Spanish Galleon Cay, from two thousand feet, was a half-moon of white sand, palm trees, and coral reefs surrounding a turquoise bay. Squarely at the center lay Nevil's Town. Nevil had been dead two centuries; Lomas owned it now. It slept in the afternoon sun.

Hoagie Newcombe decided that finally his string of luck had run out. He was sorry that he was taking Ellen's son with him, and sorry for Jake as well. For the truth was there for all to see; they had not a snowball's chance in hell.

He had once made a night carrier landing in a damaged aircraft in Falkland fog, talked down into a pitch-black void by a clipped, dispassionate radar man's voice that seemed to come from hell.

Now, from the rear seat, above the shriek of the wind past the cabin's open starboard side, he heard the same timbre of death in Lomas's voice.

"Make a pass at Nevil's Town," Lomas shouted. "Fifty feet, el Inglés! Up the avenida, past the movie theater, and a wingover at the end. And then back!"

Hoagie had no choice. He pointed the nose at the end of the street and dived. The sound of the slipstream rose. Wind howled through the open side panel. Cockpit dust that had not been disturbed in years flew into Hoagie's eyes and mouth. He sneezed.

At ten feet, above a wide-mouthed campesino staring upward, Hoagie leveled off. He could hear Lomas in the rear, leaning across Jake and shouting into the wind, "Ay! Amigos! It is Lomas! Campesinos! Es su patrón! I am here!"

Hoagie felt the muzzle of the gun behind his right ear. He pulled up at the end of the street, tossed a wing into the brassy sun, and heaved the plane into a wingover.

Pressed into his seat, then flung against his seat belt, he reversed his course. He skimmed down the main street again. Now there were coqueros pouring out of the bars, the warehouses, the little houses bordering the town.

"Now we will make the noise," Lomas decided. "Like at the football game!"

Hoagie saw Lomas's hand snake between him and Mike, reaching for the throttle. Before he could push it away, Lomas was jazzing the engine, cutting it, racing it, cutting it again.

The plane rattled in protest, and Hoagie's teeth chattered.

"Ay!" shouted Lomas. "Now climb! Ten thousand feet!"

With the attention of the whole island focused on the plane, and the gun against the back of his neck, Hoagie eased the throttle forward. The engine strained and groaned.

"She'll never make ten grand!" yelled Hoagie. "Too much weight!"

"Try, yes?" shouted Lomas. The muzzle tapped Hoagie's head playfully. "Is for your own good, amigos."

"Why?" grunted Hoagie.

"You forget, el Inglés. Every thousand feet is five more seconds coming down."

***

The great white had left the harbor with the woman's blood still warm in his throat.