Choa was studying the pocket-handkerchief beach. Jay asked him what he thought.
“He’s been here since last night,” Choa said. “He’ll be ready. If it were me, I’d pick us off as we go ashore.”
“I don’t see him.”
“Like I say, he’s had time to get ready.”
“You mean camouflage?” Jay accepted the point and brought his binoculars up to his eyes. He scanned the horizon slowly, carefully. “He’s not there,” he told Choa, handing him the binoculars. Choa peered through them.
“Maybe,” he said, “we should circle the island in the boats, see if we can spot anything. He could’ve booby- trapped the beach. No footprints, but with this wind and rain that’s no surprise. Any footprints would be erased in minutes.” Choa had a deep molasses voice, and looked like he knew his stuff; he came from a race of hunters and trappers, after all.
But Jay shook his head. “He won’t play it that way.”
He couldn’t say why he felt so sure.
They tied the motorboat to the larger vessel and dropped anchor. “You’re coming with us,” Jay told Creech. “Don’t want you buggering off and leaving us.” Creech seemed resigned.
With trousers rolled up, they waded ashore, boots tied around their necks, packs on their backs, the first men in the water keeping their guns aimed at the beach, the men to the rear carrying the three large cases.
The rain was blowing almost horizontally as Jay gathered his troops around. “Remember,” he said, “there are signs warning of anthrax. They’re a bluff, so don’t be surprised if you stumble across one, even if it’s been well hidden. Okay? Let’s get off the beach.” He looked around, his eyes finding the nameless Chicano. “Stay here with Creech. Don’t let him near the boats, understood?”
“Understood.”
The rest of them set off towards a narrow trail which snaked up from the beach. The trail divided into two, and Jay split his men into two units.
The Chicano waved his friend good-bye, and turned his gun on Creech. “This is horrible country.”
“You get used to it,” Creech said, heading for the shelter of the step. It formed a nice windbreak, so that if you crouched down you were completely protected. The Chicano didn’t sit beside him-he had to keep watch-but he didn’t stray too far either. He paced the beach, alternating between keeping a lookout for Reeve, and keeping an eye on Creech. He knew they’d finish off the man eventually, probably as soon as they got back to the mainland. The youth shivered and shrugged his shoulders. He was freezing, and he noticed that Creech’s jacket looked warm.
“Hey,” he said, “you don’t need that. Give it to me.” And he used his gun instead of “please.” Creech shrugged off the brown corduroy jacket. The Chicano had to put his gun down to put the jacket on. “Move and I kill you,” he told Creech, who held up his hands peaceably. The Chicano placed his gun on the sand and stood up.
As he stood, he saw something incredible. The earth at the top of the step opened up and a man sprang to life, for all the world like a zombie. The man sprang forward and leapt on the youth, knocking him backwards. The young man wrestled to get his pistol out of its holster, then stopped suddenly, intent on the hilt of a dagger which was protruding from his chest.
Creech leapt to his feet, mouth open in a silent scream.
Gordon Reeve stood up and looked down at the youth, whose hands were fluttering around the grip of the knife like moths around a flame. Reeve placed a foot on the dying man’s stomach and pulled out the dagger, blood spewing out of the slit. Creech turned away and threw up on the sand. The Chicano’s eyes were starting to close when Reeve wiped the knife clean on Creech’s jacket.
It had taken him some time to find the perfect spot, and then longer still to dig his foxhole. He’d used a collapsible spade, brought from his workshop, first scraping off a three-inch-deep layer of topsoil and grass. And when the hole was finished, and Reeve installed in it, he’d placed the section of turf back, convinced he was invisible.
He’d been in that hole the best part of ten hours, fearing trench foot as the water table rose and the rain kept coming down.
“One down,” he said now.
“Th-there are’t-ten altogether,” Creech stammered, wiping his lips.
“I know, I saw you arrive.” Reeve stared at him. “And I heard Jay talking about those signs we made.”
“Ach, Mr. Reeve, I had to say
“It’s okay, Kenneth. I knew Jay would find out about them.”
“What?”
“He was expecting a trap, and you handed him one. He wasn’t so ready for another. Come on.”
“Where?”
“Back to the boat.”
Creech managed to let out a yip of relief. They waded into the water and were halfway to the boat when there was a roar from the island. Jiminez had come back to check on his friend. Now he was sprinting towards the body, yelling something in Spanish at the top of his voice.
“Hurry!” Reeve urged. As if Creech needed telling. They grabbed for the side of the larger boat and hauled themselves in, Creech finding an energy he hadn’t used in years. There was a sudden explosion behind them, and Reeve turned his head to see smoke rising into the sky, and earth raining down all around.
“Looks like someone stumbled on one of my surprises.”
He’d run trip wires across both paths. The explosive charges were big enough to take out two, maybe three men if they were close enough together. Only one explosion though; the other party had stopped short of the trip wire. They must have heard the scream and turned back towards the beach. They were starting to appear. Two ran straight to the water’s edge, firing as they ran.
Creech started the engine. It was still warm and started quickly. Reeve dealt with the anchor by slicing the rope with a single hack of his dagger.
“Let’s go!” he yelled.
They went, the motorboat trailing after them. When they were out of the range of bullets, Reeve ordered Creech to cut the engine. Creech had to be told twice; even then he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Why?”
“Because I want to watch.” Reeve had a backpack of his own, and took from it a small pair of powerful binoculars. Jay seemed to be talking to his men as they stood around the cooling body. From the looks on their faces, Reeve knew he had scored an important victory. They didn’t look angry or set on revenge; they looked horrified. Doubts would now start to enter their minds. There were four of them, including the Hispanic-looking youth who’d run onto the beach first. Four. Which meant the explosive had been tripped by a unit of the remaining five men. The Hispanic had recovered a little and was yelling at Jay, waving his arms at him accusingly. Tears were streaming down his face.
Reeve moved the binoculars and saw the survivors of his little group come staggering down onto the beach. There were only two of them, both spattered with blood and badly wounded. One man had a branch sticking out of his leg; the other looked to have lost an ear. They were the only two to emerge.
Reeve took a moment to slip his boots back on before putting the binoculars back to his eyes. Jay was standing on the beach, his own binoculars trained on Reeve.
And he was smiling.
The smile seemed to anger the Hispanic youth still further. He turned Jay around so they were face to face. Reeve saw what the young man, so close to Jay, could not. He saw Jay’s hand go to the holster, saw him ease the gun out. Saw him take a step back, raising his gun hand, and blow a hole in the young man’s forehead. Then Jay turned around again, so he was looking towards Reeve.
Reeve got the message.
“What’re they doing?” Creech said. “Shooting each other?”
“Getting rid of excess baggage,” Reeve corrected him grimly.
Through the binoculars, he watched Jay order the two uninjured men remaining to open one of the cases. The two others, the ones injured in the blast, were huddled together, seated on the sand. Jay looked towards them, but wasn’t about to offer any comfort. He was more intent on the metal case. Then Reeve saw why, and saw, too,
