He twisted frantically, grabbed the headrest of his seat, and hung on. Lomas was drifting at the top of the cabin, and Jake, pounding him with awkward, sledgehammer blows, was half erect, floating too. Hoagie's left hand was braced on the ceiling, holding him in his seat. His right hand gentled the yoke. He was smiling tersely.

"Don't get off yet, Mike," he called. "Just get his bloody gun!"

Mike, heart thundering in his chest, pulled himself aboard. Hoagie's earphones, a pencil, the radio mike, and a pack of Marlboros were drifting in the air. Lomas's gun was floating past. He grabbed at it and missed. It flew through the open panel, bounced from the strut, and disappeared.

The slipstream had turned from a howl to a scream. They had crested a roller coaster and were diving toward the ground. Slowly, with infinite care, Hoagie eased back on the yoke. Mike felt himself pushed down harder and harder into his seat.

The wings creaked and trembled. Now, as Hoagie eased the nose up, Mike's stomach felt as if it were being forced into his hips. The blood left Hoagie's face, and it turned gray.

In the rear there was silence. Lomas had landed in the right-hand seat. He was bleeding from the cheek and temple. Jake tore open his shirt, yanked Hoagie's gun from the coquero's belt, and checked its cylinder.

"Okay, 'amigo,'" he said tightly, "we gwine hang you from a palm tree over Kingston Street, upside down. We gwine use your head for steel drum, play the goombay music on."

Hoagie leveled the plane and looked around the cabin. "That made a proper mess." He hung his earphones on his yoke, placed his cigarettes under the sun visor, and put the pencil back into its clip on the dash. "Seat belt sign's on, no smoking in the cabin." He glanced at Mike. "You decide to stay aboard?"

Mike nodded numbly.

Hoagie squeezed his knee. "Can't afford to lose a passenger, can we?" Hoagie took a chart and studied it, banking toward the north. The howling of the slipstream rose as he added throttle. "Now, let's go out and find your mother if we can."

***

Rico Lomas slouched in the right-hand corner of the rear seat. He dabbed at the cut on his forehead. With his tongue he felt a loose tooth.

As long as the gun was in the plane, he had a chance. Not one of the three men—except el Inglés, perhaps—looked as if he had the cojones to use one on a man.

On the llanos there were snakes that feigned death when you beat them, and struck when you walked away. He groaned for effect and slouched lower.

El Inglés turned. He beckoned him close, to hear above the roar of the wind. "You okay, Lomas?"

"You do not hear me crying."

"You like to hear them cry? The people you murder?"