90: The Death of Rocco Matt Decker surveyed the carnage around him. The great Rocco had finally been brought down in a spray of bullets from his trusty Lambretta. Decker had stitched a row of blood around the room, impartial in his justice-dealing. The two lovers were entwined in the corner, rigid in death, and Decker casually slipped the still smoking Lambretta into his sharkskin pants, flinching as the hot metal touched his skin. His job was done for the day. Rocco dead, the two lovers following him to the hell where Decker decided he belonged. It felt good to have the job finished, he thought, picking his way over the corpse-littered Brasilia street. He wondered where he'd be called next. Jessica could never think back to that moment without a shudder of pure horror. She had sat there, motionless, dumb, staring up at Springer out of stricken eyes, unable to say a word. It had been Elyssa who'd saved the situation, if sav-ing it was. "That's Jessie's son," she'd said calmly. "And I'd like to know what's put you in such a temper?
