Mama Rosa stared at her.
'You really don't know?'
'No, I don't.'
'Your last supper. What else?'
73
Hunt was flying blind, descending through the turbulent storm clouds, his eyes on the computer screen.
The electronic beacon from Eden Isle came in crystal clear, the runway a foreshortened perspective on the green electronic grid.
Sure, it was a computer landing. But that wasn't all it was. Take away the video game-like screen, the state-of-the-art electronics, the high-tech doodads, and fancy-schmanzy gizmos, and what did you have?
Why, good old-fashioned seat-of-the-pants flying—that's what!
Now, fighting the killer winds, and flying on pure instinct, Hunt felt absolutely no fear, only the same indescribable thrill he'd felt when he first started flying.
He would make it. He would land this baby perfectly. He knew it!
He was a man on a mission—not to mention one hell of a pilot!
The Quonset hut shook, creaked, and rattled. Rivets were popping loose and one wall kept undulating. The storm outside screamed like a thousand Furies.
Hurricane Cyd was intensifying. The wind had picked up tremendous velocity. One of the other structures or trailers lost its roof or a sheet of its siding, and a giant piece of metal flipped through the air and hit the hut with a thud. Metal screeched against metal, and Dorothy-Anne was sure the Quonset hut would collapse.
That it remained standing was miraculous.
Mama Rose either didn't notice, or didn't care. She had laid three place settings and was sitting at the head of the table, saying grace:
'O Lord, bless this, our daily bread, which we are about to receive.'
She crossed herself the old-fashioned way, sketching a tiny cross on her forehead, her lips, and her beasts.
'In nomine patris et filii et spiritu sanctu. Amen.'
Neither Dorothy-Anne nor Zack responded.
To Dorothy-Anne, this meal—or 'Last Supper,' as Mama Rosa called it—was utterly surreal. Seated around a wood-grained formica table—she and Zack without gags, and with one arm free so they could use their spoons (no knives or forks for the prisoners). With paper napkins carefully tucked into their collars like children. And a feast which, on any other occasion, would have been a mouth-watering spread.
At the moment, however, just the idea of food was enough to turn Dorothy-Anne's stomach.
Mama Rosa used a big serving spoon and the tip of a chef's knife to serve the antipasto. She placed two stuffed tomatoes on each plate.
'This is called pomodora alla Siciliana. You'll like it.' She gestured. 'Go ahead. Eat! Mange! Eat!'
Dorothy-Anne stared down at her plate. One bite, she thought, and I'll throw up.
'Hey! What's the matter?'
Mama Rosa shoveled half a tomato into her mouth and talked while she chewed. She gestured at Dorothy-Anne's plate with a fork.
'You know how much trouble I went through to cook this?'
'How do I know it's not poisoned?' Dorothy-Anne retorted dully.
' 'Cause I'm eating it, too. Anyway, what's the big deal about how you're gonna die?' Mama Rosa rolled her eyes to heaven. 'You either die one way, or you die another. That's life.'
No, that's crazy, Dorothy-Anne thought. She's insane. She needs to be locked away.
Thinking Mama Rosa wasn't looking, Dorothy-Anne slowly moved her hand off the table and down to her lap.
She thought: Now, if I can only unwrap the tape and free my other arm . . .
'Put your hand back up where I can see it,' Mama Rosa warned quietly.
When Dorothy-Anne didn't obey quickly enough, a scream rent the air: 'Now!'
Dorothy-Anne and Zack both jerked, and Dorothy-Anne quickly put her hand on the table.
Mama Rosa picked up the baggie with the pistol in it, then seemed to have second thoughts, and slid it aside. She grabbed the chef's knife instead. Lunging from her chair, she leaned across the table, pressed the point of the blade against Dorothy-Anne's throat, and pricked the skin.
Dorothy-Anne didn't dare breathe.
'You can die sooner,' Mama Rosa said, 'or you can die later. It's your choice.'
Then she withdrew the knife, sat back down, and continued eating.
Dorothy-Anne sat there, shaking. She could feel a bead of blood trickling down her neck.
I might as well come to terms with this. Zack and I are going to die.
She could only pray that it would be painless.
And that was when she heard another sound, a soft sound which was all but masked by the rumbles and shrieks of the storm. Her heart gave a leap.
Could it be? Was it the sound of an approaching car engine?
She glanced over at the windows and saw the distant rise and dip of headlights. Mama Rosa was oblivious to them. She was busy eating, stuffing her face as though this might be her last supper, too.
'You don't know what you're missing,' she told Dorothy-Anne. 'But if you don't wanna eat'—she shrugged—'I ain't gonna force you.'
Dorothy-Anne didn't hear a word she was saying. It was all she could do to conceal her excitement.
It's Hunt! she thought jubilantly. It's got to be!
'Maybe I will eat, after all,' Dorothy-Anne decided, hastily making conversation in order to cover up the engine sounds. 'Pomodora alla what Range did you say these are called?'
There was a deafening crash, as first the hood of a Range Rover, and then the entire vehicle, burst through the end wall of the Quonset hut. The wind, pounding at a steady seventy miles an hour, blasted in, scattering chairs and sending objects flying. Then the air pressure blew out the far end wall of the hut, and it turned into a wind tunnel.
Mama Rosa grabbed the baggie and tore it open. She had the pistol in her hand by the time Hunt dove out of the Range Rover.
She pressed the trigger.
Click.
She stared down at it. 'Junk!' she screamed, slamming it back on the table.
She grabbed the chef's knife and leaped to her feet, leaning forward in a knife-fighting stance. There was an unholy glow in her eyes as she slashed the gleaming blade through the air.
'Hunt!' Dorothy-Anne shouted.
Whipped by the blizzard of wind, she struggled to unwrap her left arm, but it would take too long. The quickest way to free herself was to cut the tape, but she didn't have a knife. Only the pistol.
The pistol!
She remembered Jim Larsen's warning:
'It's loaded. The chamber holds six rounds. As a safety precaution, the first one's empty. That gives you five shots.'
Dorothy-Anne stretched her arm across the table, grabbed the pistol, and aimed it at Mama Rosa.
The fat woman's big breasts heaved with laughter. 'What are you planning to do?' she shouted above the roar of the wind. 'Scare me to death?'
And Dorothy-Anne pulled the trigger.
The bullet slammed into Mama Rosa's shoulder. The fat woman was knocked backward off her feet, the knife clattering to the floor.
Seeing the venom in the glowing black eyes, Dorothy-Anne fired again. This time she got Mama Rosa in the leg.
And then Hunt was there, holding Dorothy-Anne in his arms. 'Thank God you're alive!' he shouted. 'Here. Let me get the knife.'
Thinking he was after her, Mama Rosa pushed herself desperately backward with her hands, leaving a wide, wet smear of blood on the floor.
It took Hunt no time to cut Dorothy-Anne loose.
She flung her arms around his neck and clung to him. 'Oh, Hunt. I can't believe it! You really are my knight in shining armor!'
He laughed and kissed her. 'I knew I loved you, but you know some¬thing? It took this for me to know just how much. If anything had happened to you . . . '
He shook his head at the mere thought.
Dorothy-Anne noticed Mama Rosa struggling to her feet. Now, favoring her right leg and limping noticeably, the fat woman loped off into the storm.
Oh no, you don't, Dorothy-Anne thought.
'Cut Zack loose,' she told Hunt. 'And stay with him! I'll be right back.'
'Where are you going?'
Dorothy-Anne snatched up the pistol. There were three rounds left. She looked around and found the flashlight on the floor.
'Taking care of some unfinished business,' she said grimly, and was gone.
Dorothy-Anne had the advantage. She knew Eden Isle. And she knew exactly in which direction to chase the assassin.
Mama Rosa blundered south, past the rows of Quonset huts and trailers, bypassing the Oceanographic Institute, and heading for the sea.
Or so she thought.
But it wasn't the sea. It was Predators' Lagoon.
Dorothy-Anne fired a bullet, which missed its mark but had the desired effect. Mama Rosa rushed to the railing surrounding the lagoon, climbed over it, and dove in.
'Buon appetito,' Dorothy-Anne said wryly. Then she staggered back to the Quonset hut, where she found Hunt holding Zack.
'We've got to find shelter!' Hunt yelled. 'Now. The wind's going to reach a hundred sixty, with gusts of up to two hundred miles an hour. Come on!'
Dorothy-Anne stared at him. 'Where are we going?'
'The turbine room. Don't you remember it? It's built like a concrete bunker, and is far above sea level. We'll be safe in there.'
'My hero,' she laughed.
'My heroine,' he shouted back.
'Hey!' Zack piped up. 'Will you two lovebirds cool it? I want to get out of here.'
74
Mama Rosa's head broke the surface of the lagoon, water sluicing off her. She spat out a stream of saltwater. The idiot! Didn't the woman realize Carmine could swim?
Well, she'd be sorry. Carmine would get them yet. The woman, the boy, and that meddlesome man. If not today or tomorrow, then next week, and if not then, the week after . . .
The blood leaking from her wounds spread in the water like a mushrooming pink cloud.
Mama Rosa was aware that she was bleeding, but it didn't concern her. So I'm wounded. So I've lost a little blood. It wasn't the first time.
Blood.
The sharks' sensory receptors were processing signals of food.
Sleek dark shapes, like lethal torpedoes, shot through the water from all around.
Blood.
Prey.
And suddenly Mama Rosa saw the fast-approaching fins cutting through the lagoon, and screamed, but it was too late.
The water became a furiously churning cauldron as the sharks struck, tearing off mouthfuls of flesh.
Mama Rosa died like her victims.
Wondering what had gone wrong.
EPILOGUE
BANGKOK, THAILAND
AUGUST 4, 1997
The meeting was held in a houseboat on one of the lesser klongs, far from the heavily populated and highly trafficked areas of the Phrapinklao Bridge and the Klong Bangkok Noi. Here the canals were seemingly so infinite in number that they created a bewildering network, which offered both privacy and refuge.
All six of the elders arrived separately, and at different times. Their host was Honorable Rooster, the Thai chemist who converted opium to heroin.
While their bodyguards stood watch on deck, the elders sat inside around a table, their teak chop boxes in front of them. In the center of the table was a woven basket.
Honorable Ox was speaking: 'There is an international fashion designer in Milan who has retail outlets in over one hundred countries. He is deeply in debt, and his shops would be ideal for laundering our money.'
Excited murmurs greeted this news, and after more than an hour of discussion, Honorable Ox cleared his throat.
'It is time to cast our votes,' the old lung tao said. 'The bird signifies yes. The fish signifies no.'
Each of the elders opened his teak box, selected the appropriate chop, pressed it into the ink pot, and stamped his mark on a sliver of rice paper. After the ballots were cast, Honorable Rooster emptied the basket and unfolded the votes.
'Ayeeyah!' he exclaimed. 'See? It is unanimous! All are in favor of this action.'
'It is decided,' said Honorable Ox. 'We shall depart as usual. Honorable Rooster, as our host, you shall be the last to leave. Please see to it that this boat is destroyed.'
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