Slingshot? No. For then he had needed all his skill, and he had put at least three rounds into the frail and ancient airplane, at under two hundred yards. He relived the jolt of the heavy piece against his shoulder, the smell of smokeless powder in the breeze, the thrill he had felt when he knew the rounds were home. Not bad.

He peered into the blazing sky. Now the plane was spinning. At any moment he expected to see it tumble from the sky.

"Slow down!" he yelled at Alejandro over the rumble of the Chevy's engine as they were hurled across the chop. "Más despacio, amigo! I want to see it hit the water! When we bounce, how can I see?"

Alejandro cut his power, and the big man stumbled against the forward panel. Idiot, thought Flores. He found the airplane again and focused.

Mierda! Somehow the pilot was recovering from the spin. And now he seemed to be heading for a beach near Prince George Town.

Flores swallowed. He glanced at Alejandro. The youth was watching the plane, openmouthed. "Ay, Conejo! He will try to land it on that beach."

"He will never get there."

"I think he will." The boy grinned.

Whose side was he on, anyway? He should throw him to the sharks. "Well, he will not!"

Wallowing in the swell, Flores could not see. He took his glasses off and cleaned them. When he put them back on, he could see too well: The plane was still aloft.

"Madre de Dios," he breathed. "Let him hit those trees!"

Panic began to engulf him. His hands were clammy with sweat. The plane was below the palms, must surely strike them, was smoking worse than ever. All at once it seemed to soar—a burst of flame, thank God—no, it was past the trees.

The big man kept his eyes on the plane, while his mind scurried like a cornered rat. He had a .38 Magnum in a shoulder holster and a derringer strapped to his calf. He could storm ashore and kill the Englishman easily enough, if he survived the landing.

"Go in there," he said. "Go in to that dock."

"No, el Conejo Grande," said the youth. "El Patrón's instructions were quite clear."

All right. He would force Alejandro off the boat at gunpoint, kill him in the water, and somehow drive the craft to Union Dock in Nassau. A taxi to the airport, and by the time Rico discovered that el Inglés lived and Alejandro was dead, he could be aboard a plane to Mexico.

He had money in the Bank of Panama to last him all his life, even though he'd have to spend it on the run.

The hell with Rico, the hell with el Viejo, the hell with the coquero's life. He was as free as a bird.

He turned swiftly, reaching for his gun. He froze. Alejandro, grinning hugely, had a .45 leveled at his chest.