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Chavez had planned to make a four-block loop, two blocks to the north and two blocks to the south. He knew there was a river to the north that bisected the neighborhood, but a large greenbelt of thick foliage ran alongside the boulevard north of the hotel. Two Indonesian men sat on a sidewalk bench smoking and chatting idly with each other. Neither paid any attention to Chavez when he turned right down the cracked street and began to wind his way south, exploring the twisted alleys and tree-choked lots between houses.

Colorful roosters — Indonesian jungle fowl, according to Adara’s research on the plane — scratched beneath shrubs and scabby grass along wrought-iron fences. The wiry little birds often found their way into local cooking pots, and they eyed Ding carefully as he walked the concrete streets.

The low houses could have been in any country in Asia. Even the nicer, “middle-class” homes were much smaller than those found in North America. Most of them could have fit into Chavez’s living room. Of course, Hendley Associates paid better, and Patsy was a surgeon, so they could afford a little more house than a run-of-the-mill GS-14 like he’d been with CIA. Some had tile roofs and blossoming fruit trees, but most were patched with rusty corrugated tin and weathered plywood.

It was late afternoon, and sticky hot.

Out of habit, he glanced hard to his right, exaggerating his movements just enough to get a look behind him with his peripheral vision. The two guys who’d been smoking on the park bench were up now. Not weird in and of itself, but they bore watching. Chavez thought about calling Adara but decided he was just being paranoid.

He continued south, cutting behind a car dealership that blocked off not only the air but the traffic noise from the boulevard.

The guys would be hitting the optometrist any minute, and then they could get this show on the road. He turned right at the corner at the end of the dealership, swinging wide out of habit — but not quite wide enough. Two more Indonesian men met him head-on. Both were half a head shorter than him, thicker around the middle, with big arms. Construction workers? Both picked up their pace, coming straight at Chavez. As he suspected, he heard the patter of sneakers on the concrete behind him.

He cut left, intent on jagging around the oncoming men and making a sprint for the boulevard. They were thuggish, the kind of dudes it was easier to outrun than fight, especially when there were four of them. He heard a loud pop followed quickly by a hollow thunk he recognized as a 40-millimeter grenade launcher. He braced himself for an explosion, as something hit him hard between the shoulder blades, shoving him forward. He stutter-stepped, skipping to keep from going down, tangled in his own feet. He recognized a second pop-thunk, then another stinging smack, this one on the back of his thigh, striking the peroneal nerve and giving him instant dead leg. He listed sideways, drawing in his arm to keep from breaking his wrist as he fell. He caught the flash of a large black projectile rolling away on the street. These bastards were shooting him with plastic bullets. Big-ass plastic bullets, dense and hard like missiles made out of a bowling ball. He’d used them before. Fired from the same M203 grenade launcher he’d used in the military, these “less lethal” rounds were used when you didn’t want to fill your target with lead but didn’t care if you bruised the hell out of them — and maybe even broke a few ribs.

Chavez used the momentum of his fall to roll, coming up in a kneeling position with his back to the dealership. He could hold his own in a fight, but four against one sent him reaching for the Smith & Wesson over his right kidney. There was another pop, this one not nearly as loud as the 40-millimeter, followed by the sickening crackle of a Taser.

Chavez was too hyped to feel the barbed steel darts that struck him in the upper arm and right thigh. Fifty thousand volts coursed between the darts, convulsing his muscles. Jaw clenched, his hands useless claws, he toppled sideways to the pavement. He’d been tased before and struggled to sweep the gossamer wires as soon as the five-second shock was past, but the weapon crackled again, sending him immediately into another full-body cramp. By the time it was over, his hands and ankles were zipped in flex-cuffs. Tires screeched to a stop, a van door slid open, and rough hands threw him inside. One of the men slipped a black hood over his head. He closed his eyes, his mind racing to make a plan, any kind of plan. He’d stop fighting back now and listen, take note of the sounds he heard inside the—