He glanced at his coqueros on the beach. They were applauding wildly, and he could hear their drunken cheering way out here.

He fired a victory salute and gave them three more Christies across the bouncing wake, pumping the weapon up and down like a drum major's baton.

As the boat made its final sweeping curve he hurdled the wake. At top speed, with all the momentum from his tail-of-the-whip ride, he released the towline, flung up his arms to show his driver he was free, and began the long, free glide to the beach, cradling the Uzi like a child.

All at once the cheering stopped. Those of his campesinos who had waded out to meet him froze, then scrambled to the shore. A monstrous shadow appeared, between himself and the snow-white beach.

When the shark broke the surface, he had el Conejo Grande—all two hundred and thirty pounds of him—in his mouth. Blood was pouring from the great white's jaws. He grew like a gray ghost from the shallows to full height. From Rico's vantage he dwarfed the palm trees waving beyond the strand.

The shark shed a muddy stream of sand as he leapt into the bright sun. He shook his head, like a terrier worrying a bone. His great black eye was glittering on Lomas. The shark tossed the dead man from his mouth and crashed down in the water once again.

A sheet of spray spread out, muddied with sand. The fin, as tall as Lomas, was heading for him. He screamed in terror and flung the Uzi over his shoulders, flailing for balance as the ski began to stall.

"Socorro—help!" he howled. "Help me, por favor!"

But his coqueros were fleeing as if the shark could come ashore.

Rico teetered for a moment on the ski, panic clutching at his bowels. He abandoned the ski and plunged into the water like a child: head up, dog-paddling, afraid to take his eyes from the fin, terrified, yelping in horror.

The fin was cutting him off. Slogging through hipdeep water, he tripped and went down.

"Help me, one of you," he pleaded. "In the name of the Lord our Savior, help me now!"

Someone fired from the beach. The fin wavered and stopped.

There was another burst of fire, and then another. The water was pocked with the dimples of pistol bullets: .45s, .38s. Rico could hear the rounds whining as they ricocheted away. He thought of John Wayne landing on Iwo Jima's fiery strand.

Suddenly the great white turned and charged the beach. Lomas, eyeballs bulging, stumbled ashore while the fusillade continued. He sank to the sand. John Wayne forgotten, he found himself sobbing, shoulders shaking, tears streaming down his face. He could not stop.

They must never see him crying like a woman. He turned quickly toward the water to hide his face, but he had recovered far too late.