As if in slow motion, the monster rose. Blood from the horse meat streamed from the side of his jaws: He must have been feasting somewhere near the keel, from the time they started to chum.

Mike teetered, clinging to the headstay, naked and exposed, staring into the big flat eye. He was paralyzed with fear. He knew with absolute certainty that the creature wanted him.

The huge jaws opened. He saw row upon row of jagged teeth. Half a horse leg dropped from his mouth, and he rose toward the bowsprit stay.

"Hit the son of a bitch!" screamed Jake.

Hanging from the headstay, Mike drew back his arm and took aim. "For you, Sean," he grunted, and flung the iron with all the strength he had.

The harpoon sank into the shimmering, shining flank, buried itself up to the transmitter, and quivered.

The shark did not even flinch. Off-balance from the throw, Mike tottered on the bowsprit, managed to cling to the headstay, and pirouetted around it.

He was helpless, suspended over the water. He drew back his free arm, felt a sandpaper snout brush his hand, and heard a snap like a giant steel trap.

He caught one last glimpse of the eye and saw a cold, cold promise that someday they'd meet again.

The shark crashed back into the water in a sheet of stinging foam. The shaft of the harpoon broke off, leaving its point and the transmitter well embedded in his flesh. With a whisk of his enormous, tapered tail, he was gone.

From the pilothouse they heard a sudden steady drumbeat: Boom... boom... boom...

Mike staggered back along the bowsprit like a drunken tightrope walker and clung to the main mast, shaking.

The eye, the eye, and the promise behind it...

It was the shark that had hit his brother—he knew it in his soul.

He was shaking from head to toe.

Someone thrust a beer into his hand. He looked up. Jake was beaming at him.

"Man, you got him tagged!"

"Jake," he murmured, "I must be crazy, but..."

"What?"

"I saw his eye."

"Yeah?" murmured Jake. "So what, mon?"

"That shark has me tagged too."

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Ellen sat across the table from Hoagie in a swirl of reggae music at the Loma Bella Club in Nassau.

The food had been terrible—and terribly expensive. She felt badly, for she knew that Hoagie would never let her pick up the check, and if he did, the hundred-dollar blue chip Carla had given her would not even come close.

The bar was crowded with islanders, black and white, and the casino, beyond, was jammed. Hoagie introduced her to a Goombay Smash, a drink with an umbrella in it, and she was pleasantly high.

She had told him about herself but knew practically nothing of him. Whenever the conversation touched on his life, he shied away.