Alicia fought panic. How much did he know? She swallowed, searching for moisture.

“Not if you want to sell the broadcast power technology,” she said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Because I’m the only one who can make it work.”

She saw Baker’s eyes narrow as he stared at her. Her insides were heaving with grand mal shakes. She prayed they didn’t show.

“Yeah? Why should I believe that?”

How much does he know? Had he seen the will? No… odds were against that But considering the Greenpeace clause in the will, he’d probably been told from the start not to hurt her. At least she hoped so. If she was wrong, her next words could buy her Thomas’s fate.

“You mean you weren’t told to treat me with kid gloves?”

She watched him consider that, then saw him lower the pistol.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll find out what’s what after we finish off your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“I guess not. Not the way he took off without you.”

Alicia wondered about that. She’d been shocked to see him run rather than attack, but when she considered his chances of defeating three armed men, she couldn’t blame him. She just hoped he planned on coming back for her.

She realized with a start that she didn’t have to hope. She knew he’d be back.

She had to start believing in someone.

Suddenly she heard the rattle of gunfire from somewhere in the woods.

“Sounds like my guys have found your boy,” Baker said with that grin. “I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. Not even for all the money this stuff’s worth.”

Another burst of gunfire.

“Listen,” Baker said, his grin broadening. “It’s like music.”

8.

8.

Jack hid behind a big oak. At least he thought it was an oak. All he knew for sure was that its trunk was about two feet across—barely enough to hide him—and bordered the deer trail. Jack held one of the lateral branches of a smaller tree growing between the big oak and the trail. He’d used his Swiss Army knife to trim most of the branch’s twigs, leaving only one-inch stubs jutting out like nails.

And now he waited, listening to Barlowe’s noisy approach along the trail.

He had a length of the ubiquitous vine coiled loosely about his left wrist, and the tree branch that had once stretched face-high across the trail bent back as far as he dared without snapping it off the trunk.

His knuckles looked blue from the cold, but his palms were sweating. Timing was everything here. A second too early or late and Jack would be following Yoshio into the Great Whatever.