"Sorry," the Cuban says. "I don't think I can do that. It belonged to my sister."

"I know. I took it from her after she died."

"After you killed her," Santos corrects me.

I look at the man, the human, and understand the loss he feels. But I no longer feel guilt for what occurred. I shrug. I am what I am, I think.

Tindall emerges from the shadows, comes into the torchlight, the AK-47 in his hands.

"Shoot him!" Santos shouts.

Jeremy points the machine gun at me. "I always knew you were some sort of monster, but I never imagined this."

I stare at him, wonder if he has any idea how to use the weapon in his hands, wonder how many rounds are left in the machine gun's magazine. "Put the gun down, Jeremy," I say.

He shakes his head. "Then you'll kill me. You put your gun down."

If I try to shoot him first and fail, I chance leaving my child in jeopardy. It's a risk I find myself unwilling to take. I know Jeremy. If he thinks there's a way out, he'll take it. I nod, lay my pistol on the ground. "Have I ever tried to kill you before, Jeremy? You've certainly given me reason enough to do so. Put the gun down."

Santos screams. "Damn you, shoot him!"

Tindall pauses, seems to reconsider, but then his eyes harden and he stares through the gunsight at me.

Before he can squeeze the trigger, I say, "Think, Jeremy. You've seen me survive wounds that would kill any man. What makes you think that your bullets are any more powerful than the others? Are you sure you want to risk this?"

"What choice do I have?"

"Jeremy, what good would it do me to kill you? Who can replace you at the office? You know I need you," I say. "We've always worked out our differences. Put down the gun. I promise I'll let you leave."

"You asshole," Santos mutters. "What good are his promises?"

"Have you ever seen me break my word?" I ask.

Tindall shakes his head, says, "I didn't want it to come to this, but you left me no choice. The Red Army owns Chen's factory. They were furious he lost so much money. Chen promised them he would take revenge and recover their investment. He threatened to kill me if I didn't help him. I had to. Besides, you killed his son and mine. You shouldn't have, Peter."

"Maybe so," I say. "But it's time now to put the gun down."

"Don't!" Santos growls.

Tindall takes careful aim again. I suck in a breath, wait to see whether his finger tightens or not.

No one speaks. Only the crash of the waves, as they rush and retreat from the shore, breaks the silence of the night. I stare at Tindall, at the rifle's black muzzle. Somewhere in the dark a dog whimpers. A gust of wind rushes across the veranda, sends the torchlight's flames into frenzied spasms, the shadows dancing all around us in sympathy.

Finally, I shake my head, deciding it's time to push this worthless creature, see if he thinks he can withstand my power, see if he actually possesses any courage. "Jeremy, shoot or put the damn thing down," I growl.

Tindall adjusts his position, seating the rifle butt a little more firmly into his shoulder. His eyes harden, his jaw clenches and I prepare to jump to the side as soon as I see the first twinge of muscle movement in his hand, wondering if I can move and change fast enough. But then sweat breaks out on his forehead, streams down his face and the rifle barrel begins to waver ever so slightly.

"Put it down, Jeremy," I say again. "We both know you're no assassin. It's time for you to go home."

Trembling, shaking his head, the thin man slowly lowers the AK-47 to the ground.

Santos groans. I smile at him, then look at Tindall. "Go back to your boat, Jeremy," I say. "We'll settle this later."

"Thank you, Peter," he says, backing away. "You won't be sorry. Thank you."

As he makes his way across the island, I hear the growls and barks of the few remaining dogs. Glad some have survived, I whistle them back, to make sure they allow him safe passage.

Once I hear the outboard motor cough to life, I turn to Santos. "Get up," I say. "I need your help."

He winces and moans, but still manages to struggle to his feet. "That man is a fool, isn't he?"

"Aren't you all?" I ask.

My child yowls loud enough for his wails to reach us outside. I glance at the third-floor windows, wishing I could rush upstairs to hug and reassure him. But there are things I still must do to make him safe.

"Jesus!" Santos says. "What is that?"

"My son," I say. I point to Elizabeth's remains. "And that's my wife. You killed her."

Jorge flexes his shoulders, grimaces at the pain the movement brings. "I don't suppose you're going to let me go, huh?"

I shake my head, then look seaward, follow the white foam trail of the inflatable's wake, calculate how long it will be before Tindall reaches the Grand Banks.

"Come on," I say. "We don't have much time."

"Why should I help you?" Santos says.

Why indeed? I think. I look at the man, standing upright despite his wounds, defiant even though he knows he has little hope. "You want to get away?" I ask.

He nods.

"After this is over, I'll give you the chance."

"Like the one you're giving Tindall? I told him not to trust your promises."

"You'll get a fair shot," I say. "I told Tindall he could leave and I let him. I told him we'd work it out later." I smile. "This is later."

Santos laughs bitterly. "Okay, DelaSangre, let's get this over. I can't wait to see what you think a fair chance is."

I bring the powder and ball and watch him load the cannon. Together we turn the old ship killer, aim it for where Tindall's inflatable will be in a few minutes.

"It's going to be a tough shot." Santos shakes his head.

"I thought you said you were good," I say. I go to the arms room, bring back Father's ancient spyglass.

"It would be easier to hit the trawler."

"No," I say, extending the telescope, studying the dark water, finding the white churn of the outboard's propeller, the silhouette of the motor, the dim form of Tindall's back slightly forward and above it. "A shallow trajectory should do it."

I hand the spyglass to Santos, go for a lit torch while he gets a sense of what I suggest. Finally he says, "I think you're right."

Santos checks the wind, sets the elevation on the cannon, shows me just where he thinks the ball will hit.

"I'll tell you when he comes into range," I say, taking the telescope, handing him the torch, both of us keeping our eyes seaward, following Tindall's movements.

Santos stands by my side, a flaming torch in his hand. He stares at the ocean, waits for my command.

I wait until the inflatable is within a few dozen yards of the trawler. By now I'm sure Tindall thinks he's reached safety. I smile. "Now!" I shout.

The cannon roars, belches flame. The ball, traveling almost parallel to the water, strikes the outboard motor first, turning it into a thousand flying metal fragments, sparking the fuel line and the gas tank at the same time as it strikes Tindall.

Tindall and the inflatable both disappear with one brief flash of fire.

Santos, still staring out to sea, whistles, then mutters, "Wow."

The night settles around us. The sea breeze washes away the sulfur stink of the cannon's smoke. In the house, Henri has quieted. I sigh and stare at the sea. Any time before this night, I know, I would have laughed and grinned with Santos, celebrating the success of our jointly executed cannon shot.

Santos turns to me. "Now what?" he says.

I sigh again. Death lies all around us, blood stains the veranda's floor and still, one more life has to be taken. I can think of no other way. Father was right. No human can ever be trusted. But as easy as it would be, I have no desire to simply execute this man.

"Go get one of the rail guns and load it," I say, walking over to the ancient flintlock pistol I placed on the deck, picking it up.