HAWK AND PIDGE left the car around the corner from the huge Victorian house in Pacific Heights, the biggest in a neighborhood of impressive, multi-multimillion-dollar homes, all with stunning views of the bay.

  Their target house was imposing and yet inviting, so American it was iconic - and at the same time, completely out of reach for everyone but the very wealthy.

  The two young men looked up at the leaded windows, the cupolas, and the old trees banked around the house, separating it from the servant quarters over the garage and the neighbors on either side of the yard. They had studied the floor plans on the real estate brokers’ Web site and knew every corner of every floor. They were prepared, high on anticipation, and still cautious.

  This was going to be their best kill and their last. They would make some memories tonight, leave their calling card, and fade out, blend back into their lives. But this night would never be forgotten. There would be headlines for weeks, movies, several of them. In fact, they were sure people would still be talking about this crime of all crimes into the next century.

  “Do I look okay?” Pidge asked.

  Hawk turned Pidge’s collar up, surveyed his friend’s outfit down to the shoes.

  “You rock, buddy. You absolutely rock.”

  “You too, man,” Pidge said.

  They locked arms in the Roman forearm handshake, like Charlton Heston and Stephen Boyd in Ben-Hur.

  “Ubi fumus,&r............