That was paramount, he thought. She had to know it was him. He couldn’t just sneak up on her and gun her down. There was no satisfaction in that, no real justice. Damn it, he wanted credit. “What’s this?”

It looked like a knife handle. He pulled on it, and realized it was a five-inch carving knife. A signal from God! The green light!

Here’s another weapon, Mr. Prancer. Do what must be done.

Amen!

Robert wiped the blade clean on his wet pants. Another length of thorn-studded rosebush backhanded him in the face and ripped a trail of scratches across his cheek. It was all he could do not to start hacking at the goddamn bush with his new knife.

Patience, he reminded himself. He had to remember what he was here to do—it wasn’t getting all pissed off at a rosebush.

Crouching down, he undid the paddle so that it was in two parts. Too easy to end up smacking himself in the head when it was one long paddle, but one of the halves he could maneuver easily. He pictured himself jumping up out of nowhere and whacking Callahan on the side of the head with it—Robert didn’t mind if the wannabe senator never knew what hit him.

A paddle, a gun, a knife. Not bad.

It was his own damn fault he was under the rosebush and not in the cottage. He’d decided to follow his two hostages—even if they didn’t know it yet, they were his hostages as far as he was concerned. He wanted to see the looks on their faces when they discovered they were stuck on the island for the duration—when they realized they weren’t alone.

Keeping them from hearing him wasn’t a problem with the wind, the rain, the ocean. It was keeping them from seeing him that almost tripped him up. Not a lot of tall trees to hide behind out here. Once, he’d had to burrow down in the bird shit.

He sank the boat last night just after dark. It wasn’t easy, either. He’d had to wade out into the water and beat a hole in the bottom with the anchor. He’d cut his hand. He’d been tempted to shoot the damn thing, but he didn’t dare risk alerting his hostages to his presence prematurely. Mr. Military Man would recognize gunfire when he heard it.

And Robert didn’t just want to set the boat adrift—for all he knew, it could float back to shore. He wanted it at the bottom of the ocean.

Even when the damn thing filled up with water, it didn’t go down fast. He’d sat out there in the dark, mosquitoes chewing on him as he watched the boat float out into the inlet and slowly sink.