That left him two choices, Robert thought. Surrender, or get the hell out of there.

He wasn’t surrendering.

He turned abruptly and ran away from the cottage, leaping through the brush and sand and bird shit, hoping he didn’t slip and stab himself in the heart. Another bad ending to the story. No ending at all, accidentally stabbing himself to death.

But he didn’t slip, and he hung on to the knife, so at least he could defend himself if Callahan followed him.

He didn’t look upon himself as retreating. In a way, he’d accomplished his original mission. Callahan wasn’t dead, maybe not even entirely out of commission, but he was hurting. He knew Robert meant business.

They’d both be scared now.

Robert pushed through pine trees and junipers and splashed through ankle-deep puddles, then rolled down his big dune on the other side of his campsite.

Christ Almighty. The ocean was there.

A monstrous wave caught him and knocked him backward on his ass. He choked on saltwater and rain, the wind tearing at his clothes, kicking up sand that ate away his skin. He screamed in agony and frustration, letting it all out, knowing no one could hear him, and scrambled up the dune, back down to his campsite on the other side. He didn’t have long before the water would reach it.

The red welts on his hands and forearms were on fire. He thought he’d go out of his mind.

Fuck. They weren’t bug bites. He had poison ivy. It bubbled and oozed and burned and itched and swelled. No wonder he hadn’t managed to give Callahan a knockdown blow! He was a goddamn mess!

Robert managed to stand upright, but he could see that the sky and the sea and the landscape were all a greenish-gray now, the wind gusting hard enough to lift him off his feet. He could taste the tropics in the air, feel the cloying humidity sucking at him.

And this wasn’t even the full brunt of the hurricane.

Jesus.

He had to get back to the rosebush and find his gun. He dug in his pack and checked his ammo. Twelve bullets. That was it. He wished he had a machine gun, but his .38 and a dozen bullets would have to do. He still hoped he wouldn’t need to shoot them, not with a perfectly good hurricane on its way.

Snorting, trying not to scratch, or scream again, he made his way back to the cottage and took up position in the scrub pine, never mind the water dripping off the tangle of poison ivy. Why worry about poison ivy now?

The good doctor would be tending the major’s wounds.

Robert knew he had to act now, while they were distracted.

He gulped in a breath and dove for the rosebush.