“Just as I planned,” Sam said with a weary smile.

“Planned?”

“Hoped.

How’s the bell?”

“Aside from a few cracks in the wood, the crate’s surprisingly intact. I collected our packs and the guns. Let’s find some cover in case we have visitors.”

WARY OF LEAVING TELLTALE DRAG MARKS, THEY CHOSE TO LEAVE the crate where it sat. Unintentionally, they’d dropped it in an ideal location-a dry rivulet near the riverbank. They covered it with scrub brush and then, using bundled foliage to obscure their tracks, they back-walked off the sandbar to solid ground and into a copse. A hundred feet inside the tree line they found a ten-by-ten-foot depression surrounded by fallen logs. It gave them a vantage point of not only the crate but the open ground down to the beach.

After probing the area with the muzzles of the rifles to drive off any snakes or sundry creepy crawlies, they settled into their bolt-hole. While Sam kept an eye out for visitors, Remi took inventory of their packs. “Remind me to send a thank-you letter to Ziploc,” she said. “Most everything is dry. The satellite phone looks okay.”“How much battery life?”

“Enough for one call, maybe two.”

Sam checked his watch. It was just after two in the morning. “It might be time to take Ed Mitchell up on his offer.” Remi fished Mitchell’s card out of her pack and handed it over. Sam dialed.A gravelly voiced Mitchell picked up on the fourth ring: “Yeah.”

“Ed, it’s Sam Fargo.”

“Huh?”

“Sam Fargo-your Mafia Island charter a couple days ago.”

“Oh, yeah . . . Hey . . .what the hell time is it?”

“About two. I don’t have much time. We need an evac.”

“That’s a word I ain’t heard in a while. You in trouble?”

“You could say that.”

“Where you at?”

“On the mainland, about four and half miles due east of Big Sukuti,” Sam replied, then gave him a description of the area.

“You guys get around,” Mitchell said. “Hang on a minute.”

Sam heard the sounds of paper crinkling, then silence. Mitchell came back on the line: “You know you’re sitting smack-dab in the middle of crocodile hell, don’t you?”

“We do now.”

“Can’t get a fixed wing in there. I’ll have to use a helo. That’ll take a little doing.”

“We’ll make it worth your while.” “I know you will, but that’s not my worry. I probably won’t get there until just after sunrise. Can you hang on?”“We’ll have to,” Sam said.

“Are folks going to be shooting at me when I get there?”

“No guarantees.”

There was ten seconds of silence, then Mitchell chuckled. “Ah, what the hell. Life’s a daring adventure or nothing at all.”

Sam laughed at this. “It is indeed.”

“Okay, keep your heads down. I’ll be there at first light. Just in case I’ve got some competition at the LZ, I’ll drop blue smoke so you don’t shoot at me.”

Sam disconnected. Beside him, Remi said, “Here, drink.”

Sam turned, took a deep gulp from the canteen, then accepted a piece of beef jerky. He recounted his conversation with Mitchell. Remi said, “That man’s on our permanent Christmas list. So he’ll be here in another four or five hours.”“With luck.”

They sat in silence, chewing for several minutes. Sam checked his watch. “It’s been forty minutes since we left the island.”

“You don’t think they-”

Sam held up his hand. Remi went quiet. After a few moments, she said, “I hear them. Two of them, somewhere offshore.”

Sam nodded. “Hard to tell, but it sounds like the Rinkers. We’d better assume so.”

“How far inland are we?”

“A quarter mile, maybe a little more.”

They listened for a few more minutes. The sound of the engines rose in volume, then suddenly went silent. “They’re ashore,” Sam said.

They checked their weapons: two AK-74s, one with a full magazine, the other missing the dozen or so rounds Remi had fired at the Cushman; the .357 Magnum; and the H amp;K P30. Whether these would be enough should a firefight erupt was an unknown. They’d been lucky so far with Rivera and his men, but neither Sam nor Remi were under any illusion: In a head-to-head contest, they had little chance of besting Special Forces soldiers.“Let’s get comfortable,” Sam said.

“And invisible,” Remi added.

After shoving their packs under a rotting log and covering them with loam, they did the same for themselves, lying lengthwise, head-to-head, so that each of them could see the approaches from the beach. Sam handed Remi a handful of mud to cover her face, then smeared some on his own.“Promise me something, Sam,” Remi said, slathering herself.

“A suite at the Moevenpick?” he guessed.

“I was going to say a hot shower and a big breakfast, but since you offered I’ve been composing a list . . .”

PEERING THROUGH A GAP between the logs, Remi spotted a speck of light a few hundred yards to the east. She tapped Sam on the shoulder, mouthed, Flashlight , and pointed. The flashlight beam seemed to float through midair, disappearing and reappearing through the trees as the owner picked his way inland.“I’ll say this much for Rivera,” Sam whispered, “he’s like a dog with a bone.”

“He’s probably said the same thing about us but in less congenial language. Are we waiting until we see the whites of their eyes?”

“No, we’re crossing fingers they don’t even wander this way.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“In Africa, darkness and forest equals predators.”

“I could have done without that tidbit.”

“Sorry.” As if on cue, somewhere in the distance they heard the deep-throated huff-huff-huff of a big cat. It was a sound they’d both heard before, but either on organized safaris or from the safety of a lodge. Here, in the open and alone, the sound was chilling.Sam whispered, “It’s a long way off.”

Soon a second flashlight joined the first; then a third and a fourth. The men were moving in a line abreast like flushers leading a hunting party. Soon the party was close enough that Sam and Remi could see the figures behind the flashlights. Not surprisingly, each man appeared to be carrying an assault rifle.

Another five minutes brought the group to the sandbar, where they converged. One of the men-Rivera, perhaps-appeared to do most of the talking, gesturing first up and down the shoreline, then inland. They shined their flashlights along the bank and over the water. Twice the beams appeared to skim over the helicopter blade jutting from the water, but it generated no response. Suddenly one of the men pointed across the river. Almost in unison, each of the men unslung his rifle.“They spotted our fanged friends,” Remi whispered.

Weapons up and ready, the group backed off the sandbar until they were on the scrub ground. They conferred for another minute, then separated, one pair walking downriver, the other upriver. This was the pair Sam and Remi watched closely; as the river abutted the copse’s northern edge, the pair’s path would take them within fifty feet of the hiding spot.Sam whispered, “I took a look as we flew in: The nearest crossing is a mile downstream. Now we’ll see how determined they are.”

Clearly wary of what other dangers the river might hold, the two men kept a safe distance from shore, walking from left to right across Sam and Remi’s field of vision until the river curved east and merged with the copse. Here they turned southeast, shining their flashlights along the tree line as they walked. Now only twenty yards away, their figures were more distinct. One of them was more distinct than the other: Tall and gaunt, he moved with the economical, purposeful gait of a soldier. It was Itzli Rivera.

Suddenly Sam felt clawed feet crawling over his ankle. Before he could resist the impulse, he kicked his foot. The unseen creature squealed and skittered off through the underbrush.