Juan and Dema were at the Hermosillo police headquarters when the Federalis returned from the villa. Dema was on the phone, talking to Frank.

"That's right. The police have the entire villa cordoned off. They are searching the whole place, and interviewing all the locals. But it appears there was some sort of falling out between the leaders, and they shot each other. Both are dead. Whatever organization there was no longer exists. The opium and cannabis growers will have to find another conduit. Meanwhile, things should be quiet in Nogales for a while. Juan and I have some loose ends to wrap up here, but we'll see you in a day or two." She winked at Juan and grinned. He grinned back.

In northern Mexico a Yaqui Indian stands atop a bluff overlooking the Arizona border. An antique rifle is cradled in his arms. His piercing, dark-eyed gaze sweeps the horizon. His perception tells him that the unrest of the spirit that had penetrated this domain has abated somewhat. He is pleased, for this is his homeland. He and his fellow tribesmen are fiercely protective of it. But now he knows they are not alone. He has met another who is equally dedicated to the protection of the innocent. He scans the land once more, then puts down the rifle, leaning it against a large stone. A moment later he is gone. Below the bluff a lone coyote lopes away.