"Not a practical idea," he said. "All they'd have to do is land in the nearest clearing and hunt us down. The river is our only chance, slim as it is. You and the others keep your heads down. Let them wonder where I picked up a load of passengers. If they're looking closely they'll spot the folds on your eyelids and realize you're not the descendants of European ancestry on a picnic."

The venerable Chris-Craft covered another two miles of river before the lead ultralight dipped low over the river and increased speed, its nose aimed menacingly at the runabout. "No more peaceful intentions," said Pitt calmly. "He means business this time. How good are you with a handgun?"

"My qualifying scores on the range are higher than most of the male agents I know," she said as matter-of-factly as if she was describing her latest hairdo.

He took the bundle from under his seat, unwrapped the towel and handed her his old automatic pistol. "Ever shoot a Colt forty-five?"

"No," she answered. "When required, most of us at INS pack a Beretta forty-caliber automatic."

"Here are two spare clips. Don't waste your shells firing at the engine or fuel tank. As a target, it's too small to hit on an aircraft passing overhead at more than fifty miles an hour. Aim for the pilot and the gunner. One good body shot and they'll either crash or head for home."

She took the .45, twisted around in the seat so she was facing backward, flipped off the safety and cocked the hammer. "He's almost on us," she warned Pitt.

"The pilot will roll and come over us slightly off to one side, giving his gunner a clear shot downward," Pitt said coolly. "The instant he lines us up in his sights, shout out which side he's passing, left or right, so I can zigzag under him."

Without questioning Pitt's instructions, Julia gripped the old Colt with both hands, raised the barrel and lined up the sights on the two men perched in front of the wings and engine as it soared down the river. Her face showed more concentration than fear as her finger tightened on the trigger.

"On your left!" she called out.

Pitt threw the runabout in a sharp turn to the left, staying with the ultralight. He heard the quiet staccato burp of an automatic weapon with a suppressor on its muzzle, mingled with the loud thunder of the old Colt, and saw bullets lace the water only three feet alongside the hull as he cut under the ultralight, using its underside to mask the runabout from the gunner's view.

As the ultralight shot ahead, Pitt saw no trace of injury to the pilot or copilot. They looked as if they were enjoying themselves. "You missed!" he snapped.

"I could have sworn I scored," she snapped back furiously.