well, then!" Ramiro rubbed his hands together and beamed. "To business!"

Once everyone was seated, Ramiro leaned forward, folded his hands on the table and engaged Zee. "We have studied your economic projections, Señor. All your paperwork. We find it intriguing. But the idea of revolution …"

"Not a revolution so much as an economic takeover," said Zee.

Ramiro did not like being interrupted. "Very well. We find the idea of an 'economic takeover' unnecessary. We control forty percent of El Rayo. As we grow, we will naturally extend our control. Eventually we will run the entire border." He arched an eyebrow. "Why then should we align ourselves with AZTECHS?"

"May I speak freely?" asked Zee.

"Of course," said Ramiro.

"In the first place," said Zee, "the Guzman family and Los de Abajo will contest your expansion. Unsuccessfully, no doubt. But you will lose many soldiers."

"Hombre! That's what soldiers are for," said Ruy.

Ramiro nodded approvingly.

"As you say," said Zee. "But you are a business, and every loss, no matter how predictable, how trivial, is a loss. Then there is the matter of legitimacy."

Ruy started to his feet, but Ramiro restrained him with a gesture. "In what way," he said coldly, "do you consider us illegitimate?"

"In the way of nations," replied Zee. "What you are presented with now is a unique opportunity. The south of the country is occupied with the Pan-Mayan War, and promises to be so occupied for quite some time. The central region, including Mexico City, has been drained of resources and wields an empty authority … an authority that cannot withstand a significant challenge. AZTECHS holds contracts with the government that will enable us to neutralize any resistance to the creation of a border state. Even if they could recommit forces now fighting in the south, we can guarantee that they will not have the funds to provision them. In a matter of months you could be not the most powerful man on the border, but the president of an emerging nation. A nation that in a few years will become among the wealthiest on the planet."

"You flatter yourself, señor. AZTECHS technology has changed our lives—revolutionized them—and surely it is a wealthy corporation. But a weathy nation …?" Ramiro snorted in amusement. "What of the Americans? What will they say about all this?"

"The Americans want stability," Zee said. "What causes them alarm is that the warfare among the Carbonells, the Guzmans, and Los de Abajo spills over into their territory. Dealing with one government, not three criminal organizations … this would seem to them an improvement. It would afford them more control of the flow of drugs across their borders."

Ruy made a disgusted noise, and Felix, with marginal animation, said, "Papa, we don't need this shit." Ramiro regarded Zee with a questioning stare.

"Señor Carbonell," Zee said. "You know as well as I the Americans do not want to stop the flow of drugs. They merely wish to have a voice in directing that flow. This may eventually reduce the amount of drugs that cross the border, but … "

Ramiro glowered.

"But," Zee went on, "the monies that will come to you as a result of this cooperation will compensate a hundred times over for any loss you experience."

"You're asking us to give up our strength," said Ramiro.

"That's the truth, man!" said Ruy, and Felix nodded.

"Not at all," Zee said. "I'm asking you to temper strength with a restraint born of wisdom. I'm asking to make your entrance on the world's stage."

Ramiro turned to Lupe, who was sitting on Zee's right, doing a whispered commentary, and said, "Quit running your mouth, bitch."

Lupe's voice faltered, then stopped altogether.

Perhaps expecting violence, perhaps merely wanting a wider angle, Frankie scooted off along the table.

"You are asking us to give up our strength," Ramiro said calmly to Zee. "Don't try to persuade me otherwise. A president is not a king. I am a king, and these"—he clapped Ruy and Felix on the shoulders—"these are my princes."

The three of them glared with uniform malevolence at Zee, like three wolves eyeing a dog with a broken hind leg. A silence ensued, one in which the humming of El Rayo seemed to grow louder. I had the idea things were falling apart. Zee didn't get it—he was droning on about the joys of nationhood, oblivious to the fact that the hostile energy in the room had intensified.

"You can earn a significant place in history …" Zee was saying.

"Fuck history," said Felix.

"… by founding a nation," Zee went on. "You can increase your wealth, your power, a hundredfold. And you can do all this simply by agreeing to do it."

"Explain," said Ramiro, still holding Zee with his gaze.

"The instant you agree to the contract, AZTECHS will pay a sum of money into bank accounts belonging to Los de Abajo and the Guzmans. Simultaneously they will cede their interests—in their entirety—to the Carbonells."

"You've talked with them?" Ramiro asked.

"Everything is arranged," said Zee.

"And they have agreed to walk away."

"They're being very well paid to walk away."

"Coño!" Felix kicked back his chair and came to his feet; he rested both hands on the table and cursed Zee. "Pinche cabron!"

The ragged line of bodyguards shifted in anticipation.

"Wait!" Ramiro gestured Felix to silence, but Felix said, "This is bullshit, Papa! This asshole makes deals behind our backs …"

Ramiro held up his index finger to Felix's face and said, "Cuidado, chico! Cuidado!" Felix made a frustrated noise and perched sideways on the edge of the table. Ramiro looked thoughtfully at Zee. "How will all this benefit AZTECHS?"

"Stability," said Zee. "An alliance with a nation state will further guarantee our security."

Ramiro leaned back, worrying his teeth with his tongue. "I assume you are speaking about the security of that thing in the desert?"

"The area we're concerned about is noted in the file we sent you."

Ramiro signaled one of his advisors. "Dame el filo."

The advisor reached down to a briefcase on the floor next to his chair and withdrew a folder thick with papers. He slid it along the table to Ramiro, who began poring over it. Ruy leaned in close to have a look. Felix turned his back on the table, walked a few paces closer to the altar and stood staring into the shimmering red light of El Rayo. Lupe asked me questions with her eyes. I shook my head the slightest bit, telling her not to worry. None of my people appeared to have moved. All four men were focused on the Carbonells.

"Tell me about this," said Ramiro, and read from the file: "'With the guidance of AZTECHS, the Carbonell Family will train affiliates to oversee the education of future leaders.'"

Zee began to explain the necessity of purging the Carbonell ranks of the irresponsible and the unstable by filtering them through the process of a sophisticated education designed to equip them to make their way through the straits of international diplomacy. My feeling was that he had Ramiro on the hook—the old guy clearly was entranced by the idea of becoming a world leader. Ruy, I thought, was on the fence. But Felix … Felix was not a guy with whom you wanted to push the notion of purging unstable elements. He put out a vibe like an old fluorescent tube on the fritz.

"What do you think, boys?" Ramiro glanced at Felix, then Ruy. "You want to be a country?" He threw back his head and laughed. "I wonder what we should call it?"

"Let's honor our grandfathers," said Ruy sullenly. "Let's call it Cocaine."

"Whatever you call it," Zee said, "it will be a most remarkable country. It will offer its citizens something no other country can, and this will enable to you hire top people in every field with the mere promise of citizenship. You'll be in a position to achieve economic dominance."

"What are you talking about?" asked Ramiro.

"Your country," said Zee, "will be able to offer its citizens the guarantee of an afterlife."

The three Carbonells met this statement with expressions of incredulity. Finally Ruy said, "You talkin' 'bout that software shit, man?"

"Not at all." Zee seemed to feel a great deal more confidant than I did. "It has nothing to do with uploading the personality. I'm speaking of an actual physical place. A Valhalla for the Mexican people. A brave eternity."

Felix made an explosive sound and wheeled up from the table. He mounted the steps of the altar, seized a gold candelabra and hurled it into the fire of El Rayo. There was a faint crackling, a white flash.

"Come back and sit down!" Ramiro told him.

"No mas, hombre!" Felix descended the stairs. "I ain't listenin' to this shit." He slapped his chest twice above his heart. "I'm not no damn businessman! I'm a fuckin' bandido, man! Yo soy un criminal! This is not what the Carbonells do … this pussy bullshit!" He pointed at Zee and walked closer. "This little girl is jerkin' us off with one hand and tryin' to slice off our balls with the other! That what you wan', Papa? You wanna get fucked up the ass by a fuckin' machine? You wanna wear a suit and pretend you fuckin' Napoleon?"

Tears began coursing down Felix's face. The crazy fucker truly loved his family traditions. He was probably seeing himself in the AZTECHS-controlled future, a patriarch reminiscing about the good old days when he used to snuff ten, fifteen people before breakfast. What wasn't so amusing was Ramiro-and-Rudy's reaction. Instead of treating him like a mad dog, they were gazing at him warmly, pridefully, as if his nutzoid act brought back comforting memories of Carbonell atrocities.

"Do it, Papa," said Felix.

He and Ramiro exchanged a meaningful look.

"Do what?" I said, bracing myself on the arms on my chair, ready to jump. "I don't know what you people got in mind, but I recommend caution."

"Felix is right, Papa," said Ruy. "We don't need this."

"I don't know what the problem is," Zee said. "But if you have any doubts, any questions, that's why I'm here."

"What's goin' on?" Lupe came to her feet. "Eddie?"

I hauled Zee out of his chair. "Gentlemen," I said to Ramiro and his brood. "We're leavin'."

Zee shook me off—he was stronger than he looked. "We should all take a moment to reflect," he said, addressing Ramiro. "There is a great deal …" He broke it off and stared at the shimmering surface of El Rayo as if noticing it for the first time. "Run!" he said.

I heard a rumbling, felt the floor shake. Just like in Cruzados, the wall of red fire behind the altar flickered and shut down. I'm not sure how many gunmen were standing on the other side. Enough to make a soccer team. They opened up as I shoved Zee and Lupe toward the door. On my left, Fetisov went down without a cry, and I couldn't understand why we weren't all dead. Then I realized the gunmen must be targeting Sammy, saving the rest of us for hostages, for ransom.. They moved into the church, firing century-old handguns unaffected by the suppressor field. The gunfire reverberated, building to a roar, and I lost track of things, focused on getting Lupe and Zee clear. As we passed through the door, Zee took a hit in the back. He stumbled, but kept going. A red splotch like one of those fancy badges attached to Second Prize ribbons bloomed beneath his right shoulder blade. Childers stood on the steps firing from his hip, spraying the area with micro-grenades from his AR-20, then turning to fire into the church. The courtyard was littered with bodies, flames licking up from their clothing. Dennard threw open the rear door of the personnel carrier, urged us inside. Lupe scrambled into the carrier. Dennard dragged Zee in after her. I opened the passenger-side door, intending to slide behind the wheel, but Childers climbed in the driver's side and kicked over the engine. Bullets plinked off the armored skin. Then we lurched forward, speeding toward the gate. Through the slit windows front and side, I saw Carbonell soldiers scattering. There was a screech of bursting metal as we blew out the gate and barreled off into the wasteland of hovels that separated Barrio Ningun from the cathedral.

Childers made a beeline for the desert, not trying to avoid the flimsy habitations in our path, but cutting a swath through them instead. It was like being inside a whirlwind. Shards of plywood, pots and pans, small appliances, toys, clothing, flapping sheets of cardboard, a woman with a terrified face, all these things and more were flipped up into the air by the passage of the carrier—a surreal form of weather sleeting past the windows, flaring in the headlights. Other lives went down beneath us, discernable as bumps. I tried to yank Childers' arm from the wheel, but he backhanded me. My head cracked against the door. As I struggled to clear my head, I had a glimpse of an intense white flash. A shockwave sent the carrier swerving, veering almost sideways, and I heard a terrible sound. Like something bigger than the world had taken a swallow down into its void of a belly. Then I was slammed forward into the dash. I righted myself and Childers winked at me. "I left Ramiro a little present in the courtyard," he said.

Still dazed, I was unable to speak.

"Just a pocket nuke." Childers spun the wheel and something bulky flattened beneath our tires. "Clean and mean. Two-hundred-yard radius on the kill zone. We're fine."

I managed to sit upright. "You know how many people you just killed?"

"Thousand … fifteen hundred tops. I thought it might be a good idea to deal with your Carbonell problem. You've got nothing to worry about on that account now."

I peered through the front slit, freckled with the blood of someone we had slaughtered. We had cleared the edge of the barrio and were gliding across the hardpan, heading for deep desert.

"You look like someone stole your bunny rabbit," Childers said.

I made another try for the wheel. Childers pushed me away.

"Take a breath," he said. "They were the bad guys. We should have done it years ago. What's more, you're a hero now. Los de Abajo and the Guzmans, they'll bless your name."

" 'We'?" I said. "Who's 'we'?"

Childers hesitated. "Us," he said finally, and then he spelled it: "Yoo. Ess."

It was obvious that Childers considered himself a humorist. I wasn't certain if he was fucking with me. He was beginning to seem very un-Sammylike. It wasn't so much the comedy as the fact he was acting from forethought—not one of Sammy's strengths.

"Pull over," I said.

Childers gave no sign of compliance.

I drew my gun. "I said pull over, man."

"Sure," said Childers. "Whatever you say, boss."

Before I could react, he snatched the gun from my hand, reversed it and fitted the muzzle to my forehead. The circle of skin it covered went numb.

"Any other orders?" Childers asked. "No? Okay. Then why don't you check on the client?" He nudged me with the gun.

I lifted the intercom speaker from a clip under the dash, thumbed the talk button. "What's happenin' back there?"

Dennard answered, his voice crackling. I thought I heard Lupe in the background. It sounded as if she was doing commentary. "Man's alive, but he's shaky," Dennard said. "He wants to go into the desert."

"Ask him about Morely." Childers pocketed the gun.

I thumbed the button again. "Is Morely with you?"

"He sings in my anger," Dennard said.

"Say again."

Dennard did not reply.

"Guess I'll take that as a negative." I switched off the intercom and sat staring glumly at the pale fissured ground flowing beneath our lights.

"I understand why you're depressed," said Childers blithely. "I mean you really let the team down, Eddie. You should have known Ramiro would have a hole card. Figuring the angles was your job. You were lucky to have me along."

I ignored this, even though it was the truth. "Where'd you get the nuke?"

"Family heirloom."

"Cut the stand-up," I said. "What the fuck is goin' on?"

He spared me a quick look. "You mean ultimately? Or this now?"

"Ultimately will do," I said.

That tickled Childers. He laughed, spanked the steering wheel. "I love a scapegoat with a sense of humor."

"Scapegoat?"

"You're the one in charge. You're responsible for whatever goes down. Only reason you're still alive is so you can take the hit. If you get out of line, I have no compunction against killing your girlfriend. Do you understand?"

"Yeah."

"But I can see you're dying to know," Childers said. "So I'll tell you what's up. I'm going after Montezuma."

"The AI?"

"I know." Childers waggled a hand as if to deflect my smile. "You're thinking what chance does one man have against an AI? No chance at all, rignt? But you see, Eddie, I am not a natural man." He peeled off his neck patch, tossed it. "The patch is just a boost. I've got more technology in me than all the monkeys in the tree. Montezuma is going to look straight through me. I'm not going to ring one of his bells." His eyes found me again. "What do you care? It's not business, right?"

I shrugged. "Whatever."

"Exactly!" said Childers. "Excellent attitude, Eddie. It'll take you far. Maybe even as far as the good ol' U.S. of A. Would you like that? Would you like it if you and your Pops regained your citizenship? It can be arranged. Just be a helpful lad and do what I tell you."

If Childers thought he could define me as a scapegoat one minute and the next have me buy into a promise of rewards, his technology needed an adjustment. That kind of arrogance was very Sammylike. I decided he must be some sort of mutant Sammy with some new wrinkles designed for this particular operation. And if that's all he was, he had his weak spots.

"Un-unh!" said Childers in a cautionary tone. "Don't you start thinking on me, Eddie. Thinking's dangerous, and we've already seen you're not very good at it."