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“Thanks, Dad.” And he remembered all the times his father had taken him over the jumps as a young boy to teach him the joy, the inexpressible sensation of soaring through the air.

“But we're going to beat them next time, aren't we, Bernie?” Lucy emphatically declared, patting Bernadotte's favorite mount Daxon on the neck.

Bernie? Carey speculated in astonishment. His father had never allowed that diminutive.

“We have to,” Bernadotte casually replied, as though little girls had called him Bernie all his life. “How else can we keep the racing interesting?”

“Mom, Mom, did you see us?” Carrie shouted, loosening her grip on her father and searching out her mother.

Molly's heart was still caught in her throat. She was having trouble finding her voice, but she nodded at her daughter's bright-eyed face and tried a shaky smile of her own. Despite her own terrifying fright, her daughter was perfectly comfortable on that huge beast, leaning back against her father who was equally relaxed and at ease. Carrie would ride like that someday, she thought, under the Fersten tutelage. She was both fascinated and petrified by the awesome size of their mounts; they were so powerful she couldn't imagine her small daughter controlling them, not to mention jumping them over fences higher than her head.

“You've got to try it, Mom!”

Right after brain surgery, she thought, but she said instead, “It looks like fun.”

Carey had walked Tarrytown closer to the fence. “I hope you don't mind,” he said, his exhilaration restrained now under his cool courtesy. “She wanted to try the fences.”

“I don't mind,” Molly replied. “What a beautiful horse.” And she gingerly patted Tarrytown's nose.

The big bay twitched his head away as if he recognized hypocrisy, but Carey gently forced him back and made him stand politely under Molly's stroking palm.

She envied Carey his confident skill and effortless rapport with horse and child alike. But most of all, she appreciated his loving attachment to Carrie. Even if she couldn't always understand the complexity of their relationship, he was sincerely devoted to his daughter. And she was grateful. “Carrie's really enjoying herself,” she said.

His eyes held hers for a moment over the head of their daughter. He wanted to kiss Molly and tell her how much he loved her, but then the old arguments would begin again about how much love was love. “So am I,” he replied, silently promising himself to heal the hurt in her eyes once he came back. And he hoped with all his heart he'd be coming back.

CHAPTER 39

S o the modern-day gunslinger rode off in his silver plane to make the world safe for young drug addicts, vulnerable females, and small children, Molly indignantly mused several hours later. She was lying by the pool in the warm afternoon sunshine, listening with half an ear to the girls splashing in the water. It wasn't that she didn't understand Carey's mission. She even admired the bravery and courage required to take on the Rifats of the world who barricaded themselves behind bastions of killers.

But her understanding didn't mitigate her resentment; nor did her admiration detract from her sense of affront at being captive at Bernadotte's until such a time as Carey determined the danger past. Perhaps what rankled most was that he didn't ask her permission.

Carey Fersten was too selfish, spoiled, a wealthy young man who did as he pleased. Had always done as he pleased. She knew that ten years ago, and she knew it now. He would expect her to make all the concessions, like his asking her to leave for Australia for a year. Gloomy shades of her marriage to Bart began darkening her already ferocious mood. And then, of course, she sullenly thought: Don't forget all the women.

Even Bernadotte's charm reinforced her assessment of Carey. He was utterly charming just like his father, and that only increased her testiness.

Carey had made arrangements to meet Ant and Luger in San Francisco, a midway point. Ant drove up from the sparsely populated forest south of Carmel where he lived in his cabin at the end of a dirt road. Luger gave his secretary the day off, put a closed sign in the window of his modest insurance agency an hour north of the Bay, and, entering the southbound freeway, set the cruise control on his Buick at seventy.

In a basement restaurant in Chinatown the three men exchanged pleasantries while the waiter filled their table with all the specialties of the house.

“How's the third wife?” Luger asked Ant, good-natured teasing in his voice. “Last time I saw you this was going to be the one.”

Ant was a handsome Hispanic with an eye for the ladies and the looks to attract them. “I think it's the backwoods,” he replied with a grin. “Once they're around for a few months, they complain about no shopping and TV. I dropped the last one off at her mother's and said, ‘It was nice.' So how's your old lady? Still singing in the church choir?”

“She plays the piano for the choir,” Luger seriously replied as though the distinction mattered. Methodical and pragmatic, Luger was a detail man.

“That's great. Ain't that great, Carey?” Ant teased. “The world needs more of that kind of stability.”

“We can't all help the divorce lawyers pay for their BMWs,” Luger retorted.

“Hey… we all do our bit for the economy. Besides, I don't have a high overhead like you do. An office and a secretary… pretty damned IRS productive, I'd say.”

“Carol sends her love,” Luger said, as though suddenly recalling the message he'd been entrusted with. His austere face had earned him the nickname Luger because he looked like every typecast SS colonel in the movies. “She said to say hello to whichever number wife is currently residing in your redwood forest.”

Luger was the type of guy who genuinely enjoyed visiting at the coffeeshop in town, who discussed the last city council meeting with the postmaster, who found great satisfaction sweeping the sidewalk in front of his office in the morning and exchanging opinions on the weather with whomever passed by. He'd seen Ant's multilevel home built on a rocky mountainside years ago. As he gazed at the stone, stained glass, and redwood building resembling a sculpture more than a home, he'd remarked, “Wouldn't want to insure that with the mudslides and fires. 'Specially with the state of your road.” It had taken them forty-five minutes to navigate the switchbacks up the mountain. While he understood Ant's need for isolation, Luger had always figured there was plenty of time for solitude in the grave.

“There might not be a number four. I'm getting used to no bitching. It grows on you-you know-the peace and tranquillity… no yak-yak about the hours in the lab and I've been busy.”

Antonio Ramos made a very profitable living as an explosives expert for both sides in the bomb business. Legitimate work paid Uncle Sam his portion and his extra projects kept Ant's Swiss bank account healthy.

“Was that Monte Carlo bank bomb yours?” Luger asked.

“A beauty.”

“I thought it sounded like yours. No one heard it, even though the restaurant next door was open on Sunday.”

“I'm getting good.” Ant winked and touched his thumb and middle finger to his lips. “Refined. Like good sex.”

“Speaking of which,” Carey interrupted.

Ant grinned. “The world-class stud speaks.”

Carey shook his head. “I swore off. I mean the bomb. I need one.”

“Carey Fersten swore off women?” Ant said, checking his watch. “It must be here-the end of the world. Bend over and grab your ankles, Luger.” His smile was accompanied by a disbelieving look.

“I'm in love,” Carey said.

“Jesus, it really is the end of the world. Is that why you need a bomb?”