Cobbs, meanwhile, had pulled his head out of the pickup's open door and come charging at Ricci from behind. But before he had gotten more than a couple of feet, Ricci spun in a smooth circle on his left leg, his right leg swinging parallel to the ground and thrusting out at the knee, catching Cobbs in the groin with a roundhouse kick. He flew back against the side of the car and doubled over, groaning, his hands between his thighs.

Ricci ejected the Colt's magazine and tossed it into the spindling roadside brush, then shoved the gun into his vest pocket. Nodding at him, Nimec rushed over to Cobb and took his pistol from its holster. Its clip joined the one that was already in the bushes.

Ricci knelt over Phipps and patted down the bottom of his trouser legs.

"Nothing there to say peekaboo?" he said.

Phipps glared and shook his head.

"Okay," Ricci told him, stepping back. "Here's how it goes. We're all driving off, me with my catch, you two without your guns, our friendly tourist with his nice wife and rental car. You forget about this thing, maybe I don't report the little scam you and Cobbs tried running on me to Fish and Game or the attorney general's office down in Augusta. You really behave yourselves, maybe I won't tell anybody in town how I kicked both your asses and disarmed you barehanded. In two seconds flat."

Phipps continued glaring at him in baleful silence for another moment, then slowly nodded.

"Good," Ricci said. "Stay right where you are until I'm gone. Ground needs thawing anyway."

Phipps snorted, hawked over his shoulder, and looked back up at him. "How the hell am I supposed to explain losing my gun?"

Ricci shrugged.

"Your problem," he said.

Behind them, Cobbs was still leaning against the pickup, moaning and clutching himself. Ricci turned, strode over to him, grabbed his shoulder, and shoved him roughly away from the truck. Cobbs tripped and fell on his side, drawing his knees toward his chest.

Ricci looked at Nimec, then moved up close to him.

"Poor bastard should've kept his hands off my ignition keys," he said in a voice too low for the others to hear. "Welcome to Vacationland, Pete. Better get back in your car and follow along behind me. I'll explain everything once we're at my place."

They had come in from the rugged plateau country of Chapada dos Guimaraes, a convoy of four dusty jeeps bumping along the unpaved track in the deepening dusk, traversing the seventy kilometers to their destination with arduous slowness. After many long hours of riding shotgun in the forward car, Kuhl had finally seen the compound through a break in the overhanging foliage, and then ordered their headlights dimmed and their vehicles pulled off the road.

Once under cover of the trees, he turned to his driver. "Que horas sao?"

The driver showed him the luminous dial of his wristwatch.

Kuhl studied it a moment without comment. Then he glanced over his seat rest and nodded to the man behind him.