LITMIR.BIZ

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said. “I knew him, a long time ago. Always liked the man. He’s not what you expect of a revolutionary.”

      Rourke chuckled. “Not at all. He could make a fortune as a recording artist if he ever got tired of being President of Barrera. He can sing.”

      “Indeed he can.”

      Rourke turned at the door and looked back at the man who was the living image of what he’d be, in a few years.

      He smiled. “When I get back, maybe you could take me to a ball game or something.”

      K.C. picked up a chair cushion and threw it at him. “Get stuffed.”

      Rourke just laughed. He picked up the cushion and tossed it back.

      “You be careful over there,” K.C. added. “Sapara has friends, and he’s slippery. If he ever gets out of prison, you could be in trouble. He’s vindictive.”

      “He won’t get out,” was the reply. “Just the same, it’s nice that my old man worries about me,” he added.

      K.C. beamed. “Yes, he does. So don’t get yourself killed.”

      “I won’t. Make sure you do the same.”

      K.C. shrugged. “I’m invincible. I spent years as a merc and I’ve still got most of my original body parts.” He made a face as he moved his shoulder. “Some of them aren’t up to factory standards anymore, but I get by.”

      Rourke grinned. “Same here.” He searched K.C.’s hard face. “When?”

      “When, what?”

      “When do you want to do the paperwork?”

      “Oh. The name change. Why not get it started tomorrow? Unless you’re leaving for Barrera early?”

      “Not until Thursday,” Rourke replied. His face softened. “I’d like that.”

      K.C. nodded.

      Rourke went back to his room to start packing.

      * * *

      The paperwork was uncomplicated. The attorney was laughing like a pirate.

      “I knew,” he said, glancing from one to the other. “It was so damned obvious. But I knew better than to mention it. Your old man,” he added, to Rourke, “packs a hell of a punch.”

      Rourke fingered his jaw, where there was only a faint yellow bruise to remind him of his father’s anger when he’d accused him of being Tat’s real parent. “Tell me about it,” he laughed.

      K.C. managed a bare smile. “I need to have a few classes in anger management, I guess,” he sighed.

      “No, Dad,” Rourke said without realizing what he’d said, “you’ll do fine the way you are. A temper’s not a bad thing.”

      K.C. was beaming. Rourke realized then what he’d said and his brown eye twinkled.

      “Nice, the way that sounds, son,” K.C. said, and his chest swelled with pride.

      “Very nice.”

      “Well, I’ll have this wrapped up in no time,” the attorney told the two men. “You can check back with me in a few days.”

      “I’ll do that,” K.C. said.

      * * *

      Rourke walked out the door of his house with a suitcase and a suit bag, in which he had a dinner jacket, slacks, shirt and tie. He was going to look the best he could. He was so excited about the day to come that he hadn’t slept. Tat would be there. He’d see her again, but not in the same way he’d seen her for eight long years. Tomorrow night was going to be the best of his life. He could hardly wait.

      * * *

      The flight to Barrera was long and tedious. Rourke caught the plane at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi. It was sixteen hours and eight minutes to the Eduardo Gomes International Airport in Manaus. He tried to sleep for most of the flight, only fortifying himself with food and champagne in between. He was impatient. He had to conduct this like a battle campaign, he thought. Tat wasn’t going to be welcoming, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d spent years tormenting her.

      Finally the plane landed. The tropical heat hit him in the face like a wet towel, and it was something he wasn’t accustomed to. Kenya was mild year-round.

      He went through passport control and customs, with only the carry-on bag and his suit bag. He always traveled light. He hated the time spent waiting for luggage at baggage claim. Much easier to travel with only the essentials and buy what he needed when he arrived. He didn’t advertise it, but he was quite wealthy. The game park kept him in ready cash, from tourism. Not to mention what he’d made for years as a professional soldier, risking his life in dangerous places. It was wonderful that K.C. was his father, but Rourke didn’t need his father’s financial support. He’d made his own way in the world for a long time.

      He walked through baggage claim and looked for the appropriate sign, which would be held up by a limo driver he’d hired from Nairobi on his cell phone. He could easily afford the fees and he hated cabs.

      The man spotted him and grinned. Rourke, dressed in khakis, tall and blond and striking, with the long ponytail down his back could never be mistaken for anyone except who he was. He looked the part of an African game park owner.

      He smiled as he approached the man.

      “Senhor Rourke?” the small dark man asked with a big grin.

      Rourke chuckled. “What gave me away?” he asked.

      “You do not remember?” the little man asked, and seemed crushed.

      Rourke had an uncanny memory. He stared at the man for a minute, closed his eye, smiled and came up with a name. “Rodrigues,” he chuckled. “You chauffeured me around the last time I was in Manaus, just after the Barrera offensive. You have two daughters.”

      The man seemed to be awash in pleasure. “Oh, yes, that is me, but, please, you must call me Domingo,” he added, wringing Rourke’s hand. Imagine, a rich cosmopolitan man like this remembering his name!

      “Domingo, then.” He drew in a breath. Jet lag was getting to him. “I think I need to get a hotel room for the night. I’m flying out to Barrera in the morning. General Machado is having an awards ceremony.”

      “Sim.” The man nodded as he climbed in under the wheel. “Several people are to be honored for their part in overthrowing that rat, Arturo Sapara,” he added. “My cousins were tortured in Sapara’s prison. I danced with joy when he was arrested.”

      “So did I, mate,” Rourke replied solemnly.

      “One lady from Manaus is to be awarded a medal,” Domingo said with a smile. “Senhorita Carrington. I knew her mother. Such a saintly lady,” he added.

      “Saintly,” Rourke said, almost grinding his teeth as Domingo pulled out in traffic.

      “Creio que sim,” Domingo replied, nodding. “She was kind. So kind. It was a tragedy what happened to her husband and her youngest daughter, Matilda,” he added.

      Rourke drew in a long breath. “That was truly a tragedy.”

      “You know of it?” Domingo asked.

      “Yes. I’ve known Tat...Clarisse,” he corrected, “since she was eight years old.”

      “The senhorita is a good woman,” Domingo said solemnly. “When she was younger, she never missed Mass. She was so kind to other people.” His face hardened. “What that butcher did to her was unthinkable. He was killed,” he added coldly. “I was glad. To hurt someone so beautiful, so kind...”

      “How do you know her?” Rourke asked.

      “When my little girl was diagnosed with lymphoma, it was Senhorita Carrington

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