She stopped in the moon shadow of an ancient elm. The car drew to a halt, engine running. She saw Hoagie take a packet from his jacket and hand it to the man. She caught the silhouette of the driver counting money inside. The driver handed out another packet, the size of the pocketbook in her room. Hoagie put it on the hood of the car, inspected it, nodded, and began to wrap it again.

She whirled and hurried back to the house. Her heart was beating, and breaking too. In this place and in this time, it could only be dope.

Oh, Brody, she cried silently. Why ever did you leave me here alone?

She went to bed, tossed and turned, and finally she slept.

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The long black speedboat rested in the shade of the concrete quay on the seaward side of Whiskey Cay. Carlos Flores—el Conejo Grande—checked the gold imitation Rolex on his wrist.

The Rolex was the badge of the coquero. No traficante would be seen without one, but there was a certain pecking order, too: If he bought a real one, which was well within his means, the family of el Viejo would consider it an affront.

It was almost eight-thirty. He and Alejandro had left Nassau before sunrise and pounded across the chop to Whiskey Cay as dawn broke to the east.

It had been a miserable trip, at almost sixty knots, into a blinding sun. Carlos hated Cigarette speedboats: Their jockeys never drove them at anything less than full throttle, and if you tried to sit, it cracked your back, and if you stood, clinging to the grab rail, then your feet gave out.

Carlos had fallen arches. He had decided, while soaking them one night, that they had collapsed from standing guard over members of el Viejo's family, who were always sitting down.

At least the boat had made it on schedule, before el Inglés had landed. Carlos had hardly slept the night before, in fear of Alejandro's being late to the dock, or engine trouble, or being stopped by a Bahamian narcotics patrol vessel before he got here.

For it was a matter of life and death, as much for him as for Newcombe. No excuse would suffice this time. He was convinced his boss would rather see him dead than his victim.

Madre de Díos, what curse had fallen on him that el Viejo would sentence him to this godforsaken island and his ill-begotten grandson, at his age?

It was true he'd deserted a shipment and abandoned a weapon, but one so old and wise as el Viejo should be simpático to the miseries of the aging: flat feet, failing eyesight, a memory that slipped, a certain lack of zeal.

Nothing must slip this morning, or he would get no older.

"I hear something," muttered Alejandro.

El Conejo Grande's pulse began to pound. "What? What is it?"