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  here in Madagascar. Any flower you want, you find it here.” Still chattering, he began to cart gear to the canoe.

  “You wanted a flower,” Doug muttered, “all you had to do was bend over and yank one up.”

  Whitney touched the petals above her ear. “Some men understand sweetness,” she commented, “and others don’t.” Picking up her pack, she followed Jacques.

  “Sweetness,” Doug grumbled as he struggled with the rest of the gear. “I’ve got a pack of wolves after me and she wants sweetness.” Still muttering, he kicked out the campfire. “I could’ve picked her a damn flower. A dozen of them.” He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Whitney’s laughter. “Oh Jacques, it’s exquisite,” he mimicked. With a snort of disgust, Doug checked the safety on his gun before he secured it in his belt. “And I can open a goddamn coconut too.” He gave the fire one last kick before hefting the remaining gear and starting toward the canoe.

  When Remo nudged one expensively shod toe into the campfire, it was no more than a pile of cold ash. The sun was straight up and streaming; there was no relief from the heat in the shade. He’d removed his suit jacket and tie—something he’d never have done in front of Dimitri during working hours. His once-crisp Arrow shirt was limp with sweat. Tracking Lord was becoming a pain in the ass.

  “Looks like they spent the night here.” Weis, a tall, bankerish-looking man who’d had his nose broken by a whiskey bottle swiped sweat from his forehead. He had a line of insect bites on his neck that constantly plagued him. “I guess we’re about four hours behind them.”

  “What’re you, part Apache?” Giving the fire a last violent kick, Remo turned. His gaze rested on Barns, whose round moon face was creased in smiles. “What’re you grinning at, you little asshole?”

  But Barns hadn’t stopped grinning since Remo had told him to take care of the Malagasy captain. He knew Barns had, but even a man of Remo’s experience didn’t want to hear the details. It was common knowledge that Dimitri had an affection for Barns, the way one had an affection for a half-witted dog who dropped mutilated chickens and small mangled rodents at your feet. He also knew that Dimitri often let Barns take care of employees on their way out. Dimitri didn’t believe in unemployment benefits.

  “Let’s go,” he said briefly. “We’ll have them before sundown.”

  Whitney had herself nestled comfortably between the packs. Lengthening shadows from cypress and eucalyptus fell on the dunes alongside the canal and on the thick brush on the opposing side. Thin brown reeds waved in the current. From time to time a startled egret folded in its legs and lifted off into the brush with a whoosh of wings and rush. Flowers poked out, profuse in places, red, orange, and melting yellow. Orchids grew as haphazardly as poppies in a meadow. Butterflies, sometimes alone, sometimes in troups, swooped and fluttered around the petals. Their color was a blaze against vegetation and the dung brown of the canal. Here and there crocodiles stretched on sloping banks and took in the sun. Most barely turned a head as the canoe rowed by. The fragrance lifting over the scent of the river was lazily rich.

  With the brim of Jacques’s cap shielding her eyes, she lay crossways in the canoe, her feet resting on the edge. The long fishing pole Jacques had fashioned rested loosely in her hands as she half dozed.

  She decided she’d discovered just what Huck Finn had found so appealing about floating down the Mississippi. A good deal of it was bone laziness and the rest was wide-eyed adventure. It was, Whitney reflected, a delightful combination.

  “And just what do you plan to do if a fish reaches up and bites on that bent safety pin?”

  Taking her time, Whitney stretched her shoulders. “Why I’d drop him right in your lap, Douglas. I’m sure you’d know exactly what to do with a fish.”

  “You cook ′em up good.” Jacques paddled with the long steady strokes that would’ve made a Yale alumnus’s heart patter with pride. Tina Turner helped him keep the rhythm. “My cooking…” He shook his head. “Pretty bad. When I get married, I have to make sure my wife cooks good. Like my mama.”

  Whitney made a snorting sound from under the cap. A fly landed on her knee but it was too much effort to brush it aside. “Another man whose heart’s in his stomach.”

  “Look, the kid’s got a point. Eating’s important.”

  “To you it’s more like a religion. Do it with the proper tradition and respect or not at all.” She shifted the brim of her cap so that she could see Jacques more clearly. Young, she thought, with a good-humored, good-looking face and well-muscled body. She didn’t think he’d have any trouble attracting the girls. “So, you’re putting your stomach on the same level with your heart. What happens if you fall for a girl who can’t cook?”

  Jacques considered this. He was only twenty, and answers were as easy and basic as life. The smile he gave her was young, innocent, and cocky enough to make her chuckle. “I’d take her to my mother so she could learn.”

  “Very sensible,” Doug agreed. He broke rhythm to pop a piece of coconut into his mouth.

  “I don’t suppose you ever considered learning to cook.” Whitney watched Jacques mull this over while his lean, strong arms worked the paddles. Smiling at him, she ran a finger over the shell that nestled just above her breasts.

  “A Malagasy wife cooks the meals.”

  “In between the times she takes care of the house, the children, and tills the fields, I imagine,” Whitney put in.

  Jacques nodded and grinned. “But she takes care of the money too.”

  Whitney felt the lump of her wallet in her back pocket. “That’s very sensible,” she agreed, smiling at Doug.

  He had the envelope secure in his own pocket. “I thought you’d like that.”

  “Again, it’s a simple matter of people doing what they’re best suited for.” She started to settle back again when her line jerked. With her eyes wide, she sat straight up. “Oh God, I think I’ve got one.”

  “One what?”

  “A fish!” Gripping the pole fiercely, she watched the line bob. “A fish,” she said again. “A big goddamn fish.”

  A grin split Doug’s face as he saw the improvised fishing line grow taut. “Sonofabitch. Now take it easy,” he advised as she scrambled to her knees and rocked the boat. “Don’t lose it, that’s tonight’s main course.”

  “I’m not going to lose it,” she said between gritted teeth. And she wouldn’t, but she didn’t have any idea what to do next. After another moment of struggle, she turned to Jacques. “What now?”

  “Pull him up easy. It’s a big bastard.” Drawing his paddle into the canoe, he went to her with light movements that kept the boat steady. “Yessirree, we eat tonight. He’s going to fight.” He rested a hand on her shoulder while he looked over the side. “He’s thinking about the frying pan.”

  “Come on, sugar, you can do it.” Doug left the oars behind to creep to the center and root. “Just bring ’im up.” And he’d fillet him, sauté him, and serve him on a bed of fluffy rice.

  Giddy, excited, determined, Whitney caught her tongue between her teeth. If either man had offered to take the pole from her, she’d have snarled. Using arm muscles she only remembered during an occasional brief set of tennis, she brought the fish out of the water.

  Wiggling on the end of the line, he caught the glint of the late afternoon sun. It was only a simple trout, flopping frantically, but for a moment, he looked regal, a flash of silver caught against the deepening blue of the sky. Whitney gave out a war whoop and fell back on her rump.

  “Don’t drop him now!”

  “She won’t.” Reaching out, Jacques caught the line between his thumb and fingers, drawing it gently in. The fish waved back and forth like a flag in a breeze. “She’s caught herself one big, fat fish.” In a quick move, he drew out the hook and held up the catch. “How about that? Some luck.” He grinned, fish in hand, while Tina Turner gritted out a tune from the tape player behind him.

  It happened so fast. Still, as long as she lived
Whitney would remember the instant as though it had been captured frame by frame on film. One moment, Jacques was standing, glistening with healthy sweat and triumph. Her laughter was still hanging on the air. The next, he was tumbling into the water. The explosion never even registered in her mind.

  “Jacques?” Dazed, she scrambled to her knees.

  “Down.” Doug had her pinned beneath him so that her breath came in gasps. He held her down while the boat rocked and he prayed they wouldn’t capsize.

  “Doug?”

  “Lie still, understand?” But he wasn’t looking at her. Though his head was only inches above hers, he scanned the shore on either side of the canal. The brush was thick enough to hide an army. Where the hell were they? Keeping his movements slow, he reached for the gun in his belt.

  When Whitney saw it, she shifted her head to look for Jacques. “Did he fall? I thought I heard a—” When she saw the answer in Doug’s eyes, she arched like a bow. “No!” She struggled, nearly knocking the gun from Doug’s hand as she tried to get up. “Jacques! Oh God.”

  “Stay down.” He gave the order between his teeth as he locked his legs around hers. “There’s nothing you can do for him now.” When she continued to fight, he dug his fingers in hard enough to bruise her. “He’s dead, dammit. Dead before he hit the water.”

  Her eyes were wide, swimming, as she stared up at him. Without a word she closed them and lay still.

  If he felt guilt, if he felt grief, he’d deal with them later. Now it was back to the first priority. Staying alive.

  He could hear nothing but the gentle lap of water as the boat drifted in the current. They could be on either side, that he knew. What he didn’t know was why they hadn’t simply riddled the canoe with bullets. The thin outer skin would be no protection.

  They had orders to take them alive. Doug glanced down at Whitney. She remained still and passive, eyes shut. Or to take one of them alive, he realized.

  Dimitri would be curious about a woman like Whitney MacAllister. He’d know everything there was to know about her by now. No, he wouldn’t want her dead. He’d want to entertain her for a time—be entertained by her— then ransom her back. They wouldn’t shoot at the canoe, but simply wait them out. The first order of business was to find out where they were waiting. Doug could already feel the sweat pooling between his shoulder blades.

  “That you, Remo?” he shouted. “You’re still using too much of that fancy cologne. I can smell you out here.” He waited a moment, straining to hear any sound. “Dimitri know I’ve had you running around in circles?”

  “You’re the one who’s running, Lord.”

  On the left. He didn’t know how he was going to do it yet, but he knew they’d have to get to the opposite shore.

  “Yeah, maybe I’m slowing down.” Checking off different angles, Doug kept talking. The birds that had fled skyward screaming at the sound of the shot were calm again. A few had resumed their lazy chatter. He saw that Whitney had opened her eyes again, but she wasn’t moving. “Maybe it’s time we talked deal. You and me, Remo. With what I got, you could fill a swimming pool with that French cologne. Ever think about branching out on your own, Remo? You got brains. Aren’t you getting tired of taking orders and doing somebody else’s dirty work?”

  “You want to talk, Lord. Paddle over. We’ll have a nice little business meeting.”

  “Paddle over and you’ll put a bullet in my brain, Remo. Come on, let’s not insult each other’s intelligence.” Maybe, just maybe, he could angle one of the poles in the water and guide the boat. If he could wait until dusk, they might have a chance.

  “You’re the one who wants to deal, Lord. What do you have in mind?”

  “I got the papers, Remo.” Gently he tugged open his pack. He also had a box of bullets. “And I got me a classy lady. They’re both worth a hell of a lot more money than you’ve ever seen.” He shot Whitney a look. She was staring at him, pale and dry-eyed. “Dimitri tell you I got me a heiress, Remo? MacAllister. You know, MacAllister’s ice cream? Best goddamn fudge ripple in the States. You know how many million they made off fudge ripple alone, Remo? You know how much her old man’d pay to get her back in one piece?”

  He slid the box of bullets into his pocket while Whitney watched. “Play along with me, sugar,” he told her as he checked to see that his gun was fully loaded. “We both might get out breathing. I’m going to give him a list of your attributes. When I do, I want you to start swearing at me, rock the boat, kick up a scene. While you’re doing it, grab that pole. Okay?”

  Expressionless, she nodded.

  “There ain’t much meat on her but she really warms up the sheets, Remo. And she ain’t too particular about who she warms them up with. Know what I mean? I got no problem sharing the wealth.”

  “You rotten sonofabitch.” With a screech that would’ve done a fishwife proud, Whitney reared up. He hadn’t meant for her to put herself in range and grabbed for her. Wound up, she swung at his hand and knocked it away. “You’ve absolutely no style,” she shouted, standing straight. “Absolutely no class. I’d as soon sleep with a slug as let you into my bed.”

  In the lowering light she was magnificent, passionate, hair streaming behind her, eyes dark. He didn’t have any doubt that Remo’s attention was fixed on her.

  “Grab the pole and don’t get so damn personal,” he muttered.

  “You think you can talk to me that way, you worm?” Snatching up the pole, Whitney raised it over her head.

  “Good, good now…” He trailed off when he saw the expression on her face. He’d seen vengeance in a woman’s eyes before. Automatically he lifted a hand. “Hey, wait a minute,” he began as the pole smashed down. He rolled aside in time to see Weis come tumbling into their boat from a small, dark raft. They’d have capsized then if Whitney hadn’t lost her balance and fallen half over the opposite end, righting their boat again. “Jesus, get down.” But the warning ended on a whoosh of air as he started to struggle with Weis.

  Whitney’s blow had caught the big man on the shoulder, knocking his gun aside, but annoying him more than harming him. And he remembered the sensation of having his nose shatter. Whitney lifted the pole again and would have brought it down but Doug rolled on top of him. The boat swayed, taking in water. She saw Jacques’s body floating on the surface of the canal before she froze her heart to fight for her life.

  “For God’s sake give me a clear shot,” she shouted, then tumbled backward when the boat rocked violently.

  On shore, Remo pushed Barns aside. “Lord’s mine, you little bastard. Remember it.” Taking out his gun, he focused and waited.

  It looked like a game, Whitney thought as she shook her head to clear it. Two overgrown boys wrestling in a boat. Any moment one might cry uncle, then they’d brush themselves off and go on to other amusements.

  She tried to stand again, but nearly tipped over the side. She could see the gun still in Doug’s hand, but the other man outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Balancing herself on her knees, she gripped the pole again. “Dammit, Doug, how can I smash him if you’re laying on top of him? Move!”

  “Sure.” Panting, Doug managed to pry Weis’s hand from around his throat. “Just give me a minute.” Then his head jerked back as Weis caught him on the jaw. Doug tasted blood.

  “You broke my fucking nose,” Weis said as he dragged Doug to his feet.

  “Was that you?”

  They stood, legs braced as Weis began slowly to turn Doug’s gun hand so that the barrel pointed at his face.

  “Yeah. And I’m going to blow yours off.”

  “Look, don’t take it so personally.” Planting his feet, Doug was certain he felt something rip inside his left shoulder. It was something to think about later when the barrel of a gun wasn’t staring him in the face.

  Sweat ran from him as he fought to keep Weis’s finger from slipping over the trigger. He saw the smile and cursed that it was the last thing he’d ever see. Abruptly, Weis’s eyes widened
and air whooshed out of his mouth as Whitney shoved the pole smartly into his stomach.

  Gripping Doug for balance, Weis shifted. In the next instant his body jerked. He’d become Doug’s shield at the instant Remo had fired from shore. With a look of surprise, he fell like a stone against the side of the canoe. The next thing Whitney knew, she was swallowing water.

  On the first panic, she surfaced, choking and thrashing.

  “Grab the packs,” Doug shouted, shoving them at her as he treaded beside the overturned canoe. Two bullets struck the water inches from his head. “Holy shit.” He saw the jaws of the first crock open and close over Weis’s torso. And he heard the sickening sound of ripping flesh and breaking bone. Making one frantic grab, he locked his fingers over the strap of one pack. The other floated just out of range. “Go!” he shouted again. “Just go. Get to shore.”

  She too saw what remained of Weis and struck out blindly. A dull red mist floated over the brown river water. What she didn’t see until it was nearly on top of them was the second crock.

  “Doug!”

  He turned in time to see jaws open. He fired five shots point blank before they closed again and sunk in a pool of red.

  There were more. Doug fumbled for the box of bullets, knowing he’d never get them all. In a desperate move, he propelled himself between Whitney and an oncoming crock, lifting the gun butt first. He waited for the impact, the pain. He was braced, lips pulled back in a snarl. The top of the crock’s head exploded when he was less than an arm’s length away. Before Doug could react, three more crocks went under, tails swishing. Blood swirled around him.

  The shots hadn’t come from Remo. Even as Doug turned toward shore he knew it. They’d come from farther south. Either they had a fairy godmother or someone else was on their trail. He caught a movement and a glimpse of a white panama. When he saw Whitney just behind him, he didn’t stop to think about it.

  “Go, dammit.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the bank. Whitney didn’t look back but simply forced her legs to kick her through the water to shore.

  Doug half dragged her over the wet reeds on the edge of the canal and into the bush. Panting, aching, he propped himself on the