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everybody if the worst sort of barbarian—these are the Harrikat , Ralph! Even Abu Sayyaf considers them vile—gets hold of the kind of money Ayala’s ransom would bring.”
    Abu Sayyaf was a different Moro group; and noted, itself, for extreme measures and inhuman ruthlessness.
    “Doesn’t really change anything, Aida,” Boxer replied. “We’ve still got a major problem of our own, right here and now. Who did you say grabbed Ayala? And how much are they demanding?”

    Terminal One, Ninoy Aquino International Airport,
    Republic of the Philippines

    It was nearly the hottest part of the local day. Air conditioned or not, Terminal One was muggy, the air thick with dampness and the cloying aroma of a sea of sweaty humanity. One of three international terminals, and one of two that also served carriers other than the Philippines’ own airline, the terminal was also the oldest of the lot and showed its age in ways both plain and subtle.
    Terry Welch—ex-U.S. Army Special Forces and currently Major commanding Company A, Second Battalion, M Day, Inc.—passed customs, then moved to a fairly open spot in the jostling human sea to wait for Lox. Big, even for an American, Terry towered over the tide of Asiatics passing him to either side.
    An elderly, gray-haired woman, lightweight business suit-clad, and sprightly for all of her gray, walked up and asked, “Terry?” Her mildly slanted, deep brown eyes looked both terribly inquisitive and also very intelligent. If she had any wrinkles on her café au lait skin, they were tolerably hard to see.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Terry answered, inclining his head respectfully. He already recognized Aida Farallon from his final briefing with Boxer. “I’m waiting for my—”
    “Here, Terry,” Lox announced. He’d started with the regiment as a sergeant, but now was rated and paid as a warrant officer. He handed Welch a cell phone purchased from one of the airport concessions. Then he turned to the woman, gave a short but polite bow of his head, and said, “ Magandang tanghali po .”
    Aida cocked her head and smiled, saying, “Ralph told me one of you would speak Filipino with an almost perfect accent.”
    “With all due respect, Ma’am,” Lox answered, “my accent is perfect for certain parts of Luzon.”
    Aida considered that. Indeed, she seemed to be running through a cerebral file. At length, and not a very long length, she agreed, “Aurora, I think.”
    “Ooo, you’re good,” Lox admitted. Then he turned head and eyes away from Aida to focus on something in the middle distance.
    “Eh?” Aida shrugged. “Been around. Cop for better’n twenty years, doncha know? Still keep my hand in a bit, too.”
    “Where now, ma’am?” Terry asked.
    The old woman scowled. “Just call me ‘Aida.’ And now we go collect your bags. After that, I’m taking you to see the victim’s wife. And right after that, I’m out of your lives. Because, at heart, I’m still a cop, and I don’t want to have the first clue about what you’re doing, lest I feel duty bound to interfere.”
    Aida’s eyes locked on Lox who, instead of moving, was standing stock still with his eyes still focused in the distance. She followed his gaze to a suited man, his face ornately tattooed, apparently just off a plane and waiting impatiently for someone or something.
    “TCS,” she announced. “True Cinnamon Siblings. Use to be True Cinnamon Sisters, but then they took on men to add some muscle. And, yes, those titles are in English. There’s a reason for that; the gang, just like the Salvadoran MS-13, didn’t start here, but in the states, in TCS’s case in San Diego, California. They got their start in the States, got deported, and set up in business here. Big in prostitution. Medium in drugs. Heavy into kidnapping. They own a chunk of the city; the police won’t even go in there anymore and the politicians won’t let the army loose to clean it up.”
    “Like parts of Europe, with the