But that couldn’t be right because the man who had attacked him didn’t have a knife. How could he have cut off a whole arm?

  The commander of the gunners decided the question was too difficult and he wilted where he stood as the blood pumped out by the pint.

  Remo gave him a side kick that launched the gunner in a long arc and ended with another, bigger splash.

  “Are you all right?” Remo asked Ethan Humphrey. The old man was sitting, his hands supporting his upper body as if he was about to collapse.

  “All right?” The ex-professor looked confused, as if he didn’t understand the language Remo spoke. Remo bent and gripped one of the old man’s earlobes, pinching lightly, bringing Humphrey to his feet.

  “Were those your friendly pirates?” he demanded.

  “Pirates? Ow!” The old man struggled in his grip but could not break away. “Of course not! Those were total strangers. Kidd’s men wouldn’t try to kill me!”

  “Then we’d better get a move on,” Remo said. “Find out what kind of speed this tub can handle.”

  “Speed?”

  “Unless you want to see how many other guns these guys are packing.”

  “Oh, I see. Yes, quite.”

  The old man turned and grabbed the throttle, pouring on the power.

  “You’re going through with it?” Felicia asked.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” snapped Megan. “What choice does she have?”

  Stacy had asked herself that very question, time and time again, and still no ready answer came to mind. Of course, she could reject Kidd’s offer, but would that accomplish anything? If she refused to play along with the pathetic marriage ceremony, would it stop the pirate chief from claiming her, forcing himself upon her?

  No.

  The grim truth was that Stacy had no viable alternatives. Escape or suicide would place her beyond Kidd’s reach, and at the moment, the two words appeared to be interchangeable. And whatever her plight, the second hard truth was that Stacy Armitage wasn’t prepared to die. Not yet.

  Not while her brother’s death was unavenged.

  “Are you okay?” Felicia asked.

  “Christ, that’s a stupid question!” Megan snapped. “She’s got a shotgun wedding to a psycho killer coming up in—what, about two hours—and you ask if she’s okay? Did someone drop you on your head when you were little?”

  “Just get off my case, all right?” Felicia’s eyes were flashing, angry tears about to spill across her cheeks.

  Stacy Armitage almost didn’t hear them. She had spied one bright spot in the otherwise unrelieved darkness of her waking nightmare. If she was “married” to Kidd, labeled his private stock, it meant two things. First, the other pirates would be kept away from her, her suffering and degradation minimized. And, more importantly, it meant there would be times when she was left alone with Kidd, no bodyguards or chaperones. And sometime, sooner or later, the pirate would let down his guard.

  And when that happened, it would be her time to strike. She would require a weapon, then, but there was time to pick one out. She might not find an opportunity the first week—or the first month, for that matter—but her time would come. One chance was all she needed, and it didn’t matter if the effort cost her her life, as long as she could take Kidd with her.

  As for Chiun, she didn’t know what the Korean had in mind, but it was growing more apparent by the moment that she couldn’t count on him to help her.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Megan said, frowning.

  Stacy’s voice was grim as she replied, “It’s nothing, really. I’m just looking forward to my honeymoon.”

  “You think they were Kidd’s men?” Carlos Ramirez asked.

  “Who else?” Guzman replied.

  Ramirez scowled across the Macarena’s railing, standing with his fists clenched at his sides. The battered old cabin cruiser, Mulligan Stew her name was, had managed to outrun his newer boats despite their crews’ best efforts. It was obvious someone had been tending to the old tub’s engine—one more indication, if Ramirez needed any, that an ambush had been planned.

  By whom? he asked himself. Who else but Captain Kidd and company knew that Ramirez would be visiting the pirate stronghold, sailing through these waters at this particular time? Who else could have prepared the ambush that had claimed four lives?

  Ramirez had found one of his men floating dead in the water, minus an arm, when the Macarena started to pursue the enemy. The others had been jettisoned during pursuit, one already savaged by barracuda before they reached his body. There was no point hauling them aboard—more awkward questions if he should encounter a patrol boat on the prowl—but even when he let them go, urging his pilot to the utmost speed, the Mulligan Stew still pulled away from the pursuit craft, ultimately vanishing among the islands of a nameless archipelago.

  “What shall we do?” asked Guzman.

  “What do you imagine, Fabian?”

  Ramirez didn’t know why Kidd would turn on him, betray him after they had worked together for so long. It hardly mattered now. Ramirez had a list of enemies that ran from spring to Christmas, taking special care with his security, but none of those he watched his back for on dry land had known where he was bound this afternoon.

  It had to be Kidd, unless…

  Ramirez had considered simple chance, and just as quickly ruled it out. The four men on his boarding party had been armed professionals, adept at killing for a fee. Armand Sifuentes had been something of a one-man army in himself, with better than two dozen murders to his credit. It defied all logic to assume that simple fishermen or tourists could have dealt with men like that and managed to escape unharmed.

  There hadn’t even been gunshots. They would have heard them. These men could never, ever have been brought down that quickly unless the ambush had been well planned and flawlessly executed.

  That kind of work required stone killers. Thomas Kidd and his community of pirates might be loco, but they also knew their business, and killing at sea was their specialty. Who else made a more likely suspect, in the circumstances?

  “Bring us back on course for Île de Mort,” Ramirez ordered.

  “We’re still going, Carlos?” Guzman sounded dubious.

  “Indeed we are, amigo. If I’m right, the captain won’t expect us now.”

  “We take him by surprise,” said Guzman, smiling now.

  “We take him by surprise,” Ramirez echoed. “Now, full speed ahead!”

  Chapter 17

  The root Chiun had discovered on his quick tour of the jungle wasn’t precisely what he sought, but it would do. He had sliced it and diced it—with a knife, since using his fingernails might have been considered unusual—and sprinkled it into the simmering pot.

  Pirates were drifting in from their appointed duties, some of them already having changed from their grubby clothing into more colorful garb. Chiun had yet to see one of them bathe, nor was he looking forward to the sorry spectacle. In fact, from the effluvium that wafted off their unwashed bodies, Chiun didn’t imagine that he would be dwelling on the island long enough to glimpse such a unique event.

  Nor, he surmised, would anybody else.

  His Stew was almost ready, its aroma spreading through the camp. From the reaction of prospective diners, several of them passing by and peering down into the pot, he knew that it would do the trick. There might not be enough to go around, but even if he only reached two-thirds of his opponents, it would be sufficient.

  The potion was indeed mere window dressing for his master plan. Chiun had no fear of his “captors,” needed no tricks to defeat them singly or en masse, but it amused him to distract them from the woman while he made his move. The root he had selected was fast-acting, and should bring results within fifteen or twenty minutes after it had been consumed. The camp would be a great deal more malodorous once his surprise kicked in, but Chiun reckoned there would be little time to savor the result—or suffer through it, as the case might be—before he had to make his move.

  It had been ordered that the feasting should precede the wedding ceremony. That was fine with Chiun; in fact, it suited him no end. He knew the hasty ritual would have no standing anywhere beyond the pirate stronghold, but it pleased him to consider frustrating the would-be king’s design.

  There had been no time for him to discuss his plan with Stacy Armitage, but that didn’t concern Chiun. White women had a way of letting their emotions run away with them in crisis situations, and he understood that redheads were the worst of all in that regard. Brunettes were more sedate, if only by a matter of degree, while blondes were often too disorganized and witless to perceive real danger.

  Chiun had learned that much from television, studying his favorite soap operas, where men and women acted in accordance with their roles in white society.

  He wouldn’t wait on Stacy, then, or trust her with the details of his plan. If she was not in a position to assist him, neither would she be a stumbling block when he began to smite their enemies.

  In general, the Master Emeritus of Sinanju favored subtle killing, the ideal assassination having been defined as one in which no third party suspected assassination, but he also recognized that there were times when subtlety fell short of the desired result.

  Times such as this.

  Chiun watched the pirates lining up with plates and bowls in hand. The first man in the line was one of those who had repeatedly described him as Chinese. Chiun smiled and ladled out a double portion of his special gumbo to the unwashed buccaneer.

  “Smell’s durn good, Chinaman,” the buccaneer said.

  “You will velly tasty, you bet,” Chiun answered. In his head he added, You be velly dead velly soon, ignorant white man.

  And he meant it.

  “We’re almost there,” said Ethan Humphrey, pointing with a hand that trembled now, despite his effort to control himself.

  The island loomed in front of them, two smaller lumps of jungle-shrouded rock flanking it on either side. The center of attention, christened Île de Mort, according to his skipper, was a mile long, give or take, with rugged peaks along its spine. Only the crags were naked stone; the rest was clotted jungle growth from mountain slopes down to a reeking mangrove swamp at water’s edge.

  “The anchorage is on the northern side,” Humphrey explained. “We’ll need another half hour to get there.”

  “I see an inlet there.” Remo pointed toward the mouth of what appeared to be a brackish stream, amid the looming mangroves. It was wide enough for Humphrey’s boat to pass. The water course might narrow inland, but he didn’t care, as long as they could pull the cabin cruiser out of sight from any stray patrol boats that might happen by.

  “You can’t be serious,” the ex-professor said.

  “Not up to it?” He cracked a mirthless smile. “No sweat, Professor. I’ll just take her in myself.”

  “You will not, sir!” His voice was stern, but Humphrey clearly realized that he could not stop Remo from seizing control of the boat if he was so inclined.

  “Do they post lookouts?” Remo asked, as Humphrey nosed the boat toward shore.

  “It’s possible,” said Humphrey, “though I’ve never asked. Myself, I think they trust in isolation here.”

  Humphrey drew back on the throttle as they neared the inlet. Remo’s nostrils flared at the smell of rotting vegetation from the swamp, a stench primeval from the dawn of time.

  The mangroves closed around them, branches drooping low, scraping the canopy above the flying bridge. Daylight was fading fast, but it was even darker in among the trees, a sudden twilight.

  They had already moved some fifty yards inland when the cabin cruiser’s hull struck something with a scrape and a shudder, groaning underfoot. Humphrey immediately throttled down and let the engine idle, turning to Remo with a worried frown.

  “We can’t go any farther,” he insisted. “This is madness.”

  “Listen, Professor, you’ve got a bunch of friends who say ‘yar’ and wear puffy shirts. Nothing I do can ever be considered ‘madness’ by comparison. We’ll take the skiff.”

  “If it’s all the same to you,” Humphrey replied, “I’ll just wait here.”

  “It’s not the same to me,” said Remo. “I still need a guide. You’re it. Let’s go.”

  “I’ve never come this way,” the old man said. “We may get lost.”

  “Then we’ll get lost together,” Remo told him.

  “But—”

  “Let’s put it this way. I don’t mind leaving you behind. Look how many other guys I left behind on this little three-hour tour.”

  Now Humphrey got the point and grimaced, starting down the ladder from the flying bridge. The skiff was stowed astern, a smallish aluminum rowboat with paddles for two. Remo untied it, dropped it overboard and hopped down from the transom, holding it steady while Humphrey came aboard.

  In front of them, some twenty yards ahead, the stream forked at a clump of cypress, smaller brackish channels splitting off in a rough Y shape. For all Remo knew, they might join up again beyond the wall of trees, but he wasn’t prepared to risk it.

  “So, which way?” he asked of his reluctant guide.

  “From where we are, it should be westward.”

  To the right, then, if the old man wasn’t lying to him, stalling in an effort to protect his friends.

  “Be sure,” said Remo.

  “As I said, I’ve never tried to reach the camp from this direction. There’s a possibility—”

  “Be sure,” Remo repeated. “I don’t have the time or patience for mistakes. You’re still expendable.”

  The old man thought about it for another moment, biting on his lower lip, then nodded. “Westward,” he said again.

  The dress that Stacy wore wasn’t a bad fit, pinned beneath the arms to take it in, floor-length blue satin, just a trifle loose around the hips. She thought about the woman who had worn it first, wondered what had become of her and how Kidd’s pirates had obtained the formal gown. On second thought, she didn’t want to know.

  “You look really nice,” Felicia said.

  “Felicia, Jesus!” Megan scowled and shook her head.

  “Hey, I was only saying—”

  “Never mind, for Christ’s sake!” Megan turned to Stacy once again, the frown still on her face. “You do look nice, though. I mean, for the circumstances.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was no mirror in the hut that served as their prison cell. Indeed, she would have been surprised if there was one in camp. Some of the pirates combed their hair, after a fashion, and most of them shaved—at least irregularly—but it was apparent from their general appearance and their hygiene that none of them spent much time before a looking glass.

  “I like the flowers,” said Felicia. Then, as Megan turned to glare at her again, she stuck her tongue out. “Well, I do, so there.”

  “I like the flowers, too,” Megan admitted grudgingly. “God, this is so damn weird!”

  The flowers were an added touch. Meg and Felicia had retrieved them from the forest near the camp, while Robin stayed with Stacy in the hut. She wasn’t company, in any recognized sense of the word, but Stacy could talk freely to her, venting her fear and anger in full confidence that Robin would not interrupt her. Indeed, there was nothing to suggest the girl had understood a single word.

  Megan had plucked the flowers carefully, long stems intact, and then had woven them into a kind of wreath that nestled in her hair. Stacy had no idea where Megan found the bobby pins, but she had come up with a pair of them to fix the wreath in place. Stacy imagined how she had to have looked—some kind of hippie princess, dressed up for a love-in—and her stomach churned.

  The blushing bride, she thought, and felt like throwing up.

  “What’s going on out there?” she asked of no one in particular.

  Felicia peered through a hole in the curtain that served as their door, shifting positions several times as she tried to get a full view of the compound.

  “Eating,” she replied at last. “The goons are lined up for some kind of stew. They’ve got your friend dishing it out.”

  So much for Chiun taking out the pirates on his own, Stacy thought. But what had she expected, really? He was one old man against a veritable army. Even if he used to know some kung fu moves, he was still outnumbered sixty-five or seventy to one, by younger men with guns and knives.

  “Is this the shits, or what?” Felicia asked. “They’re having the reception first, and they don’t even feed the bride? What kind of weird, ass-backward deal is this?”

  “You’re sweating etiquette?” The tone of Megan’s voice conveyed a mixture of dismay and gallows humor. “Jesus, Fe, you didn’t pay that analyst of yours enough.”

  “That’s cold,” Felicia said, eyes smoldering as she returned Meg’s glare.

  Megan ignored her and addressed herself to Stacy. “So, have you decided what to do?”

  “Looks like I’m getting married,” Stacy said.

  “I mean, after,” said Megan. “When you…you know…?”

  Stacy wondered how much she could tell the younger woman without further jeopardizing herself. It took all of a second and a half to decide that her troubles could get no worse, barring an immediate sentence of death. Megan was still Kidd’s prisoner, his enemy. If she betrayed Stacy, it might get her killed, but death was coming either way. It was only a matter of time.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Stacy said.

  “Kill who?” Megan’s voice dropped to a whisper as she spoke, and she glanced nervously over her shoulder, first toward Felicia, then toward the vegetative Robin.

  “Kidd,” Stacy replied. “Who else?”

  “But…I mean, shit!” Megan was at a loss for words. “You’ll never get away with it, you know?”

  “I’ll never get away, period,” Stacy replied. “We’re prisoners, in case you hadn’t noticed. We’re not going anywhere. They’ll never let us go. Is any of this getting through?”

  Anger flashed in Meg’s eyes as she replied, “I hear you, dammit! And I’ve been here longer, in case you’ve forgotten. Anything that’s waiting for you has already happened to me, to us.”