The firing had stopped. There was a deathly silence. He took a deep breath, somehow summoned a frozen smile, and turned.

"Well, amigos," he said, "We scared that bastard tiburón away."

Someone snickered. Another joined in. Ricardo, his foreman on the island, glared at them, and then, as others joined in, could not keep his own face straight.

In their minds Lomas had soiled himself forever.

If el Viejo heard of this, he'd order him home and stake him on los llanos for the ants.

Rico marched toward them, took a deep breath, and began to speak. "If," he said softly, "I hear of this shark again—if one of you talks—I will tear out the tongue of each of you and feed them to the sharks! Comprenden ustedes? Ricardo?"

Ricardo shrugged. "As you wish."

"Chico?"

"My lips are sealed." He spread his hands. "These others? Quién sabe?"

"Jaime?"

"Oh, don Rico," the man said with a grin. "In the name of the Lord our Savior—never a word from me."

When he was through, the smiles were gone but their eyes were alive with mirth.

He could not resist a study of the water. Alejandro idled the engine ten yards away, as close as he could get. The fin was gone. El Conejo Grande's body had disappeared, but everyone knew that the smell of blood drove sharks into a frenzy.

His three-hundred-dollar competition jumping ski was drifting down the strand. The five-hundred-dollar abandoned Uzi rested somewhere in water as clear as glass.

Well, the ski was scratched and worn, and Uzi automatic rifles grew on trees. Let the idiots behind him slog out and get them both.

"You going to make him beach the boat?" Someone from the crowd laughed.

Bastards...

He gathered all his courage and what dignity he could, waded out to Alejandro, and hoisted himself aboard.

As they sped away from Galleon Cay he sat watching his drunken coqueros grow smaller under the palms.

His family still controlled the island and its campesinos. On the distant llanos el Viejo reigned supreme.

But for him there was only one path back to power and glory.

Parachute jumps and football goals were useless. He would have to kill the Englishman himself.

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Ellen Brody sat at the mirror in her room off Carla's studio. She could see Michael behind her, sitting on her bed.

Carefully she separated a lock of her hair and wrapped it around her curling iron. She counted: one thousand, two thousand, three... up to six. She let it go and looked at the result. Not bad for the tropics, not bad at all.

But for what? She hadn't seen Hoagie in three days. She fought the temptation to ask and lost.

"Did you see Hoagie Newcombe today?" she asked casually. "When you went down into town?"

"Maybe he went to Nassau, Mom. Haven't seen him around at all."