Balkan and his flag officers watched the operation from the viewpoint of those inside Tango X-Ray, each feed extrapolated and assembled by computer into a tactical collage and piped through to the commanders' oculars. They followed the action not only through the team's body-cams but from a look-down 3-D layout where each team member was a red dot moving in a maze of rooms. The planners, thousands of miles away, walked the kill floor, saw the flashes of gunfire, and heard the screams of the dying, not unlike a VR game. Within minutes, it was all over.

Cerberus had cleared the third floor with shocking speed. A few sporadic bursts continued, but they were less frequent as mop-up began. The slate wipe was outstandingly efficient and effective when it came to Balkan's objective -- there would be no witnesses.

"Top points, gentlemen, you've earned your pay for the week," Balkan said getting up. "The President will be happy to pass on to Dallas-Austin it's done."

"Congratulations, Victor, Cerberus has performed to spec," Undersecretary Lisbeth Hunt said, privy to many classified projects.

"Worth every penny," Balkan said and cocked one eye. "Should we celebrate tonight?"

"We're done with that," she mumbled just loud enough to keep it between them.

"I had to try," Balkan said, shrugging her from his mind and returned to his minions. "Gentlemen, I'd suggest you go long in TexPax defense stocks. I expect a 5000-point market gain in the next few days."

The room clapped with enthusiasm.

Pleased with himself, the Secretary turned and made for the exit while lower-tier officials trailed after him. Lisbeth lingered behind and returned to the central screen still linked to Khe Sanh.

"You deserve congratulation too, no?" she said, smiling up at Moreau.

"Premature."

"You heard him. We're gonna cue Carnivora for commercial expansion. Gonna be plenty to do around here."

"Dallas-Austin needs to approve the appropriation before that can happen."

"Minor detail. Only a matter of time."

"I'll let my people know they've been approved for sale."

"This is just the start, darling." Lisbeth peeked over her shoulders to see if anyone was nearby. "There are huge commercial potentials . . . The results ran off the charts. Big Money's gonna be lining up." She gave him a succulent gaze. "I want to celebrate. When will you touch down tonight?"

"8:05 into IAD." He smiled at her and winked, "I got a 25-year-old single malt that needs opening."

"The scotch can wait. You owe me dinner, mister. I recall a bet you lost."

"I did, didn't I?"

Her most suggestive smile said the rest. "You're not getting off that easy, cheapskate. I want breakfast too."

* * *

Porsche disassembled the laser camera and packed up. She threw the cloak back on, hoisted the gear bag over her shoulder, and slung the submachine gun across her chest, making sure it stayed hidden under the outer robes.

She turned to Carlos who had been watching her. "It's been real."

The dour officer stood there, his face inquisitive. "So?"

"Maybe I'll see you again, in another lifetime," she said. "Or battlefield. We're done here. You can take me back."

"All dead?" the major gestured toward Tango X-Ray.

"Dead as doornails," Porsche nodded. The Penetrator missed nothing. She saw the kills clear enough.

Carlos spoke into his body mic to call the car, as he led the way down the stairs, with Porsche a few yards behind him.

Reaching the ground floor, she sensed something was amiss at once. Pieces were out of place. The shop owner and his family were in one corner, huddled in fear. And there were two Venezuelans guardsmen sitting with them.

The others turned their guns on Carlos, shouting in Spanish for him to drop his weapon. And judging from his dumbfounded face, the major was as surprised as she was. No question what had happened. Four of the Venezuelan National Guardsmen who rode in with her were turncoats.

Porsche raised her hands and sloughed off the Penetrator bag. The leader approached and grabbed the straps of the equipment duffel. Another patted her down, a gun pointed at her face. She stood still as they found and removed the SMG. The searcher ran his hands under her cloak, trying to strip her further. She slapped his attempt away. The man cursed in Spanish and struck her across the face, sending her reeling. He stooped, grabbed her by the throat and hefted her to her feet. He then rifled through her clothes, tearing open her under-gear. His hands felt for her armpits, sides, inner thighs and found no hidden weapons. But not all things were so obvious to find.

Carlos snarled at them through a blur of Spanish, "Que vergüenza de todos ustedes!" Shame on you all.

The leader, one with a radio, turned and shot him. The family screamed as the officer crumbled against the wall, clutching his chest.

Porsche remained calm and focused. Deep down, she knew being killed wouldn't be her fate. There were worse possibilities for a woman. Besides, capturing a Yanquis intelligence officer would be a coup for her captors. She was undisputed evidence that proved norteamericano hegemony.

At that moment, a low rumbling like far-off thunder came through the walls. It soon grew into a shaking roar, cracking the glass panes. Anvil 41, on its egress, had flown low overhead, its jet-wash battering the shop, knocking picture frames and loose items over. Startled, the gunmen twisted and turned expecting the quaking walls to cave in. Their eyes came off Porsche -- for just an instant.

Something quick and wet flashed in front of the man nearest her. Then a spray of red. In a blur of fabric, she'd taken back the HK. Porsche kicked out the dying man, his throat severed, sending him crashing backward. A short burp from the machine pistol took out two turncoats nearest her. The loyal guardsmen sprang into action against the lone gunman, pounding him with their fists and with any blunt objects nearby they could grab while the civilians huddled in the corner shrieked.

Porsche made a gesture for them to hush up. Unfamiliar sounds outside grew louder. Everyone froze and listened -- armed crowds moving toward Tango X-Ray stopped running when they heard the shots coming from the shop.

At that moment, the car Carlos had called arrived outside, screeching to a stop. The driver blared the horn.

Are they that stupid? Porsche cracked the blinds, peeping out at the streets.

She saw the car getting mobbed by with an angry crowd who banged on its hood and shook it from all sides, the driver side door in the process of being breached.

"Vamos!" Porsche barked at the two remaining Venezuelan guardsmen -- "Get out of here, your major is dead. Save yourselves."

They understood the urgency and prepared to rush outside.

"Ready?"

Porsche counted on three, flung open the shop's front door and brandished her weapon, firing into the sky. The crowd backed away. The guardsmen shooed the rug vendor and his family toward the car. She let off another burst skyward, covering the crowd.

She shouted, "Ve ahora! Go now."

"You come," the merchant pleaded in scant English. "They everywhere."

"Get going!" She shoved him hard into the arms of his son and ducked back inside.

As the SUV sped away, small arms fire ricocheted off the back and punctured the sides of the car, the rounds bouncing around inside.

Porsche knew she would be safer than they were. She preferred it this way, to face fate on her two feet.

She barricaded the entrance. The crowd massed outside, beating on the door as she escaped through the back into an alley. Running and weaving along the narrow pathway, she found the main street filled with a mad roiling crowd, chanting and shooting into the sky. She covered her face and slipped in among the indigenous as fleeting as an afterthought.