The reporter and her colleagues stared like zombies at the plane wreck. They were too exhausted to move, drained by their swim to shore, still panting from the run for their lives. Kaela was in the best shape of the three, and her legs felt like putty. When the stubby plane had first appeared, they hadn't known whether it was friend or foe, but there had been no question as to the intentions of the horsemen with their wild yells and drawn swords: They had been out for blood. The plane looked like a bird that had flown into a fan, and it seemed impossible that its pilot could have escaped without harm, but someone moved in the cockpit. The pilot got one leg, then another over the cockpit combing and climbed out.

He seemed to be all right as he walked around the aircraft, hands on hips, inspecting the damage. He kicked a buckled wheel as if he were checking out a used car and shook his head. Then he turned to the television crew, gave them a friendly wave, and started in their direction, walking with a slight limp.

Lombardo and Dundee moved in and stood protectively at Kaela's sides. She was more interested in appraising the stranger. He was tall, slightly over six feet, and the broad powerful shoulders of a nightclub bouncer filled out the navy sweatshirt. He wore tan shorts, and his muscular legs looked as if they could propel the husky body through a brick wall. As he came closer, he removed his baseball cap to reveal his steel gray, almost platinum hair. His bronzed face was unlined, except for laugh crinkles around the eyes and mouth. She guessed his age at around forty. Dried blood dripped down one cheek and soaked the bandanna around his forehead. The aircraft landing must have been hair-raising, yet he seemed as if he were coming off a game of tennis.

“Good afternoon,” he said, with a wide grin. “Are you folks okay?”

“Yes, we're fine, thank you,” Kaela replied warily. “What about you? You're bleeding.”

He touched the wound absentmindedly. “It's only a little cut. I'm still in one piece, more or less.” He jerked his thumb at the battered ultralight. “Wish I could say the same for my transportation. They just don't make them like they used to. You don't happen to have a roll of duct tape?”

Kaela ventured a smile. “Your plane has gone beyond the duct tape stage,” she said. “I believe the term insurance people use is totaled.”

The stranger grimaced. “I'm afraid you're right, Ms.- ”

“Dorn. Kaela Dorn. This is my producer, Mickey Lombardo, and his assistant, Hank Simpson. We're with the Unbelievable Mysteries television series.”

“I thought so. My name is Kurt Austin. I'm with NUMA.”

“NUMA.” Lombardo stepped forward and pumped Austin's hand. “Boy, are we glad to see you. Lucky you came by.”