RainStorm

had
    been a mistake.
    I noticed that several people were watching us, including Carlinhos,
    the founder of the academy and its chief instructor. No one
    was moving to interfere, recognizing, as Brazilians do, that this
    problem was homem homem--man to man--and not yet their concern.
    Still, I didn't want to draw any more attention to myself. I released
    his leg and disengaged.
    The tension ran out of his body and he slumped onto his back,
    cradling his injured knee. "Oh, man, I can't believe you did that,"
    he said. "That was totally unnecessary, man."
    I didn't respond.
    "What if I really hadn't known, huh? What then?"
    I shrugged. "Surgery to reconstruct the anterior and posterior
    cruciate ligaments and menisci, then maybe a six-to
    twelvemonth
    rehabilitation. Lots of painkillers that wouldn't work nearly as well
    as you'd want."
    "Shit," he grunted. A minute or so passed. Then he sat up and
    looked at me. He flexed his leg and flashed his indefatigable grin.
    "I almost had you, man. And you know it."
    "Sure," I said, looking at him. "Almost." I stood. "Where did
    you learn the sambo?"
    The grin widened. "Since the dreaded Iron Curtain got lifted,
    I've been working some with the Ruskies."
    "They let you in, after some of the shit you pulled on them in
    'Stan?"
    He shrugged. "It's a whole new world, partner, with whole new
    enemies. I'm helping them with their Chechen problem now, so
    we're like old buddies."
    I nodded. "Let's go somewhere where we can talk."
    We grabbed our bags and left without changing. I still had the
    bug and transmitter detector Harry had once made for me. It lay
    quietly in my bag, powered up from its daily charging, and I knew
    neither Dox nor his belongings was wired. But that didn't mean he
    was alone.
    I took him along a circuitous series of quiet neighborhood
    streets. Twice we got in and out of taxis. I stayed with generic counter surveillance techniques, not wanting to take specific advantage
    of the area's features lest he conclude by my intimate knowledge
    of the local terrain that I must be a resident. He knew what I
    was doing and didn't protest.
    By the time we had reached the beach at Sao Conrado, I knew
    we were clean. The rain had stopped and we strolled down to the
    edge of the water. The tide was receding, giving up wet sand like a
    defeated army abandoning terrain it could no longer control.
    A minute passed. Neither of us spoke.
    A ball from a nearby game of beach soccer rolled our way. Dox
    picked it up and threw it back at the brown-skinned kid who was
    chasing after it. The kid waved his thanks and went back to the
    game. I watched him for a moment, wondering what it would be
    like to grow up like that, in a city by the sea with nothing worse to
    do than play soccer on the sand.
    "We done with the spy stuff?" Dox asked me.
    I nodded, and after a moment he went on.
    "Nice set-up you got going here," he said. "Good weather, the
    ocean . . . And man, the women! I've been falling in love maybe
    three times a day. First morning, I got to my hotel, girl at the reception
    desk, man, they practically had to resuscitate me she was
    so fine."
    "You could be a travel writer," I told him.
    "Hey, I'd take it. It's tough for guys like us, you know? You get
    a certain resume, you only get hired for certain jobs."
    "You seem to be doing all right," I observed.
    He kicked some sand and looked out at the ocean. "Sure is nice
    here, though. You been here long?"
    The hayseed accent was getting thicker. I wasn't going to fall for
    it, but no sense calling him on it, either. Better to have him assume
    that I 'was underestimating him the way he was used to being underestimated.
    "Couple months," I told him. "I move around a lot. So people
    like you can't find me."
    He frowned. "C'mon, what else was I going to do? The lucky
    ones find a gig bodyguarding rich assholes, doing threat assessments,
    living the good life in the guest quarters of a house in Brentwood,
    hardening the soft targets who should have gotten culled early on
    to improve the gene pool like nature intended. The really lucky
    ones teach Hollywood types how to act like soldiers, or they get to
    blow shit up for the cameras. The unlucky ones? Mall security
    guards and rent-a-cops. I didn't get a shot at the first, and fuck the
    second. So here I am."
    "What not go with Blackwater, one of those outfits?"
    He shrugged. "I tried it. But I discovered that the corporate world
    just didn't offer me appropriate financial