"It's possible," said Humphrey, "though I've never asked. Myself, I think they trust in isolation here."
Humphrey drew back on the throttle as they neared the inlet. Remo's nostrils flared at the smell of rotting vegetation from the swamp, a stench primeval from the dawn of time.
The mangroves closed around them, branches drooping low, scraping the canopy above the flying bridge. Daylight was fading fast, but it was even darker in among the trees, a sudden twilight.
They had already moved some fifty yards inland when the cabin cruiser's hull struck something with a scrape and a shudder, groaning underfoot. Humphrey immediately throttled down and let the engine idle, turning to Remo with a worried frown.
"We can't go any farther," he insisted. "This is madness."
"Listen, Professor, you've got a bunch of friends who say 'yar' and wear puffy shirts. Nothing I do can ever be considered 'madness' by comparison. We'll take the skiff."
"If it's all the same to you," Humphrey replied, "I'll just wait here."
"It's not the same to me," said Remo. "I still need a guide. You're it. Let's go."
"I've never come this way," the old man said. "We may get lost."
"Then we'll get lost together," Remo told him.
"But-"
"Let's put it this way. I don't mind leaving you behind. Look how many other guys I left behind on this little three-hour tour."
Now Humphrey got the point and grimaced, starting down the ladder from the flying bridge. The skiff was stowed astern, a smallish aluminum rowboat with paddles for two. Remo untied it, dropped it overboard and hopped down from the transom, holding it steady while Humphrey came aboard.
In front of them, some twenty yards ahead, the stream forked at a clump of cypress, smaller brackish channels splitting off in a rough Y shape. For all Remo knew, they might join up again beyond the wall of trees, but he wasn't prepared to risk it.
"So, which way?" he asked of his reluctant guide.
"From where we are, it should be westward." To the right, then, if the old man wasn't lying to him, stalling in an effort to protect his friends.
"Be sure," said Remo.
"As I said, I've never tried to reach the camp from this direction. There's a possibility-"
"Be sure," Remo repeated. "I don't have the time or patience for mistakes. You're still expendable."
The old man thought about it for another moment, biting on his lower lip, then nodded. "Westward," he said again.
THE DRESS THAT STACY WORE wasn't a bad fit, pinned beneath the arms to take it in, floor-length blue satin, just a trifle loose around the hips. She thought about the woman who had worn it first, wondered what had become of her and how Kidd's pirates had obtained the formal gown. On second thought, she didn't want to know.
"You look really nice," Felicia said.
"Felicia, Jesus!" Megan scowled and shook her head.
"Hey, I was only saying-"
"Never mind, for Christ's sake!" Megan turned to Stacy once again, the frown still on her face. "You do look nice, though. I mean, for the circumstances."
"Thank you."
There was no mirror in the hut that served as their prison cell. Indeed, she would have been surprised if there was one in camp. Some of the pirates combed their hair, after a fashion, and most of them shaved-at least irregularly-but it was apparent from their general appearance and their hygiene that none of them spent much time before a looking glass.
"I like the flowers," said Felicia. Then, as Megan turned to glare at her again, she stuck her tongue out. "Well, I do, so there."
"I like the flowers, too," Megan admitted grudgingly. "God, this is so damn weird!"
The flowers were an added touch. Meg and Felicia had retrieved them from the forest near the camp, while Robin stayed with Stacy in the hut. She wasn't company, in any recognized sense of the word, but Stacy could talk freely to her, venting her fear and anger in full confidence that Robin would not interrupt her. Indeed, there was nothing to suggest the girl had understood a single word.
Megan had plucked the flowers carefully, long stems intact, and then had woven them into a kind of wreath that nestled in her hair. Stacy had no idea where Megan found the bobby pins, but she had come up with a pair of them to fix the wreath in place. Stacy imagined how she had to have looked-some kind of hippie princess, dressed up for a lovein-and her stomach churned.
The blushing bride, she thought, and felt like throwing up.
"What's going on out there?" she asked of no one in particular.
Felicia peered through a hole in the curtain that served as their door, shifting positions several times as she tried to get a full view of the compound.
"Eating," she replied at last. "The goons are lined up for some kind of stew. They've got your friend dishing it out."
So much for Chiun taking out the pirates on his own, Stacy thought. But what had she expected, really? He was one old man against a veritable army. Even if he used to know some kung fu moves, he was still outnumbered sixty-five or seventy to one, by younger men with guns and knives.
"Is this the shits, or what?" Felicia asked. "They're having the reception first, and they don't even feed the bride? What kind of weird, ass-backward deal is this?"
"You're sweating etiquette?" The tone of Megan's voice conveyed a mixture of dismay and gallows humor. "Jesus, Fe, you didn't pay that analyst of yours enough."
"That's cold," Felicia said, eyes smoldering as she returned Meg's glare.
Megan ignored her and addressed herself to Stacy. "So, have you decided what to do?"
"Looks like I'm getting married," Stacy said.
"I mean, after," said Megan. "When you ...you know ... ?"
Stacy wondered how much she could tell the younger woman without further jeopardizing herself. It took all of a second and a half to decide that her troubles could get no worse, barring an immediate sentence of death. Megan was still Kidd's prisoner, his enemy. If she betrayed Stacy, it might get her killed, but death was coming either way. It was only a matter of time.
"I'm going to kill him," Stacy said.
"Kill who?" Megan's voice dropped to a whisper as she spoke, and she glanced nervously over her shoulder, first toward Felicia, then toward the vegetative Robin.
"Kidd," Stacy replied. "Who else?"
"But...I mean, shit!" Megan was at a loss for words. "You'll never get away with it, you know?"
"I'll never get away, period," Stacy replied. "We're prisoners, in case you hadn't noticed. We're not going anywhere. They'll never let us go. Is any of this getting through?"
Anger flashed in Meg's eyes as she replied, "I hear you, dammit! And I've been here longer, in case you've forgotten. Anything that's waiting for you has already happened to me, to us."
"I'm sorry, Meg. I didn't mean-"
"How would you do it?" Megan interrupted her. "Kill him, I mean?"
"I'll have to wait and see," Stacy replied. "Of course, I'll need some kind of weapon. That could take a while, but I'll find something. All the guns and knives around this place, he'll have to let his guard down sooner or later."
It hardly qualified as a plan, but it was the best Stacy had been able to come up with, in the circumstances. One opportunity was all that she would need. No matter how long she was forced to wait, she meant to grab that chance and make it count.
"Are they still eating, Fe?"
Felicia peered outside again before she answered. "Yeah, still chowing down. The line out there, I'd say another twenty minutes, anyway, before they all get served. Then, figure some of them want seconds, and-"
"Enough, already!" Megan chided. "Next thing, you'll be telling us what kind of silverware they're using."
"Some of them are using fingers," Felicia said, "if you really want to know."
"We don't," Megan assured her. Turning back to Stacy, she went on, "I wish to hell there was some way we could get out of here."
But there was no point wishing. Just now, Stacy required all
of her wits and nerve to face the grisly prospect of her wedding night.
Meanwhile, she hoped the feast would last for hours, and that the liquor would flow like water. It was one time when a stinking-drunk bridegroom was preferable to a sober one.
With any luck at all, Kidd might drink so much that he passed right out the moment they had gone to bed. If not...
Her stomach churned again, and Megan seemed to pick up on it from Stacy's expression.
"What?" she asked.
Stacy managed a smile as she replied, "Oh, nothing. I'm just hoping that they let me cut the cake."
CARLOS RAMIREZ COCKED his semiautomatic pistol, thumbed on the safety and slipped the weapon back into the shoulder holster worn beneath his stylish jacket. It was hot, despite the hour, and although Ramirez had already sweated through his shirt, he balked at taking off the jacket. He had a certain image to protect, and killing off his enemies was only part of it.
Whenever possible, he also had to be the best-dressed killer on the block.
Ramirez knew the way to Kidd's encampment, how to find it from the sea, but he wasn't prepared to land directly in his enemy's front yard. He still had no idea why Kidd would turn against him, but there was no arguing with facts. Four of his best men were dead, and Carlos knew of no one else in the vicinity who could have pulled it off without sustaining losses in the process. Even for a group of wily pirates, it would be a challenge, but the ease with which the killers had escaped him told Ramirez that they knew the local waters well indeed.
Ramirez and his men had been outnumbered when they sailed from Cartagena, and the odds weren't improved by losing four good men. Ramirez still had faith that he could win the day, but he was counting on surprise to make it possible.
They landed near the west end of the island, roughly half a mile from Kidd's compound. No lookouts were in evidence, but Carlos took no chances, posting sentries of his own while he addressed the others.
He had formed a simple plan after the ambush out at sea. His men would land well back from the encampment and march overland to take the pirates by surprise. There would be no need for discussion, nothing in the nature of a warning to the men he meant to kill.
Carlos Ramirez was no woodsman, but he reckoned he could hike for half a mile through even the most savage jungle, with the ocean on his left to help him find his way. It would take more time in the dark, of course, and night was falling fast. A handful of his soldiers carried flashlights, but they had been ordered to refrain from using them except in the most dire emergency, since strange lights in the forest would betray them to their enemies. They could afford to take their time, spend half the night walking if necessary. In truth, Ramirez thought it would be better if he found his enemies asleep, but he didn't intend to waste the whole night waiting unless it was absolutely necessary. Better to surprise the pirates at a meal, for instance, while his men were reasonably fresh, than to risk them getting jumpy, trigger-happy, maybe even dozing at their posts.
Ramirez gave no thought to snakes or other perils of the forest. He was wholly focused on revenge, the mental image of his lifeless enemies eclipsing any thought that might have made him hesitate. He stumbled over roots and vines, scuffing his handmade alligator shoes, snagging his tailored slacks, but they meant nothing. When they reached their destination, Carlos would have more use for the Uzi submachine gun slung across his shoulder than he would for slick designer clothes. If anything, Ramirez wished that he had brought a Kevlar vest along, but there were none among the Macarena's stores.
It didn't matter.
When the shooting started, Carlos hoped to see his enemies cut down like grass before a scythe. There would be-should be-nothing they could do to help themselves. If all went well, they would-
Ramirez heard the sounds of revelry before he saw the torchlight flickering among the trees, still well ahead. He raised a hand and hissed an order to the nearest of his soldiers, waiting for those close at hand to pass it on.
Some kind of gala party was in progress ...or, he thought, perhaps the pirates celebrated this way every night. Their lifestyle was admittedly bizarre, more outlandish than his own, although Ramirez knew the buccaneers had no wealth to compare with his. They wouldn't sleep in filthy hovels, living hand-to-mouth and wearing rags if they had cash to spare. As for the money looted from their victims, or the sums Ramirez paid them for the boats they stole, he didn't know or care what happened to it. This wasn't a raid for revenue.
"Take special care," he warned his men when they were grouped around him like a soccer team, awaiting their instructions for another play. "Ramon and Lucio, you both have silencers, so you will lead the way and deal with any guards we meet."
The soldiers didn't argue. They were paid to follow orders, kill upon command, and they had always known there would be risks involved. On sunbaked city streets or in the steaming jungle, they were still professionals, and they would do as they were told.
"The rest of you, be ready for my signal, but control yourselves. In no case must you fire, unless I give the word or we are fired upon. You understand?"
He scanned their faces, watched them nodding acquiescence. No one spoke; no answer was required. Each of them knew Ramirez, knew exactly what would happen to the man who disobeyed.
When he was satisfied, Ramirez sent his scouts ahead and followed several yards behind them, with the others trailing after.
Chapter 18
The stew kicked in as Stacy was preparing for her long walk down the aisle. Of course, there was no aisle per se, since there was no church in the pirate camp-no chairs, in fact, since those in camp seemed to prefer sitting on the ground, or on rough stumps where trees had been cut down to clear the compound. If anything, her march to the altar would be more like running a gauntlet, with pirates lined up in two ranks, waiting for the bride to pass.
They weren't looking at her, though-a fact that struck the redhead as peculiar. She had grown used to the eyes that followed her each time she left the hut that was her prison cell, lewd comments muttered as she passed, but now the pirates had apparently experienced a change of heart en masse.
Could it be Kidd's influence? Stacy knew that he had killed one of the pirates for objecting to his wedding plan, but this felt different somehow. Several of the grubby men were actually making faces at her, grimacing, rolling their eyes, baring discolored teeth. One clutched his stomach, fingers digging in like claws. As Stacy neared him, he hunched forward, closed his eyes and spewed a stream of vomit in her path.
Stacy recoiled, disgusted, but the spectacle was only getting started. As the bearded pirate retched again, one of the men beside him doubled over, grabbing at his midsection, and followed his example, splattering his own feet with the remnants of his latest meal.
In no time flat, a wave of gastric panic swept the audience. Some of the pirates were vomiting, while others clutched themselves and took off hobbling toward the tree line, cursing as they soiled themselves. Stacy stood rooted to the spot and watched them scatter, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the sights and smell surrounding her. Her own stomach was rolling, but she hadn't eaten when the others had-nothing, in fact, except some rice at breakfast.
Some fifty feet away, Kidd stood beside a bonfire that had been constructed to provide the central lighting for the wedding ceremony. He wasn't looking at Stacy now, however, but rather was sweeping the camp with fierce eyes, watching his men as they seemed to go mad. She watched a hand slip underneath the too small velvet jacket he had donned for the occasion, probably in search of hardware, but this was no attack that he could meet with force of arms.
In truth, he seemed to have no more idea of what was going on than Stacy did. Whatever plagued his men, it seemed to have no hold upon the captain. Kidd stood firm and straight, watching all but a handful of the others as they fell apart.
She glanced at Chiun, still in position near the cooking pot, as if at work on something for dessert, and an idea began to form in Stacy's mind. Chiun cau
ght her watching him, flashed her the bare suggestion of a smile and cocked his head in the direction of the forest.
What? She almost mouthed the word, but caught herself, afraid that Kidd would see her and react with paranoid aggression. In the circumstances, he might open fire on Chiun, and then what would the old man do?
The gunfire shocked her. It wasn't Kidd who started firing, though-nor, Stacy saw, had any of the pirates opened fire. As Stacy turned in the direction of the noise, crouching instinctively, she spotted muzzle-flashes in among the trees. One of the stumbling pirates took a hit and went down, wailing. Almost instantly, she saw another fall, and yet another.
Chiun was instantly forgotten in the chaos that erupted, and she gave no further thought to breaking for the trees. The prison hut would be her only sanctuary now, and Stacy bolted for it, heard the long gown rip along the seams with her first stride.
Behind her, screams and gunfire made the night a living hell.
THE TWO-MAN SKIFF HAD seen them through the mangrove swamp, hungry mosquitoes trailing them along the half-mile course, but they were forced to ditch it when the stagnant water changed to spongy earth and forest. Humphrey's enthusiasm for the journey had been slight enough to start with, but he balked now at the thought of trekking through the jungle after nightfall.
"We'll get lost," he said. "I can't-"
"So stay," Remo replied.
"Very well," Humphrey said reluctantly. "This way."
Humphrey might be a sailor, but his woodcraft left a great deal to be desired. He lurched and staggered every third or fourth step, reached out to brace himself against the nearest tree and muttered nonstop oaths that would have startled his old colleagues at the university.
As night descended on the forest, it began to come alive. Insects picked up their trilling songs, competing shrilly from the undergrowth, while night birds shrieked their raucous mating calls.
Ethan Humphrey stumbled yet again. He didn't catch himself this time and went down on his face, grunting in shock and anger as the breath was driven from his lungs.
At that moment Remo heard a whisper of sound far ahead and got a fix on its source. Shouting. Cheering. It sounded like some kind of wild-ass party going on, and Remo guessed that he had found the pirate hangout he was looking for.
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