“That should hold you,” she pronounced. “When was your last tetanus?”

“February twentieth two years ago.”

“You remember the exact date?”

“There’s a fifteen-inch scar on my back. Days you get a gash that big tend to stick with you.”

In a minute they had regained all the ground they had lost to the ski boat. Juan noted that the marsh to their right was giving way to a boulder-strewn beach that would afford no protection to his quarry. It was time to end this. “Can you take the helm again?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Watch for my signal, then ease back on the throttle. Be prepared to turn. I’ll point which way.”

Unlike before he didn’t wait to see if she was comfortable at the controls. He hefted the FN assault rifle and spare magazine and clambered up the length of the boat.

The bow runner was no more than five yards in front of him. He steadied himself against the railing and brought the FN to his shoulder. He fired controlled three-round bursts. When the first bullets slammed into the bow runner’s engine cowling, the driver sheared away, trying to find shallow water close to shore. Juan raised his arm and pointed to port, and Sloane followed his lead. Her turn was a little steep, but she seemed to have a handle on the hydrofoil’s drive characteristics.

As soon as he regained the sight picture he wanted he loosened another three-round burst into the bow runner’s engine. And a third. The driver tried to throw off Cabrillo’s aim but the chairman anticipated every juke and twist and slammed another half dozen bullets into the boat.

The wisp of white smoke that suddenly appeared from under the engine cowling quickly turned into a black cloud. The engine would seize any second, and Juan readied his signal to Sloane for them to slow so they wouldn’t ram the bow runner.

Between the bow lights on the hydrofoil and the ski boat’s dash lights, Cabrillo could just discern the driver’s features when he turned to look back at him. They locked eyes for just an instant but Juan could feel the hatred across the distance like the heat from a fire. Rather than fear, he read defiance in the man’s expression.

The man cranked the wheel hard over. Juan raised his hand to stop Sloane from pursuing because the bow runner was heading directly for the rocky shore. Cabrillo had wanted to take one of the men prisoner from the very start of the chase, but he felt the chance slipping from his grasp. He fired again, raking the ski boat’s stern, not sure of what he was hitting because of the smoke, but desperate to prevent what he knew the driver intended.