Ricci breathed quietly, motionless, watching the two men stand and talk in the small, pebble-sprinkled clearing around the big rock. He had approached them through the woods at a diagonal, and was more or less behind Cobbs, who was turned toward the beach, with Dex facing inland in Ricci's general direction. While they had been ironing out the main points of their little deception, he'd put the finishing touches on a plan of his own, and it too was pretty bare. Cobbs had a weapon--not the sharpshooter's rifle Ricci had speculated about earlier, but a Remington pump, which at close range could pack an even deadlier wallop--and so would have to be taken down first. This time there was no truck door to pin his sorry ass in, but the shotgun would only be a problem if he had the chance to use it. As for Dex ... he was unarmed, and would be easy.

Surprise and the ability to hit fast and hard were then Ricci's best assets. He'd abandoned his scuba tank, fins, and mask in the woods, and left himself wearing only the dry suit and knife rigs. The urchin knife would be of marginal use offensively and was in its scabbard. The pointed, double-edged blade was in his right hand. That baby had the meanness in it.

A breeze fluttered through the woods, and Ricci eased partially out of his crouch using the rustle of leaves, branches, and weeds to cover the sound of his movement. When the wind died down he stopped, then waited for another gust to stir the foliage and stole forward, falling back on his SEALs training again, obeying tried and proven fundamentals of stalking one's quarry. Registering one leg in front of the other. Touching the ground with the ball of his foot and slowly lowering his heel while scanning for rocks, fallen leaves, anything that might trip him up or be disturbed by his weight. Shifting direction every few steps so that the brush wouldn't sway unnaturally and attract attention.

The wind quieted. He paused. The two men were still talking. Cobbs's back was now less than three feet in front of him through the brush that constituted Ricci's self-designated skirmish line. Another draft of wind and he would launch from his concealed position, tackle Cobbs from behind, and hopefully disarm him before he could get off a single shot.

It was the squirrel that screwed things up.

"... want to make it look good, you ought to wait another couple hours, then phone in a diver emergency to me and the sheriff's office," Cobbs was saying. "I'll handle it like any other--"

He stopped talking and gave Dex a questioning glance.