Behind them in the restaurant, the caiman hissed again. It sounded even louder and angrier than before. Something crashed hard into something else, to the sound of suppressed gunfire and splintering wood.

  Khan went over to Galante, who was still hunkered on the floor with his hands covering his head. “Time to get the fuck out of here,” he said, and pulled Galante to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  He rushed his boss out of the kitchen and through the back door, which was hanging askew in its frame and flew away into the darkness with one hard kick. They went out onto the wide strip of grass between the lodge and the nearest cabana. To their left, the river murmured in the darkness. To the right, on the lawn around the corner of the lodge, the fight between the huge two-headed, six-legged caiman and the drug cops had spilled out into the open. Khan crouched at the corner and watched the scene for a moment to gauge the situation. It was clear that the narcs hadn’t brought nearly enough people or guns for this particular fight. The three or four remaining cops retreated from the caiman, guns blazing. The caiman was shockingly fast and nimble for something of its size. With its two heads and twin tails, it was hard to flank from any angle. The cops were trying to hold their ground, but it was clear to Khan that they were holding on to the short end of a nasty stick. Overhead, the chopper appeared again and hovered above the resort, adding the high-powered beam from its searchlight to the general mayhem of the scene.

  On his left, Khan saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone came out of the tree line near the path to the relaxation pools and made a straight line for the Antonio-Bernardino-caiman. For a moment, Khan’s brain refused to process what he was seeing. The woman who strode onto the grass in front of the lodge seemed to expand and stretch with every step, though she was still recognizably Maryam. She was barely out from between the trees when her summer dress was bursting at the seams with a dull crack that sounded like a suppressed gunshot. He watched in awe as she shrugged off the fabric shreds and strode forward with determination, seemingly growing a foot or two with every yard she covered. She was naked now except for some silky green fabric stretched across her loins and her long, flowing hair covering her breasts. When she was in front of the caiman, she was taller than the trees at the edge of the clearing, twenty feet at least, and her last few steps shook the ground perceptibly.

  “Fuck me,” Khan said, keenly aware of the fact that the woman who was now the height of a telephone pole had done just that to him not too long ago. Is everyone a secret ace tonight? he thought wildly.

  Twenty-foot Maryam seized the gator by both heads as it lunged toward her and yanked it off the ground with a battle cry that rattled the wooden shutters on the windows of the lodge. They both crashed down onto the grass together, spraying sod and mud everywhere. It was a wrestling match of the titans. On the ground, Khan could see that the gator was not much shorter than Maryam was tall in her ace form. Under normal circumstances, he would have loved to stick around and see the results of the battle. But Galante, next to him, looked like his faculties had taken a temporary leave of absence, and Khan was reminded that he still had a job to do.

  “That way,” he said to Galante and yanked him to his feet.

  They went down the grassy slope on the other side of the lodge, away from the battle that was unfolding. Khan had no intention of swimming to the other side of the river in the dark, but he knew that nobody was running the stupid little elf boats at night, either, and that the resort probably had someplace to park them for the night.

  Behind them, Rafe and Jax came out of the kitchen side door. “Wait up,” Rafe yelled after Khan.

  “Took you long enough,” he shouted back.

  They rushed to catch up with him, clearly shell-shocked but in better mental shape than their boss, who was only slowly gathering himself.

  “I told you there was no place to run,” Rafe said.

  “I’m not running anywhere,” Khan replied. “But they go in and out of here by boat. They have to keep those somewhere.”

  “Boathouse.” Jax pointed to a structure at the far end of the dock, a low-slung wooden shack that jutted out partway over the water.

  They rushed over to the boathouse, which was locked with a padlock that Khan wrenched off the door with a twist of his wrist. Inside, four of the wooden ferryboats were tied up on one side of the boathouse. On the other side, two rigid-hull inflatable boats were moored, and each of them had an outboard engine the size of a small refrigerator.

  “Maybe the evening isn’t totally going to shit after all,” Khan said. “Look for keys. And I hope one of you knows how to drive a boat like that because I don’t have a fucking clue.”

  * * *

  —

  Ten minutes later, they were a mile up the river, plowing upstream with one of the resort’s inflatable motorboats, Rafe steering from the back with the tiller on the outboard motor.

  “We’re making one hell of a shiny wake,” Rafe yelled against the noise from the motor, which was pushing them against the river current at full throttle. “If they come across us in that chopper, they’ll spot us in no time.”

  “You stay on that fucking throttle. We need to get to the airport and get the hell out of here on the plane,” Galante said. “Some of those narcs ate it. I got no mind to stay in this shithole for the next twenty years.”

  The trip downriver had taken almost an hour on the little elven boat, going with the current at sightseeing speed. The outboard motor on the inflatable was made of far sterner and more practical stuff, even if it wasn’t as ecologically friendly as the electric elf boats. Fifteen minutes after they had left the resort’s boathouse, the lights of the city river dock appeared in the darkness ahead. Rafe cut the throttle and maneuvered them to a tie-up spot.

  “Unless you know how to fly that plane, we’re going to need the pilot back,” Khan said.

  “No shit,” Galante replied. He fished his phone out of his pocket and turned it on. “Oh, thank fucking God. There’s a network.” He dialed a number and held the phone to his ear. It took a while for the other party to pick up. “Steve,” Galante finally said. “Get your ass to the airport right now and preflight the Lear. We are getting the fuck out of here.”

  Galante listened to Steve, who seemed to have some objections to the directive from his boss that Khan couldn’t quite make out. Galante’s expression darkened as he listened. “I don’t give a shit if you have to fly that motherfucker in your underwear,” he said. “Skip the flight plan. You can file it when we’re airborne. And we can refuel in Panama along the way. Get that bird ready to taxi in fifteen, unless you want to find out how much weight you can lose on Colombian prison food.” He ended the call and jammed his phone back into his pocket. “Go and find me a taxicab somewhere in this dump.”

  * * *

  —

  If there were any taxi drivers out there looking for business in the predawn darkness, they didn’t seem eager to accept it from three obvious Yanquis, one of them a half tiger. The two cabs they tried to flag down drove past as if they didn’t exist. It was a slow and arduous thirty-minute uphill walk from the riverside to the airport, which seemed an amazing distance to Khan considering the small size of the town. As they walked the empty streets, he expected a bunch of Colombian squad cars to show up any minute and surround them, for some free steel bracelets and a lengthy stay in a state-run hospitality facility. But if there were cops around, they were as unwilling to get entangled with them as the cabbies because they reached the airport without anyone stopping or accosting them along the way.

  The grungy little airport terminal was empty. Outside, the Lear was standing on the apron, engines running and position lights blinking. They climbed up the airstair one by one and filed into the passenger compartment. Khan glanced at the pilot on the way past the cockpit to verify that the man had been able to put on pants before heading to the airport.

  “What a fucked-up night,” Rafe said. “I don’t think that deal with Ernesto is going to happen.”

  “Fuck Ernesto,” Galante replied. “And those fucking guys he brought. Coulda bought those narcs off if he hadn’t let his boys off the leash.” He dropped into a seat and glared at the open cockpit door. “Get this fucking thing rolling, Steve,” Galante shouted at the pilot. “We’re on the clock here. They figure out where we went, we’re in a world of shit. That includes you, idiot.”

  Jax pulled up the airplane door and latched it, and he and Rafe took their own seats. Khan buckled in right away out of habit even before they started to taxi. It was a small airport, so it didn’t take Steve long to roll along the single taxiway and line up with the runway. Khan allowed himself a relieved breath. In thirty seconds, they’d be up in the air, and nothing short of an air force intercept would get them back on the ground and into local custody.

  While the plane was taxiing, Galante had gone to the Lear’s bar nook and gotten four glasses and a bottle of bourbon. Now he offered one to Jax, Rafe, and Khan in turn. Jax and Rafe took theirs. Khan shook his head. “Suit yourself,” Galante said, and dropped back in his seat. “I sure as hell need one after tonight.”

  The pilot goosed the engines, and the plane began its takeoff roll. Khan looked out of the window at the unexciting scenery outside, rusty airport perimeter fencing and a lot of darkness beyond. He listened to the increasing frequency of the tires going thump-thump-thump over the concrete segments of the runway as the plane picked up speed.

  Then the pitch of the engines dropped again. The pilot put on the brakes so hard that Galante spilled his drink and almost slid out of his seat. “What the fuck, Steve,” he yelled at the cockpit.

  Through the open cockpit door, Khan saw something large approaching them from the far end of the runway, long dark hair and a lot of bare wet skin glistening in the beams of the plane’s landing lights. Maryam came toward them at a quick trot, still twenty feet tall at least, blocking the runway with her bulk. The plane came to a shuddering stop.

  “You have got to be shitting me,” Galante said next to Khan. “The fuck did she get here so fast?” He looked around at his bodyguards and gestured toward the cockpit’s windshield with his mostly empty glass. “Well? You gonna do your fucking jobs or what?”

  Rafe barked a laugh. “What do you want us to do, boss? I left my bazooka at home.”

  Khan unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up. The other three looked at him as he straightened out as much as he could in the low cabin and flexed his tiger arm.

  “I’ll give it a shot. You guys stay put. She’ll turn you into paste.”

  “She’s three times your size,” Rafe said.

  “The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” Khan said with a confidence he wasn’t feeling right now. “I have good reflexes.” He made his way to the aircraft door and opened it. “Back up and get ready to goose it,” he told the pilot. “You get a clear shot down the runway, you get these guys the fuck out of here.”

  “See, there’s a man who knows how to earn a paycheck,” Galante said.

  Khan suppressed his sudden desire to flip his boss the bird. Then he took a breath and went down the airstair and onto the runway.

  Let’s see if I can keep her from turning me into paste, he thought.

  * * *

  —

  Maryam was standing in the middle of the runway, a hundred yards from the plane, doubled over and breathing heavily. Seeing her in twenty-foot format gave Khan a feeling of cognitive dissonance. Just a few hours ago, he had been on top of her body, and she on top of his. She was the same woman in every detail, just many times her usual size—and judging by the fact that she had likely beaten the shit out of the Antonio-Bernardino-caiman, many times her usual strength as well. She watched him as he trotted toward her, obviously aware of the fact that the plane wasn’t going to go anywhere as long as she stood where she did.

  “Well, that turned out one hell of a date,” he said when he was in conversational range.

  She looked at him, and he thought he saw something like relief on her face. “It wasn’t a date,” she said. “Remember?”

  “Yeah. Just friendly proximity.”

  She straightened up and started to walk toward him. He extended his claws. If she had kicked that double-headed caiman’s two tails, there was no way he could take her in a straight-up fight, but there was no way he’d let her claim him without one.

  “Put those away, Samir,” she said. “I don’t want to fight you.”

  “I go by Khan,” he replied. “You kept that whole ace thing from me.”

  “Well,” she said. “That’s part and parcel of the whole ‘secret agent’ job. I go by Jiniri. I’m an agent for the Silver Helix.”

  “International relations,” he said.

  “Well, it is, in a way.”

  “Jiniri,” he repeated. “The Silver Helix is British. What are you doing here in Colombia?”

  “Multinational drug interdiction task force,” she said. “Twenty percent of the cocaine coming into Heathrow comes from Colombia. This was a joint operation. Lopping off the head of the snake. Two years of planning. They knew there were some aces in play, so they wanted me as backup.” She looked at the Lear behind Khan. “We have their cartel friend. And they’re not going anywhere. I know it’s your job to protect them. But I will take them in and wait for the backup team to get here. I’m sorry.”

  “I can’t let you do that,” he said. “My boss is watching.”

  “You are really going to risk your life for that low-life slimeball?”

  Khan shrugged. “I can’t just collect a paycheck and then skip out on the job when the chips are down. That would be unprofessional.”

  Time was on her side, and they both knew it. If the narcs knew where she had gone, it wouldn’t be long before they showed up in force. As much as he didn’t want to test his abilities against hers, he had to take action now or accept defeat.

  He charged at her, all senses alert for her countermove. It came in the form of a swipe from her right arm, but it seemed a little slow, as if she wanted to get him out of the way without hurting him too much. He dodged the swing and leapt past Jiniri, raking her thigh with his claws as he went. She let out a pained groan and turned to face him again. This time she swiped at him with her foot. She was much taller and stronger, but all that mass needed some time to get into motion, and his reflexes were excellent. He dashed underneath her leg and raked her other thigh, this time just above the knee, drawing blood again. He rolled away, narrowly avoiding another blow from her right hand. When he got up to face off again, he saw that his claws had given her two new tattoos, five parallel gashes on each leg that were oozing blood.

  For the next round, he let her come to him. She moved more cautiously now, with shorter strides and less range to her swipes. There was still too much inertia in her kicks and swings, but he had to dodge every single one with plenty of margin because her reach was so much longer than his, and he found himself getting winded already even though they had been at it for less than a minute.

  “It’s like I am fighting with water,” she said with what sounded like grudging respect. “That caiman was easier.”

  “I can do this all night,” he said, trying to not sound out of breath.

  Jiniri grimaced and put her right hand on one of the slashes he had inflicted. He briefly felt sorry when he saw the obvious pain on her face. “Damn, that’s going to hurt like hell when I go back to regular-sized me,” she said.

  “I hope you heal faster—” he began. Then he jumped back when he realized she was trying to feint. He almost avoided the jab from her hand as it lashed out, but it still clipped his shoulder and the side of his head, and he flew backward for what felt like ten feet. He rolled back to his feet reflexively, his head ringing. Her follow-up was a kick that launched him into the air again. This time, it felt like he was airborne forever. When it finally came, the impact knocked all the remaining breath out of his lungs.

  He rolled over and looked up to see her striding toward him with purpose. If their turn in the sheets earlier had made her feel soft enough toward him to moderate her first attack, he doubted she’d hold back now, not with him drawing blood and carving three-inch furrows into her flesh. He stood up slowly and settled into a low crouch to prepare for her next attack.

  Behind her, the Lear’s engines went to full throttle, and the jet leapt forward on the runway. Jiniri’s head whipped around. Then she turned and started striding to intercept the jet on its takeoff roll. Khan dashed forward and leapt onto her back, using his claws for leverage as he went.

  This time, she actually cried out in pain. Her hair, which fell down all the way to the small of her back, was as good as climbing ropes at her current size, but he had no doubt that it wasn’t pleasant to have all three hundred pounds of him hanging off her scalp. He tried to wrap his arm around her neck, but it was like trying to hug the steel truss of a suspension bridge. She got to one knee and reached back with her right arm to pry him off her back. He let himself slide down her cascading hair to avoid her hand, then climbed back up on the left side of her. The Lear roared down the runway, picking up speed every second. Jiniri shouted out in frustration and reached for him, this time with both hands. He had to let go to avoid her grasp, and he dropped back down to the grass behind her. When she made for the runway once more, he jumped forward and raked his claws across one of her heels. She bellowed and went to one knee again.