the living room. His wiry frame moved lightning-fast across the floor to the exit. “Never leave a single way out, friends. Jon, would you do the honors?”
Jon raised the trapdoor and dropped through.
“You next, my boy,” the Englishman told Marty.
Marty nodded glumly, peered down at the asphalt, and let his feet fall through. The big Doberman was lying quietly under the RV, his large dark eyes scanning the open area and the woods behind where the RV was parked. In the deep shadow beneath the vehicle, Marty crawled quickly out of the way as Randi Russell, Bill Griffin, and Peter Howell landed, one after the other. The watchful Doberman raised his nose at Marty, and Marty slid closer. As Samson resumed his sentry duty, Marty crouched next to him and ran his hand over the handsome animal's sleek back. Strangely, he felt no fear. Then he raised his gaze to look around at the wheels of other RVs and the thick tree trunks of the forest. He saw no feet, and for a wild moment he had the hope that maybe al-Hassan and his killers had given up and gone home.
Bill Griffin called the dog and spoke softly. “Friends, Samson. Friends.”
He had the dog smell each of them.
Then, with Jon in the lead, they crawled to the end of the RV that was closest to the woods. There were only about fifteen feet between them and safety.
“That's it.” Peter nodded toward the trees. “We can hide there and figure out what to do next. When I say `go,' jump up and run as if the hounds of hell are on your tails. I'll cover you.” He patted his H&K.
But then shapes moved out from the forest line.
“Flatten!” Smith growled and dropped onto his face.
As the four others fell, a fusillade swept across the open area, whining and ricocheting off the side of the RV. They scrambled back, searching for cover behind the tires.
Bill Griffin raised his voice. “How many?”
“Two.” The Englishman's eyes were narrow slits as he searched the woods. “Or three,” Jon countered, breathing hard.
“Two or three,” Randi echoed, “which means one or two are still in front.”
“Yeah.” Bill Griffin looked around at their tension and fear and at the brave lights in their eyes. It was true even of Marty with his odd condition and even odder mind. Marty was not the same prissy, whiny nuisance he remembered. Marty had grown up. As he thought that, he felt a terrible tear rip through something old and painful inside. At the same time, he felt a shift. Maybe it was the sourness from all the years of working for men with pinched minds. Or perhaps it was simply that he had never fit into this world which made so much sense to others. But probably the truth was he did not care a damn about anything or anyone anymore, not even himself.
He desperately wanted to care again. Now he saw it ? why he had risked so much to save Jon. By doing that, he had had a hope of saving something good within himself. Thinking that, his blood seemed to course more vigorously. His mind grew incredibly clear. A sense of purpose swept through him as strong as he remembered from the old days when he and Jon were young and the future lay ahead.
He knew what to do.
Knew with every fiber in his body. With all his disappointment.
Exactly what he must do to retrieve himself.
Without warning, he crawled quickly out from under the RV, surged to his feet, and with a sharp guttural sound charged straight toward where the attackers crouched at the edge of the woods. The Doberman followed.
“Bill!” Jon shouted. “Don't?”
But it was too late. The stocky man's legs pumped and his long hair flew behind as he pounded toward the trees, firing his Glock. He was excited and immensely relieved, and he did not give a damn anymore about anything but redeeming himself. With bared fangs, the Doberman sprang toward one of the attackers on Bill's left.
Jon, Randi, and Peter leaped out with their weapons to follow. It was over in seconds.
By the time Jon reached him, Bill Griffin lay on his back on dry weeds at the edge of the woods. Blood bubbled up from his chest.
“Jesus,” Peter breathed as his canny gaze swept the trees and RVs, looking for more trouble.
Ten feet away the short, heavy man who had led the attack on Jon in Georgetown that first day was crumpled in a lifeless heap. A second man lay dead of a gunshot to his head. A third man had sprawled back, his throat torn open, while the Doberman paced the woods in search of others.
“No sign of the man Bill called al-Hassan,” Peter noted quickly. “He could still be out front.”
“If he's alone, he probably won't try anything by himself,” Randi agreed, her Uzi ready. Her voice softened and she looked down. “How is he, Jon?”
“Help me.”
As Peter stood watch, his H&K fanning all around, Randi helped Jon carry Griffin into the shelter of the trees, where they laid him on a bed of dry leaves.
“Hold on, Bill.” His throat tight, Jon crouched down. He tried to smile at his old friend.
Peter backed up to join them in the forest, holding his position as sentry.
Jon's voice was gentle. “Bill, you damn fool. What were you thinking? We could've handled them.”
“You… don't know that for sure.” He tugged Jon down by the collar. “This time… you could've got yourself killed. Al-Hassan is out there… somewhere. Waiting for reinforcements. Leave… get out of here!”
His grip was strong, but then pink foam appeared on his lips.
“Take it easy, Bill. I'm just going to take a look at your wounds. We'll be fine?”
“Bullshit.” Griffin gave a weak smile. “Go to the lodge… Lake Magua. Horrible… horrible?” His eyes closed, and he breathed shallowly.
“Don't talk,” Jon said anxiously as he ripped open Bill's shirt.
His eyes opened. “No time… Sorry about Sophia… Sorry for everything.” His eyes widened as if seeing into a vast darkness.
“Bill? Bill! Don't do this!”
His neck went limp, and his head dropped back. In death, the bland face seemed suddenly younger, somehow more innocent. The features that had so easily fit into so many different roles smoothed out to show a strong bone structure with definite cheekbones and chin. As Jon looked numbly down, somewhere a bird began to sing. Insects hummed. The sunlight through the trees was warm.
Smith went into action. He felt the carotid artery. Nothing. Frantically, he put his hand on the bloody chest. But there was not even a whisper of a beat. He sat back, crouching next to his friend. Pain swept through him. First Sophia and now Bill.
Suddenly the Doberman appeared. He stood over Bill, guarding him. He nudged Bill's head and made what sounded like a low moan in his throat. Marty murmured something and stroked the Doberman's back.
Smith closed Bill's eyes and looked up. “He's gone.”
“We've got to leave, Jon.” Peter's voice was kind but definite. He handed him a colored kerchief from one of the webbed belt pouches on his commando uniform.
As Jon wiped blood from his hand, Randi said, “I'm sorry, Jon. I know he was your friend. But more of them will be here soon.”
When Smith did not get up immediately, Marty said, “Jon!” His voice was sharp. “Let's go. You're scaring me!”
Smith stood and gazed around at the battered RV and the dead bodies. He breathed deeply, controlling his grief and rage. He glanced once more at Bill Griffin.
Victor Tremont had a lot to answer for.
He moved into the woods. “We'll work our way back to the car through here.”
“Good idea.” Randi took the lead.
“Come on, Samson,” Marty called.
The dog lifted his head. Then he nudged his dead master's shoulder. He made a low sound in his throat again and prodded Bill one last time.
When there was no response, he gave a final look around as if saying good-bye. He trotted silently into the woods, following.
Randi's long body angled left. With sure footsteps, she forged a path through the underbrush and around the
