And kill he would. In a heartbeat. He glanced in the rearview mirror and turned the ignition key. The car rumbled to life. Killing David Lunow might be a problem—he had actually grown to like the man. If there was anyone on the globe he might call a friend, it would be him. But they wouldn’t send David. It had been five years since the man had seen the killing end of any weapon. No, it would be contract killers. By leaving he was practically screaming for a bullet to the head. A chill ran up his spine and he grinned softly.

Casius shoved the stick shift forward and eased the car out of the long driveway, scanning for surveillance as he left the three-acre lot behind. Of course they knew where he was headed—but they would not know his route.

He reached the lake twenty minutes later. A deserted pier stuck over the water like a rickety old xylophone. The moon lit a thin multicolored sheen of oil that rested on the surface. Casius quickly removed heavy wire cutters from the trunk, snipped the chain strapping the gates together, and eased the black car onto the pier. He withdrew the black sports bag and started the car toward the polluted water.

The last bubbles popped through the surface three minutes after the car’s plunge. Only a wide hole in the water’s oily film showed for the vehicle’s pas- sage. Satisfied, Casius slung the bag to his shoulder and jogged toward the city—toward the crowded streets.

Within half an hour he’d hailed a yellow cab. “Airport,” he instructed, climbing behind an Asian driver.

“Which airline?” the man asked, pulling into the street.

“Just the main terminal,” Casius answered. He pulled the bag against his leg and gazed out the window. He had covered his bases. There was no way for them to trace him now. They would scour his house of course, but they would find nothing.

He was going down into the jungle and one way or another he would put Jamal to death.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Friday

THE GOOD news was that Sherry slept long and hard that night.

The bad news was that her sleep was filled with a hollow scream that could only have been shaped in hell itself.

Sherry doubled over on the sandy beach, throat raw and wailing.

Oh, God! Oh, God, save me! Oh . . .

She was running out of breath and panicking and unable to stop her shrieking. She was dying—a slow death caused by the acid that sizzled on her skin. The pain raged to her bones, as if they had been opened and molten lead had been poured into them. All around her the people were crying and toppling onto the sand, skeletons.