"Oy, such powerful stuff," Abe said, gently placing the gallon paint can atop the scarred counter. "I'll be glad when you take it off my hands."

"Why? LX-14 is stable." That was why Jack had ordered it.

"That's just it. I couldn't get LX-14 - at least not near the quantity you wanted."

"Aw."

Abe patted the can. "Octol will do the job."

"Octol ... what's the mix?"

"Seventy-five/twenty-five."

Hmm. Three quarters HMX, one quarter TNT ... LX-14 was 95 percent HMX. Not quite the same.

"Detonation velocity is ninety-one hundred," Abe added.

Well, okay, yeah, that would get it done.

"Cool. And the paint can is a nice touch."

Jack spotted a letter opener nearby and used it to pry loose the lid. A chemical odor wafted out as he lifted it. He made a show of sniffing the air.

"I love the smell of aliphatics in the morning."

Abe was shaking his head. "If you're ever caught with this..."

"I know. They'll think I'm some homegrown jihadist. Especially when they find my Koran."

"That way at least you'll get special treatment, not to mention a special diet."

"Kosher?"

Abe shrugged. "Either way, no more pulled-pork sandwiches for you."

"I could handle that. Don't know how long I can go without a beer, though."

"Then you should go kosher if you can."

Jack shook his head. "I suppose they'll be even more upset if they find my copper cones."

Abe's smile faded. "Shaped charges?"

Jack nodded. "Roadside IEDs. A matching pair."

When Jack got back to Nuckateague he planned to pack the claylike octol around the copper cones, insert a detonator connected to the receiver of a garage-door opener, then fit each into its own little open-ended container.

Abe said, "How big are these cones?"

"Eight inches across at the mouth."

Abe winced. "You're taking out maybe a tank, an armored half-track?"

"No, a Mercedes."

"Gevalt! All that for a car?"

"Well, it is a classic SEL."

"Seriously, Jack - "

"One on each side, Abe. Simultaneous detonation."

"Do you realize - ?"

He nodded. Two high-pressure plasma jets of molten metal penetrating each side of the car at eight thousand meters per second, heating the interior to ten thousand degrees and igniting the gas tank to add to the party.

"I'm not taking any chances with this guy."

"Then why the Stingers?"

"Insurance. Backup."

"Because turning the car into a supernova isn't hot enough already?"

"Because things can always go wrong. Detonators fail, he might change plans. I don't have a team of observers along the route, I don't have time to experiment, I don't have an expert to help me set it up. Just little old me. If the IEDs are placed at the wrong distance, the molten copper in the plasma jet will solidify into a slug that will punch a hole in the car but can't be counted on to disable it, and certainly not turn it into the inferno I need to make this work."

"And this will happen where? Not on the LIE, I should hope."

Jack shook his head. "Much closer to his home. In fact, home will be in sight when I hit him."

He waggled his pudgy fingers in a "gimme" move. "Run it for me."

"I got up extra early this morning and checked out the road leading to the mansion."

"Sandy?"

"I wish. They're too damn civilized out there. Too damn rich to want to get their tires dirty. Would've loved sand. Then I could dig a hole and set the charges to blast straight up through the floor of his car as it passed over."

Abe was nodding. "But...?"

"But it's paved with asphalt - cracked and buckled, yeah, but still too tough to break through without a jackhammer. So I've got to make do with roadside - two big mean, opposing charges flanking the road just east of the mansion."

"And it has to be tonight? Isn't that pushing?"

Maybe it was, but Jack didn't see that he had a choice.

"It's too good to pass up. I know he's being picked up at six. I know it will take him about two hours to get there. The neighborhood's deserted. And I need to hit him before he gets into that house."

"Why?"

"Because once he's in there, who knows when he'll leave again? When will I get another chance to know his schedule in advance? It's got to be tonight."

"What about this strange baby? You want him, right?"

"Not for myself. No way. But Dawn does. And she's another reason I need to strike sooner than later: I don't know how long I can hold her in check."

"You shouldn't have involved her maybe?"

"No choice. She found the place. I can't very well ship her out. But here's the scenario: Georges leaves around four o'clock to head for JFK. After he's gone, I set up my roadside IEDs about fifty yards east of the mansion. At six o'clock Georges picks up his boss and heads back. Around seven, Weezy, Dawn, and I invade the mansion. We tie up Gilda and relieve her of the baby. Weezy and Dawn head back to Manhattan with the kid. I wait in the bushes with my remote detonator. When Rasalom's Mercedes passes between the charges, I set them off and he becomes a piece of the Colonel's Extra Crispy recipe. Then I get in my Vic and ease on down the road to the city."

"And that's it? Humanity will be saved?"

Jack shrugged. "Saved from the Change, not from itself."

"Well, that would be too much to ask anyone."

"That's the plan, anyway. But just in case ... just in case he somehow gets out of the car and is staggering around in flames, I'll finish him with a Stinger. I'm assuming you were able to get them."

"You doubt? Delivered yesterday."

"Excellent. And the MM-1?"

Abe heaved a deep sigh and shook his head. "Haven't found one yet."

Jack couldn't hide his disappointment. "Abe..."

"Such short notice you give me." He waved his hands in the air. "You think they grow on trees? These are not the low-hanging fruit of the arms world. How many do you think are around already? And finding someone who has one and wants to part with it - you should be so lucky. They're all maybe fans of - what's his name again?"

"Christopher Walken?"

"That's it. They're Christopher Walken fans, maybe, and want to snuggle it close to their bosoms. Who knows? If I had a little more time..." He gave one of his shrugs.

"Tonight's the night."

"Well, I did track down a modified thumper."

"An M-79?"

"Shoots the same grenade or a forty-millimeter round."

"But it's single shot. And it's break action. I might need to get off a few shots real quick like."

"Hit close with one of those HE rounds and there won't be a pupik's worth of him left."

"That's the idea."

"Nu? Needing a second shouldn't be a concern." He held up a finger. "But not to worry, because your uncle Abe has solved the problem. He has found you an M-79 with the China Lake modification."

"The what?" That was a new one.

"A naval research station designed a four-round pump-action version of the M-79 for SEAL use. Only thirty were made. Unless I should rob a museum, those are impossible to find. But a fellow I know in South Dakota makes working replicas, mostly for collectors and gun pornists, and they're lighter and more reliable than the China Lakes. He shipped me one."

"Four shots?"

Abe nodded.

Well ... not the twelve rounds the MM-1 offered but ... He drummed his fingers on the counter.

"All right, I'll take it. I'm already stocked up on the grenades and ammo, so I might as well." He looked around. "And the Stingers are...?"

Abe pointed behind Jack. "Right there."

He turned and saw a golf bag with half a dozen clubs jutting from it. Two carpet-wrapped bundles lay on the floor next to it.

"Really?"

"The golf bag is home for the M-79. Like a glove it fits."

Jack had to smile. "You knew I'd go for it."

"Like you said, the ammo you've got, why waste it? The clubs I added for authenticity. No charge."

"But I hate golf."

"This is the Isher Sports Shop, bubbela. I should send you out the door carrying a grenade launcher? And each of those rugs holds an FIM-92 Stinger - no case, just the rocket and launcher."

"Nice. I can squeeze those into the Vic's trunk along with the golf bag."

"It's big enough?"

"Will be after I evict the immigrant family that's renting it now." He turned back to Abe and leaned on the counter. "So, what do you think of the plan?"

Abe pouted, furrowed his brow, then said, "It's simple, direct, and to the point. It should work like a charm, but..."

Jack didn't want to hear a but.

"Meaning?"

"Something is bound to go wrong."

His own gut had been telling him the same.

"Exactly what I'm thinking."