“I used to know the countryside pretty well, but it's been a while since I hunted up in these parts. I think there's a lake not far from here.”

The plane lost more altitude.

“I see something,” Barrett said, pointing at a flash of reflected sunlight.

Doyle gave Barrett the thumbs-up sign and steered toward the patch of blue water. The aircraft descended rapidly at an oblique angle that looked as if it would end in the tall pines. At the last second, Doyle pulled the plane up, skimming the treetops before making a pancake landing on the lake.

The plane coasted on its momentum toward shore and scraped up onto a narrow beach. Doyle was laughing. “That was a hell of a ride. You okay?”

“My ass is up around my ears, but other than that I'm fine.”

“Getting in was easy,” Doyle said, glancing at the surrounding woods. “Getting out will be the hard part.”

Barrett pointed at the radio. “Shouldn't we be calling for help?”

“In a minute. I want to check for damage.” He climbed out onto the pontoon and stepped onto the beach. He stooped a couple of times to look under the fuselage. “Hey, Spider, take a look at this.”

Barrett got out of the plane. “What's up?”

“Here, under the fuselage. It's amazing.”

Barrett started to get down on his knees. He was still carrying the portfolio.

“I don't see anything.”

“You will,” Doyle said. “You will.” He slipped a pistol out from under his windbreaker.

Barrett bent lower, and the leather folder dropped from his hand. The thick wad of papers spilled out onto the ground. Some of the sheets were caught by a lake breeze and scattered across the clearing as if they had a life on their own.

Barrett bolted after the wayward portfolio, scooping up the papers with the skill of a shortstop. He managed to gather all the papers before they blew into the trees. He tucked them back into the folder and hugged it close to his chest. He had a grin of triumph on his face as he started to walk back to the plane.

He saw the gun in Doyle's hand.

“What's going on, Mickey?”

“Good-bye, Spider.”

He could tell from the tone of Doyle's voice that his friend wasn't joking. His grin vanished. “Why?”

“I can't let you sink the project.”

“Look, Mickey. Tris and I can talk this out.”

“It's got nothing to do with Tris.”

“I don't understand.”

“I'll hoist a beer in your name the next time I get back to Cambridge,” Doyle said.

The .25-caliber pistol in his hand went pop-pop.