chuckled. "You see, you do need my help."
* * *
Bourne struck a second blow. He had been shot with blanks by Ottavio Moreno and was covered in pig's blood from a plastic bag he'd punctured. Coven, who didn't react one way or another to the blows, drove the butt of the Glock down onto Bourne's forehead. Bourne grabbed his wrist and twisted hard. Then he caught one of Coven's fingers and broke it. The Glock went flying across the living room floor, fetching up beside the cold grate.
Bourne pushed Coven off and rose on one knee, but Coven kicked his leg out from under him and Bourne toppled backward. Coven was on him in an instant, driving his fist into Bourne's face, landing blow after blow. Bourne lay still. Coven rose and aimed a kick at Bourne's ribs. Without seeming to move at all, Bourne caught his foot before it could land and wrenched the ankle to the left.
Coven grunted as the anklebones snapped. He landed hard, immediately rolled over, and scrambled on elbows and knees toward where the Glock lay beside the grate.
Bourne took up a brass sculpture from a chair-side table and threw it. The sculpture slammed into the back of Coven's head, driving his chin and nose into the floor. His jaws snapped shut and blood gushed from his nose. Undeterred, he grabbed the Glock and, in one fluid motion, swung it around and squeezed off a shot. The bullet struck the table beside Bourne's head, toppling it and the lamp on it onto Bourne.
He tried to fire again, but Bourne leapt on him, wrestling him onto his back. He grabbed a fire poker and swung it down hard. Bourne rolled away and the poker bounced against the floor. Coven stabbed out with it, catching Bourne's jacket, piercing it and pinning him to the floor. He rammed the end of the poker into the wood, then rose painfully over Bourne. Taking up the ash shovel, he brought the long brass handle across Bourne's throat and, using all his weight, pressed down.
* * *
It was 123 miles from Nogales to Las Conchas, where an associate of Antonio's compadre had driven the boat they would pick up. She had asked for a big boat, and an ostentatious one, something to catch Arkadin's attention and keep it until he got a good look at her. In the Nogales Mall, before they had set out, she had bought the most provocative bikini she could find. When she'd modeled it for Antonio, his eyes almost popped out of his skull.
"¡Madre de Dios, que linda muchacha!" he had cried.
Because of the aftereffect of the scorpion sting, she bought a diaphanous cover-up, also some beach towels, a pair of huge Dior sunglasses, a fashionable visor, and a fistful of sunscreen, which she lost no time in slathering on.
Antonio's friend was named Ramos, and he had brought exactly the right kind of boat: big and flashy. Its diesels thrummed and gurgled as she and Antonio boarded and were shown around below by Ramos. He was a small, dark, rotund man, with curling black hair, tattoos on his massive arms, and a ready smile.
"I have guns - pistols and semi-automatics - if you need them," he said helpfully. "No extra charge, except for spent rounds."
Soraya thanked him, but said weapons wouldn't be necessary.
Soon after returning above deck they got under way. Puerto Penasco was just over five miles due north.
Over the rumble of the diesels, Ramos said, "We have a couple of hours before sunset, when Arkadin usually takes out the cigarette. I have fishing gear. I'll take you to the fifty-one-mile reef, where there's plenty of halibut, black sea bass, and red snapper. How about it?"
Soraya and Antonio fished off the reef for about an hour and a half before they packed it in and swept in toward the marina. Ramos pointed out Arkadin's cigarette as he cut the speed rounding the headland and nosed in toward the docks. There was no sign of Arkadin, but Soraya could see an older Mexican preparing the boat to get under way. The Mexican was dark-skinned, with a face fissured by hard work, salt wind, and scorching sunlight.
"You're in luck," Ramos said. "He's coming."
Soraya looked in the direction Ramos indicated and saw a powerful-looking man striding down the dock. He wore a baseball cap, black-and-green surfer's bathing trunks, a torn Dos Equis T-shirt, and a pair of rubber sandals. She slipped off her cover-up. Her dark, oiled skin