He’d called Nadia and told her he was on his way out and to hang in there. She’d sounded relieved. He’d call her again when he found a road.

But he didn’t want to be caught carrying on that road, especially not a pistol that could link him to the bloody mess in the GEM boardroom. He pulled the P-98 from his pocket and opened the breech. He ejected the clip and, using his thumbnail, flicked the .22 long rifles free one by one, sending them flying in all directions. He tossed the empty clip into the brush. Then he kicked a hole in the sand, dropped the pistol into the depression, and smoothed sand back over it with his foot.

The gun was lousy with his fingerprints, but after a couple of rainstorms in this acid soil that wouldn’t be a problem. No one was going to find it out here anyway.

He walked on, and the extra traveling time gave him room to think.

I blew it.

Defeat weighed on him, and he knew that wasn’t right. Nadia and her fiancé were safe; Dragovic wouldn’t be bothering Gia anymore; the world’s supply of Berzerk would be useless powder in a couple of weeks, and its manufacturers wouldn’t be making any more of it—or anything else for that matter; he’d made a guy named Sal very happy, happier than he’d intended; and he’d earned a nice piece of change in the process.

But the notion of Scar-lip roaming free remained a bone in his throat that he could neither cough up nor swallow. He felt some sort of obligation to let it be known that something big and dangerous was prowling the Pine Barrens. But how? He couldn’t personally go public with the story, and who’d believe him anyway?

He was still trying to come up with a solution when he heard faint voices off to his right. He angled toward them.

The brush opened up and he found himself facing a worn two-lane blacktop. A couple of SUVs were parked on the sandy shoulder where four men, thirty to forty in age, were busily loading shotguns and slipping into Day-Glo orange vests. Their gear was expensive, top of the line, their weapons Remingtons and Berettas. Gentlemen sportsmen, out for the kill.

Jack asked which way to the parkway and they pointed off to the left. A guy with a dainty goatee gave him a disdainful up-and-down.

“What’d you run into? A bear?”

“Worse.”

“You could get killed walking through the woods like that, you know,” another said, a skinny guy with glasses. “Someone might pop you if you aren’t wearing colors.”

“I’ll be sticking to the road from here on.” Curiosity got the better of Jack. “What’re you hunting with all that firepower?”

“Deer,” the goatee replied. “The State Wildlife Department’s ordered a special off-season harvest.”

“Harvest, aye? Sounds like you’re talking wheat instead of deer.”

“Might as well be, considering the way the herd’s been growing. There’s just too damn many deer out there for their own good.”