"What did you get me into, you deranged old man?" Porsche said with cold hard eyes glaring through DeWitt's hand terminal. "I said no games."

Harry could see it was bright morning where she was. He guessed she was inclined over her cafe racer, her face inches over the dash pin-camera. She had her helmet on, the visor's opacity lowered enough to show a perplexed Porsche.

In Chicago, it was still night. Harry propped up on his pillow, rubbing his eyes. "What are you talking about?" And yawned.

"Moreau's dead. They took his head."

"His head?" The news jolted him like a splash of ice water.

"Don't pretend you don't know. You're behind this, aren't you, Uncle?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I've been thinking -- why take someone's head unless it's valuable. And what could make a skull worth taking -- if it had been spliced with a cranial storage unit. How you like my theory?"

"Slow down."

"Whatever Moreau's carrying must be valuable enough to lose your head over. So what is he carrying, Uncle?"

Harry didn't reply right away.

"I figure you'd play dumb. Why pay when you could lop off the merchandise, right? I should know better."

"Your reasoning is flawed."

"Rarely. What about Marlboro, the amazon in the video?"

"What about her?"

"She was there too. She didn't cut off his head but she's part of this setup." Porsche paused. "You're behind all this."

"Rubbish. Why would I waste good money hiring you then?" Harry said.

"Redundancy? Backup? Necrophiliac voyeurism? Your sick mind can think of ways."

"Think again, girl. If I wanted to take his head, why would I need you to steer him into defecting?"

"Maybe he changed his mind." Porsche tilted her head to one side, chewing on the logic.

"You're way off, and I forgive you," Harry said.

"Take your forgiveness --"

Harry cut her off. "Are you sure about Marlboro being there?"

"I don't see facial features. Just her big-ass silhouette. And her voice. She and Moreau had a chit-chat prior." A passing vagabond got too close to her. "Back off," she snarled as the drunk mumbled something and stumbled away. Porsche returned to the screen. "You got a bigger problem -- I know who took the head."

"Who?"

"Our old friend, the Sandman -- his voice, I don't forget."

It was Harry's turn to go cryptic.

Porsche leaned away and crossed her arms in his terminal screen. "Someone put him on Moreau's trail, right on top of mine. Naturally, I thought it was you. You did it before."

"Not this time." Harry mused for a quick second. "Last I heard of Lockheart, he was in Kiev on Agency work. That was five years ago."

"Now he's back," Porsche said. "And too close for my comfort. This is my cue to exit while I'm in one piece. I want the rest of what you owe me."

Harry said, unruffled, "Our contract isn't over."

"Hell, yeah. I didn't sign up to butt-head with that psycho. Besides, you've been withholding critical information from me."

"I don't recall."

"What's in Moreau's head?" She scoffed on the screen.

"Okay, I'll tell you, but not over open comms," Harry said.

"You're going to make me wait."

"Can you track them?"

"As we speak, for Christ's sake."

"I knew you would, my girl. Where are you?"

"Baltimore Sector. The crew drove under some building and they didn't come out. I looked up the address -- some bogus registry behind some vanilla front, owned by a no-name conglomerate. Sound familiar? Our Sandman got serious backing."

"I'll tell you this -- Moreau was invested in Caracas . . . But then so are you, my girl, isn't that right?"

"So?"

"If I know, then I'd bet others do too. Caracas-gate isn't going away anytime soon."

Her eyes became slits as she gnashed her teeth. "Are you dangling me out to dry?"

"I'd never."

"So says the molester." She leaned into the screen.

"I did not!" Harry raised his voice. "But the pieces of this puzzle fit. I think we're beyond coincidence now, don't you?"

"Gee, thanks," she said with sourness. "I'm marked. The moment I return, I'm fucked."

"Then don't. I can get you set up working for Midland. Would you like that?"

"You two-bit street corner pimp. Just pay me and go away."

Harry sighed. "De Beers isn't a member of our fief, you know. Give me time."

"How much time?" she hissed through the screen.

"A week."

"You're stalling," she said. "You have twenty-four hours to get me my stones. Or I'll crush yours."

"Porsche, I'm prepared to renew our contract."

"Not interested, I told you."

"Triple your purse."

"You haven't paid me for my original fee."

"Same assignment."

"Again?" she sighed. "This is getting old."

"It's for me."

"Huh?"

"I need a sit-down with Lockheart. Who better to keep me safe but you?"

"You're insane."

Transmission ended.

Harry scooted down the bed, stared at the ceiling and sighed.

The thought troubled him that Lockheart had reappeared, and it seemed with support. They must want Moreau silenced in a hurry. He either had been careless . . . Or there was a leak.

The Sandman brought back memories. Dark ones from twenty years ago when Harry was a younger man stationed in the western regions of China. He remembered a night, as clear and cold as a Chicago winter night.

There had been a crescent moon under a cloudless star-filled expanse.

The team had hitched a ride aboard a stealth Black Hawk, flying over western China with side doors wide open. They were returning from a prisoner snatch -- abducting enemy soldiers for interrogation. These missions were routine, almost nightly in the lawless lands separating China's western frontier from the Stans. Like arctic scientists testing the salinity strata of the oceans by sampling deep-sea water, the Agency likewise was testing the regional balance of power using deep incursion snatches. Though no open war existed, these operations went on for justifiable reasons. Rumors had been Beijing was ferrying in advisers and arms to the local radicals, as a counterweight to American and Indian dominance in the region.

Inside the helicopter's cabin, several men shared the rear canvas bench, their weapons between their legs. They were covert paramilitary from the Agency's Special Operations Group. Among them were Harry DeWitt and Milo Lockheart, the former returning from the cockpit. Two Sino soldiers, one severely injured, sat on the floor with hands tied behind their backs, shivering in the frigid mountain night. Lockheart was in the cabin, kneeling over the wounded Chinese prisoners. The other men thought Lockheart was searching for intel.

"Third night this week, and all we caught are minnows," Harry complained listening to the flash message given him in the cockpit. "Hemlock wants officers, not sentries."

"If Hemlock wants to net big fishes, then he shouldn't send out four-man snatch teams," Lockheart replied gruffly via comms. "Fuck you expect?"

Harry returned to his seat, looking at the captives. "Look at these two. We won't get shit out of them. And tomorrow, he sends us back in again. Hemlock's like a tapeworm -- you keep feeding him, he'll want more."

"They're useless."

"Who knows," Harry said. "They might talk."

"They're worthless. You said so yourself," Lockheart said. "In fact, this one's got it in the belly. He's wasted; DOA by the time we reach Kandahar." Lockheart examined the prisoner lying on his side, moving his head from side to side and checking his teeth as if he were buying a horse. "Except for these."

"What are you doing?"

"Shame to let it go to waste."

Something flashed in Lockheart's hand, glinting like a knife's edge off moonlight. A scream muffled by the chops of rotor blades washed away.

The Sino's mouth glowed with huge gold-crowned teeth, even in the cold moonlight.

Lockheart placed the point of his combat dagger on the base of a tooth and hammered the hilt with the palm of his hand. The Asian, though near death, was in fact very much alive. He thrashed about kicking his legs and screaming.

"What the fuck?" Harry said, revolted. "He's not dead!"

It didn't matter to Lockheart.

The knifepoint glanced off the tooth and sunk into the Chinese's mouth, into tissue and bone. Lockheart mumbled curses as he began the slicing, opening the man's cheeks from ear to ear to get better access to the back teeth. His knee now on the man's lower jaw, he tried again. Blood fountained out of the mutilated mouth. Lockheart groaned trying to extract his treasures. The other prisoner shrank away in horror. Under moonlight, blood was as black as ink.

Lockheart liberated the rear teeth from the jaw.

"Got you," Lockheart said with a proud grin after the mining. Four molars with long bloody roots clustered on his gloved palm. "How many carats is this, I wonder? Anybody know the spot price for gold?"

Still, the Chinese soldier wasn't dead. He made a gurgling noise and twitched.

"Holy Christ, put the man out of his misery," Harry protested.

Lockheart rolled the twitching body out the doorway into the night. "Good night, sleep tight." He saw them looking at him, questioning him. He happily explained, "Hemlock burns their bodies anyway, so I'm keeping these trinkets. Is there a problem?"

Hardened operators had seen many things, and the incident carried no bite.

"What about this one?" A SOG man gestured to the second prisoner who had scooted away in terror.

"We keep him," Harry said. "Hemlock's orders."

"I bet he'll sing his heart out now," laughed the fourth operator.

"He's got any gold teeth you wonder?" Lockheart said, turning to the last prisoner cowering in the corner.

The Chinese didn't need to understand English. He saw the blade pointed his way, got to his feet, and leaped out of the helicopter, his screams unheard. A quick death was preferable to having his face cut open and choking on his blood.

"You're not right, Milo," Harry said, eyeing him.

"Shut up," Lockheart snapped back. "You're not my sup no more, Uncle. We got the big buy in Kabul tomorrow. Twenty-kee's of black tar, if you haven't forgotten. So, you better keep your mouth zip-locked." He pointed the blade at Harry.

"Forget about Hemlock?" a SOG man asked.

"Fuck Hemlock, he can send someone else to do his dirty work," Lockheart said.

That night, the report said the incursion had failed to secure live prisoners, and the matter was closed. Hemlock, the station supervisor, was none the wiser. But following that day, Harry was ordered out of Kandahar, reasons unspecified.

We've walked into a different game, now. And I need Porsche more than ever. How to keep her was simple -- what do girls want? I'll add a zero to her purse. Augustine can afford it.

He rolled out of bed and headed for the shower. Timing was critical now.