ramming him so hard against the glass boxes that they broke. Jack pushed back and away from him, regaining his balance on both feet.
De Groot fell back, feet off the floor, half-leaning, half-falling against the table, groping for its edges for support. A coral snake slithered quick as a shot out of its tank, sinking its fangs into his meaty forearm.
A big, fat cottonmouth suddenly uncoiled, lunging, battening on de Groot's neck and chomping down on it.
The coral snake had started him hollering, but the cottonmouth really drove him into paroxysms of agony and fear. He flopped around, knocking already shattered glass boxes to the floor. He grabbed with both hands at the cottonmouth, which clung to his neck, his hands missing hold as the black snake writhed and flailed, not letting go.
Silva had stumbled off to one side, hobbling and cursing, leaning against a partition and holding on to it for support, favoring the leg with the broken foot.
Jack came at him, intent, inexorable. Closing on Silva, he lashed out with a side kick, driving the outside edge of his foot into the other's kneecap. The kick was so hard that Jack felt the impact all the way up to his hipbone.
Silva's kneecap might not have been broken, but it wasn't any good anymore. He flopped to the floor in breathless agony, too pained to scream.
Jack popped a front snap-kick at Silva's head, the ball of his foot taking Silva in the point of his chin. Silva's head jerked back, recoiling on the top of his spinal column.
He fell back.
Jack stomped Silva's upturned throat, then stood on it, putting all his weight on it and grinding his foot there until he heard something snap.
De Groot lay spasming on the other side of the floor, his face swollen purple-black, eyes popping and saliva foaming at the corners of his mouth.
Jack raised a leg, using it to sweep the desktop clean of its stacked computers and monitors, sending them crashing to the floor.
He sat on the edge of the desk and leaned back until his back was flat on the desktop, almost passing out when he put his weight on his bound hands.
Lifting his legs, he rocked back some more, raising his rear off the desktop, weight resting on his shoulders. He folded his legs, doubling them, knees touching his chin as he dragged his bound hands out from under them, pulling them in front of him and clearing them past his shoes.
His hands were in front of him now. They'd been bound together with a section of baling wire whose ends had been twisted together to hold him in place. They were almost as purple-black as de Groot's face. The circulation was not entirely cut off; he still had some movement in his fingers, though he could barely feel them.
He rocked forward, planting his feet on the floor and standing up. He could have used that big.44 holstered on de Groot's waist, but was not minded to dispute possession of it with the cottonmouths and coral snakes swarming all over him.
De Groot lay on his back, mouth gaping, jaws stretched to the breaking point. A black centipede twelve inches long wriggled off the tabletop, falling onto his upturned face and slithering inside his mouth.
From the time Jack had been pulled out of the chair by Silva and de Groot, little more than sixty seconds had passed.
Jack made for the opening in the partition, stepping lively to avoid the snakes slithering across the floor. He darted through it, into the open, the high-ceilinged, barnlike space of the building.
He now saw that the office section was at the opposite end of the building from where he and Pete had entered. He'd gotten a break; the drumming of rainfall on the tin roof, the noise of SUV engines and barge motors, all had helped cover up some of the racket generated by his escape.
Behind him, through the open bay door, he saw an SUV roll past, moving landward, its driver oblivious to anything happening in the warehouse. Nearby, at the riverward end of the building, stood a closed exit door. Jack stumbled to it, reaching out toward it with his two swollen, inert hands.
Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door, the doorknob rattling. Someone was coming in from outside.
Thinking fast, Jack pressed his hands against his chest, tearing open the front breast pocket of his shirt and fastening his fingers on the Saint Barbara medallion that Colonel Paz had been reaching for when he died, and that Jack had picked up out of curiosity.
Jack's thick fingers fumbled for it, freeing it from the torn pocket. It fell a few feet in front of the door, glinting with reflected light.
The door swung inward, opening. Jack dodged to one side of the door, flattening against the wall.
Arno entered, bareheaded, his face and shoulders soaked with water but not a hair out of place. He entered quickly, a man wanting to get in out of the rain. Crossing the threshold, he stepped inside, halting when he caught sight of the coinlike medallion on the floor, all shiny and gleaming.
Murmuring with interest, he leaned forward and bent to pick it up. Holding it up to the light, he eyed it appreciatively, turning it this way and that. He slipped it into his front pants pocket.
While Arno's hands were at his sides, Jack made his move. He'd seen Arno's lightninglike gun work and wanted to catch him at the moment of optimum vulnerability.
Jack hooked his hands over Arno's head and around his neck, yanking them inward. The nail-like point where the twin strands of the baling wire were entwined caught Arno in the hollow of his throat.
Jack pulled him closer, tighter, abruptly pivoting to the side, putting everything he had into it. Snapping Arno's neck.
He dragged Arno's body to the side, into the shadows behind a wall of the office partition. He fumbled Arno's pistol out of his shoulder holster, able to accomplish the task only by pressing his pawlike, swollen hands together against the gun butt. Arno had left the safety strap of the holster open and unsnapped, no doubt to facilitate his fast draw.
The gun wasn't much good to Jack in his present condition, but it was better than nothing. An idea came to him.
Going to the door, he opened it a crack and peeked outside, peering through a silvery curtain of slanting rain. No one else was in his field of view.
Returning to Arno, he stooped down, getting one of the dead man's feet wedged under an arm. He dragged the body to the door, opening it and backing out into the rain-swept pier.
The wind and rain felt good, washing over him and bringing a rush of renewed energy. He dragged Arno to the upriver edge of the pier. He pulled the gun from the top of his pants, clutching it between both hands. His thumb felt so numb and lifeless that he had to look to see where it was in order to release the safety on the pistol.
He fired several shots into the air, then shouted in his best imitation of Arno's voice, 'Here he is! I got him!'
Footsteps pounded around the corner of the building, voices shouting.
Jack shrieked, then kicked Arno's body over the side into the water. It raised a big splash. He stepped behind some containers, gun in hand, waiting.
Five or six of Vollard's men dashed out on the end of the pier, guns drawn, looking in all directions. One said, 'I heard a splash!'
He went to the edge of the pier, looking downward into the dark, swirling waters. Oblongs of light from lamps on the pier fell on the water, illuminating Arno's body for an instant as it bobbed around in the eddying current, pinned for an instant against a piling.
Then it came free, and was sucked down and under and out of sight.
Vollard exited through the back door, joining the others where they stood in the rain at the end of the pier, staring down into black water. Less than a dozen paces away, Jack huddled behind a container box, holding the gun.
Vollard said, 'Idiots! The American killed de Groot and Silva and escaped.'
One of the men said, 'No, sir, he didn't. Arno got him. They both went over the side.'
Vollard said, 'Are you sure?'
