The first bullet buried itself in the leather folder. Barrett felt the thud against his chest, but he was still in a state of disbelief when the second bullet grazed his head. Survival reflexes took over. He dropped the folder, turned and bolted into the woods. Doyle got off a couple more shots, but the bullets dug harmlessly into a tree trunk. He swore and gave chase.

Barrett ignored the low-lying tree branches that slashed at his face and the briers that grabbed at his jeans. His surprise and dismay at being shot by a friend had given way to sheer terror. Blood was trickling down the side of his head and neck. As he crashed through the forest, he saw a silver shimmer ahead. Oh hell. He had circled back toward the lake, but there was no going back.

He burst from the woods onto a sandy beach a hundred yards or so from the plane. He could hear Doyle crashing through the brush just behind him. Without hesitating, he slogged into the water, and then took a deep breath and dove under the surface. He was a strong swimmer, and, even with his boots on, he got several yards from shore by the time Doyle arrived at the water's edge. He went as deep as he could go.

Doyle stood on the shore and carefully aimed at the ripples marking the surface where Barrett had disappeared. He peppered the water with bullets, patiently reloaded and shot off another clip.

The water was crimson where Barrett had disappeared. Doyle decided to wait five minutes until he was sure Barrett wasn't holding his breath, but he heard someone yelling from the other side of a patch of tall weeds growing in the water off to his left.

He glanced back at the stain growing on the surface of the lake and tucked the gun in his belt. Walking briskly, he made his way through the woods and back to the clearing. He gathered up the papers that Barrett had dropped and slipped them into the folder, first noticing the bullet hole in the leather binding. He cursed. Served him right for using a popgun. Minutes later, he was in the plane, flying over the treetops.

As soon as he thought he had telephone service, Doyle punched out a number on his cell phone. “Well?” said a man's voice at the other end.

“It's done,” Doyle said. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he was determined to spill the beans.”

“Too bad. He was brilliant. Any problems?”

“Nope,” Doyle lied.

“Good work,” the voice said. “I want to see you tomorrow.”