“I’m sorry, Meg. I didn’t mean—”

  “How would you do it?” Megan interrupted her. “Kill him, I mean?”

  “I’ll have to wait and see,” Stacy replied. “Of course, I’ll need some kind of weapon. That could take a while, but I’ll find something. All the guns and knives around this place, he’ll have to let his guard down sooner or later.”

  It hardly qualified as a plan, but it was the best Stacy had been able to come up with, in the circumstances. One opportunity was all that she would need. No matter how long she was forced to wait, she meant to grab that chance and make it count.

  “Are they still eating, Fe?”

  Felicia peered outside again before she answered. “Yeah, still chowing down. The line out there, I’d say another twenty minutes, anyway, before they all get served. Then, figure some of them want seconds, and—”

  “Enough, already!” Megan chided. “Next thing, you’ll be telling us what kind of silverware they’re using.”

  “Some of them are using fingers,” Felicia said, “if you really want to know.”

  “We don’t,” Megan assured her. Turning back to Stacy, she went on, “I wish to hell there was some way we could get out of here.”

  But there was no point wishing. Just now, Stacy required all of her wits and nerve to face the grisly prospect of her wedding night.

  Meanwhile, she hoped the feast would last for hours, and that the liquor would flow like water. It was one time when a stinking-drunk bridegroom was preferable to a sober one.

  With any luck at all, Kidd might drink so much that he passed right out the moment they had gone to bed. If not…

  Her stomach churned again, and Megan seemed to pick up on it from Stacy’s expression.

  “What?” she asked.

  Stacy managed a smile as she replied, “Oh, nothing. I’m just hoping that they let me cut the cake.”

  Carlos Ramirez cocked his semiautomatic pistol, thumbed on the safety and slipped the weapon back into the shoulder holster worn beneath his stylish jacket. It was hot, despite the hour, and although Ramirez had already sweated through his shirt, he balked at taking off the jacket. He had a certain image to protect, and killing off his enemies was only part of it.

  Whenever possible, he also had to be the best-dressed killer on the block.

  Ramirez knew the way to Kidd’s encampment, how to find it from the sea, but he wasn’t prepared to land directly in his enemy’s front yard. He still had no idea why Kidd would turn against him, but there was no arguing with facts. Four of his best men were dead, and Carlos knew of no one else in the vicinity who could have pulled it off without sustaining losses in the process. Even for a group of wily pirates, it would be a challenge, but the ease with which the killers had escaped him told Ramirez that they knew the local waters well indeed.

  Ramirez and his men had been outnumbered when they sailed from Cartagena, and the odds weren’t improved by losing four good men. Ramirez still had faith that he could win the day, but he was counting on surprise to make it possible.

  They landed near the west end of the island, roughly half a mile from Kidd’s compound. No lookouts were in evidence, but Carlos took no chances, posting sentries of his own while he addressed the others.

  He had formed a simple plan after the ambush out at sea. His men would land well back from the encampment and march overland to take the pirates by surprise. There would be no need for discussion, nothing in the nature of a warning to the men he meant to kill.

  Carlos Ramirez was no woodsman, but he reckoned he could hike for half a mile through even the most savage jungle, with the ocean on his left to help him find his way. It would take more time in the dark, of course, and night was falling fast. A handful of his soldiers carried flashlights, but they had been ordered to refrain from using them except in the most dire emergency, since strange lights in the forest would betray them to their enemies. They could afford to take their time, spend half the night walking if necessary. In truth, Ramirez thought it would be better if he found his enemies asleep, but he didn’t intend to waste the whole night waiting unless it was absolutely necessary. Better to surprise the pirates at a meal, for instance, while his men were reasonably fresh, than to risk them getting jumpy, trigger-happy, maybe even dozing at their posts.

  Ramirez gave no thought to snakes or other perils of the forest. He was wholly focused on revenge, the mental image of his lifeless enemies eclipsing any thought that might have made him hesitate. He stumbled over roots and vines, scuffing his handmade alligator shoes, snagging his tailored slacks, but they meant nothing. When they reached their destination, Carlos would have more use for the Uzi submachine gun slung across his shoulder than he would for slick designer clothes. If anything, Ramirez wished that he had brought a Kevlar vest along, but there were none among the Macarena’s stores.

  It didn’t matter.

  When the shooting started, Carlos hoped to see his enemies cut down like grass before a scythe. There would be—should be—nothing they could do to help themselves. If all went well, they would—

  Ramirez heard the sounds of revelry before he saw the torchlight flickering among the trees, still well ahead. He raised a hand and hissed an order to the nearest of his soldiers, waiting for those close at hand to pass it on.

  Some kind of gala party was in progress…or, he thought, perhaps the pirates celebrated this way every night. Their lifestyle was admittedly bizarre, more outlandish than his own, although Ramirez knew the buccaneers had no wealth to compare with his. They wouldn’t sleep in filthy hovels, living hand-to-mouth and wearing rags if they had cash to spare. As for the money looted from their victims, or the sums Ramirez paid them for the boats they stole, he didn’t know or care what happened to it. This wasn’t a raid for revenue.

  “Take special care,” he warned his men when they were grouped around him like a soccer team, awaiting their instructions for another play. “Ramon and Lucio, you both have silencers, so you will lead the way and deal with any guards we meet.”

  The soldiers didn’t argue. They were paid to follow orders, kill upon command, and they had always known there would be risks involved. On sunbaked city streets or in the steaming jungle, they were still professionals, and they would do as they were told.

  “The rest of you, be ready for my signal, but control yourselves. In no case must you fire, unless I give the word or we are fired upon. You understand?”

  He scanned their faces, watched them nodding acquiescence. No one spoke; no answer was required. Each of them knew Ramirez, knew exactly what would happen to the man who disobeyed.

  When he was satisfied, Ramirez sent his scouts ahead and followed several yards behind them, with the others trailing after.

  Chapter 18

  The stew kicked in as Stacy was preparing for her long walk down the aisle. Of course, there was no aisle per se, since there was no church in the pirate camp—no chairs, in fact, since those in camp seemed to prefer sitting on the ground, or on rough stumps where trees had been cut down to clear the compound. If anything, her march to the altar would be more like running a gauntlet, with pirates lined up in two ranks, waiting for the bride to pass.

  They weren’t looking at her, though—a fact that struck the redhead as peculiar. She had grown used to the eyes that followed her each time she left the hut that was her prison cell, lewd comments muttered as she passed, but now the pirates had apparently experienced a change of heart en masse.

  Could it be Kidd’s influence? Stacy knew that he had killed one of the pirates for objecting to his wedding plan, but this felt different somehow. Several of the grubby men were actually making faces at her, grimacing, rolling their eyes, baring discolored teeth. One clutched his stomach, fingers digging in like claws. As Stacy neared him, he hunched forward, closed his eyes and spewed a stream of vomit in her path.

  Stacy recoiled, disgusted, but the spectacle was only getting started. As the bearded pirate retched again, one of the men beside him doubled over, grabbing at his midsection, and followed his example, splattering his own feet with the remnants of his latest meal.

  In no time flat, a wave of gastric panic swept the audience. Some of the pirates were vomiting, while others clutched themselves and took off hobbling toward the tree line, cursing as they soiled themselves. Stacy stood rooted to the spot and watched them scatter, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the sights and smell surrounding her. Her own stomach was rolling, but she hadn’t eaten when the others had—nothing, in fact, except some rice at breakfast.

  Some fifty feet away, Kidd stood beside a bonfire that had been constructed to provide the central lighting for the wedding ceremony. He wasn’t looking at Stacy now, however, but rather was sweeping the camp with fierce eyes, watching his men as they seemed to go mad. She watched a hand slip underneath the too small velvet jacket he had donned for the occasion, probably in search of hardware, but this was no attack that he could meet with force of arms.

  In truth, he seemed to have no more idea of what was going on than Stacy did. Whatever plagued his men, it seemed to have no hold upon the captain. Kidd stood firm and straight, watching all but a handful of the others as they fell apart.

  She glanced at Chiun, still in position near the cooking pot, as if at work on something for dessert, and an idea began to form in Stacy’s mind. Chiun caught her watching him, flashed her the bare suggestion of a smile and cocked his head in the direction of the forest.

  What? She almost mouthed the word, but caught herself, afraid that Kidd would see her and react with paranoid aggression. In the circumstances, he might open fire on Chiun, and then what would the old man do?

  The gunfire shocked her. It wasn’t Kidd who started firing, though—nor, Stacy saw, had any of the pirates opened fire. As Stacy turned in the direction of the noise, crouching instinctively, she spotted muzzle-flashes in among the trees. One of the stumbling pirates took a hit and went down, wailing. Almost instantly, she saw another fall, and yet another.

  Chiun was instantly forgotten in the chaos that erupted, and she gave no further thought to breaking for the trees. The prison hut would be her only sanctuary now, and Stacy bolted for it, heard the long gown rip along the seams with her first stride.

  Behind her, screams and gunfire made the night a living hell.

  The two-man skiff had seen them through the mangrove swamp, hungry mosquitoes trailing them along the half-mile course, but they were forced to ditch it when the stagnant water changed to spongy earth and forest. Humphrey’s enthusiasm for the journey had been slight enough to start with, but he balked now at the thought of trekking through the jungle after nightfall.

  “We’ll get lost,” he said. “I can’t—”

  “So stay,” Remo replied.

  “Very well,” Humphrey said reluctantly. “This way.”

  Humphrey might be a sailor, but his woodcraft left a great deal to be desired. He lurched and staggered every third or fourth step, reached out to brace himself against the nearest tree and muttered nonstop oaths that would have startled his old colleagues at the university.

  As night descended on the forest, it began to come alive. Insects picked up their trilling songs, competing shrilly from the undergrowth, while night birds shrieked their raucous mating calls.

  Ethan Humphrey stumbled yet again. He didn’t catch himself this time and went down on his face, grunting in shock and anger as the breath was driven from his lungs.

  At that moment Remo heard a whisper of sound far ahead and got a fix on its source. Shouting. Cheering. It sounded like some kind of wild-ass party going on, and Remo guessed that he had found the pirate hangout he was looking for.

  He only hoped that he wasn’t too late to join the fun.

  “I’m going on. You want to take a hike, feel free,” he told his guide.

  “Where should I go?” asked Humphrey, sounding timid now.

  “Your call,” he said. “Just stay the hell out of my way.”

  Remo left the old man standing in the darkness and moved through the night swiftly, his ears and instincts leading him. He made less sound in passing than a night breeze whispering among the trees. No man would hear him coming.

  The sounds ahead of him began to change, grew even more bizarre. Instead of cheering, shouts and laughter now, it sounded more like gagging, interspersed with coughs and garbled curses.

  Remo was picking up his pace when yet another sound erupted in the night. Staccato, sharp, like heavy-metal thunder. Gunfire.

  What kind of party did these wack-job pirates throw, anyway?

  Chiun was irritated. He had hoped his special stew would buy himself more time for the treasure hunt while Remo dawdled, but the arrival of gun-toting South Americans spoiled his plans.

  Now he would have to find and protect Stacy Armitage. He couldn’t let her be shot. He would never hear the end of it.

  He moved through the camp, a shadow flitting amid the chaos.

  A pirate lurched into his path. This one hadn’t been wounded yet, but suffered only from the effects of Chiun’s culinary masterpiece. He had already emptied out his stomach, judging from the dark stains on his chin and faded denim shirt, but that didn’t prevent his doubling over, retching with the dry heaves.

  Chiun was merciful. He sent the buccaneer to his reward with a stroke that was barely more than a caress. At that, it was enough to whip the pirate’s head around and snap his neck as if he were a chicken. When he landed in the grass he was already dead, the cramping in his stomach mercifully forgotten.

  Chiun pressed on, here dodging bullets from the forest, there dispatching pirates as he met them, with a touch, a jab, a kick. He left a trail of broken mannequins behind him, lying twisted where they fell.

  When he had almost reached the prison hut, a burst of automatic rifle fire streaked through the air above his head and stitched its way across the hut’s thatched roof. Inside, a woman screamed—not Stacy Armitage; Chiun would have recognized her voice. As he gained the doorstep of the hut, one of the three young hostages who had been here before him rushed outside.

  Chiun didn’t know her name, but he recognized her as the one who had withdrawn into herself, as if from shock. Whatever else she had become, the woman hadn’t lost her voice entirely, nor had she forgotten how to run. In fact, if Chiun hadn’t been there to stop her, she would certainly have run into the middle of the firefight, to her almost certain death.

  The girl was several inches taller than Chiun, and she outweighed him by as much as thirty pounds, but she seemed weightless as he looped an arm around her waist and whisked her back inside. The other three, including Stacy Armitage, stood gaping at him in surprise.

  “Robin!” the blonde spit out. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Chiun, can we get out of here?” The question came from Stacy. She stood watching him, arms crossed, hands clasping her elbows as if to stop herself from trembling. “Well, can we?”

  It didn’t sit well with Chiun to leave before the job was finished, but it sounded very much as if the buccaneers were being massacred without his help.

  “This way,” he said, and moved directly to the side of the hut that was farthest from the door, farthest from the gunfire rattling outside.

  Its roof aside, the hut was built of scrap lumber.

  The wall he chose was plywood, and it shivered at his touch. He took a step back from the wall, examined it and lashed out with one hand. The steel-strong blades of his fingernails slashed through the plywood once, twice. A freshly made archway was left as the wood pieces fell to the earth.

  Chiun turned to face the four women, his face impassive.

  “Now we go,” he said.

  Kidd tracked one of the raiders with his revolver, framed the runner in his sights and squeezed off two quick shots. Though he had never seen the man before, it pleased him greatly when his bullets struck and spun him in his tracks, dumping him facedown into the dust.

  Some of his men were starting to recover, fighting back in something that recalled their old, familiar style. The sickness that had gripped so many of them earlier still sapped their energy and made their movements awkward, but they clearly recognized the danger that confronted them, and those still fit to use a gun or blade would not go down without a fight.

  The first outbreak of gunfire had come close to paralyzing Thomas Kidd. It stunned him to imagine anyone had found his secret compound, much less that the unknown enemies could mount a raid and take him by surprise. The shock had lasted but a heartbeat, though, before Kidd told himself the law had found them somehow. But no sooner had the notion taken shape than he rejected it. Lawful authorities, he knew from prior experience, came bearing papers from the courts, announcing their arrival with all manner of lights and sirens, demanding surrender before they opened fire.

  Which told him that the men around his camp were outlaws, like himself. How had they come to be here at the very moment of his wedding? And why had they attacked like this, without apparent motive?

  There was no time, in the heat of battle, to answer such questions, and Kidd had barely drawn his revolver when the answer came to him, as plain as day. Along the west side of the compound, several raiders were already breaking from the trees. One of the faces shown to him by firelight was familiar, after all.

  Carlos Ramirez!

  Kidd had known the cocaine lord was coming for another boat. The bargain they had struck was lucrative for all concerned. He had expected the Colombians to show up sometime following his wedding ceremony, while the celebration was in progress, to join in the festivities. Now, instead, here they were with guns blazing, and led by Ramirez himself!

  Logic meant nothing in a fight for life. It didn’t matter why Ramirez and his men had gone back on the bargain, shifting from allies to mortal enemies. All that mattered now was stopping them–and that meant stopping them forever, dead in their tracks.