He shot and heard a scream. He swerved. He saw a muzzle flash to his left, but he kept lunging toward the scream he'd heard. He leapt a stump, zigzagged past a tree. His fear had heightened every sense. He saw as if the night were day. His ears, despite the torture they'd endured, were perfectly attuned. A groan ahead of him. Some scrabbling in the brush. A stooping figure, clutching at a wounded arm. A disbelieving face. A young man, smooth-cheeked, begging.

Houston shot him in the skull.

The sound was awful, bursting flesh and bone, a hard sound, strangely liquid, the enormous gunblast swallowed by the impact.

Houston swung to one side, sickened, fell and hit and rolled. The second gunman fired. Houston heard the bullet wallop solidly against a tree. Bark flew, rattling on the dead leaves of the forest.

He kept rolling. Tumbled down a gully. Stopped.

He lay in water. His bare skin tightened from the wetness, from the cold.

"Peter!" Simone shouted. Her shouts would be distracting to the gunman. Don't stop shouting, he pled silently.

He squirmed along the stream, his noises blending with the sound of water bubbling over rocks and fallen branches.

Keep on shouting.

Fifteen yards. Then twenty. Chest cold, he wriggled up the bank and squinted through the darkness, through the maze of trees and bushes.

Mud clung to his chest. He clutched the gun. How many shots were left? He counted back and guessed at three.

He heard Simone shout, "Peter!" He saw movement near a tree. Not far ahead. A man who in distraction turned to watch Simone.

Houston aimed.

He held his breath, bracing his elbows on the ground. He gripped his right wrist, steadying the gun.

The barrel wavered.

No! He concentrated, squinting. No! He lost strength. His hand was drooping.

Sweat burned his eyes. His bare chest trembled against the ground.

The figure left the outline of the tree.

Houston pulled the trigger, jerking from the recoil. Deafened, he struggled to his feet. His shoes slipped on the leaves. He fell. He crawled. He scrambled.

The figure moved. Again Houston pulled the trigger. Metal clicked on metal.

Nothing happened.

Oh, my G.o.d, I'm out of bullets!

But the man had been wounded. Houston reached him, rammed his head against the gunman's chest, and fell with him.

Houston punched him as hard as he could, lashed down with the empty handgun, beating him repeatedly. He cracked the handle of the gun down. Cracked it down again. He couldn't stop himself. He could not, did not want to restrain his rage.

But his body wearied sooner than his soul. His arm grew weak and heavy. The revolver fell from slackened fingers. He slumped across the body. And when he saw the gunman's face, when he discovered what he'd done to it, a moan escaped him, a deep nauseated wail. He threw up, clutching at his blood- and mud-specked face.

"Oh, Jesus," he whispered. "Forgive me."

Chapter 35.

"You're alive!" Simone rushed from the tunnel.

Houston staggered toward her in the darkness.

Sobbing, she embraced him. "I was so afraid you'd "

Trembling, Houston kissed her.

"Are you hurt?" she said.

"My shoulder."

Blood dripped on the ground. "We have to get away from here," he said. "Those other men. They must have heard the shots."

He squinted above the tunnel toward the fire on the hill.

"They'll be here soon," he said. He pointed toward the forest. "Hurry."

In a panic, they began to run. His body ached. He crashed through bushes.

Blackness loomed ahead of him.

The forest thickened.

"We have to find the road," she said.

Which way? he thought. He'd lost his sense of where they were. He couldn't calculate the road's direction. Somewhere on the far side of the hill, he guessed. They couldn't double back. The men would hear them. And for all he knew, the road was actually ahead of them.

He ran and heard the roar of water. A river, Houston saw as he came crashing from the bushes. He nearly lost his balance, falling. Simone held on to him. He squinted, breathing hoa.r.s.ely, toward the moonlight glinting off the current.

"Oh, my G.o.d, we're trapped."

The river seethed, its white-capped blackness churning. Houston's stomach burned with fear. He clutched his chest.

"We'll have to run along the edge," she said. "But they'll split up. They'll go each way and cut us off."

He fought for his words. "We'll swim it," Houston forced himself to say.

She stared at him.

"Our only chance."

"The current's too strong. We'll drown," she said.

"They'll kill us if they find us. There's no other way."

She shook her head emphatically.

"We have to take the risk," he said.

"Your shoulder."

"Can't be helped. I'm losing too much blood."

Again she shook her head.

He fumbled to remove his belt. "Here, loop it tightly to your hand. I'll hold the other end. We have to stay together." Afraid, he scanned the river. "No more talking."

Belt taut, they scrambled down the bank. The current grabbed them, and they twisted in its violence. He gripped the belt, feeling its tension as Simone began to tumble sideways. He pulled at the belt to steady her. His face went under water. Coughing, he fought to the surface.

He'd never felt such numbing cold, such freezing pressure. Now he heard the river moan and howl, and then he realized that it was he himself who moaned as all around him chaos surged.

An object struck him, banging against his ribs. It nearly sucked him under.

Houston saw it sweeping past him, saw the gnarled k.n.o.bs of the tree limb, but too late he understood he could have used it to support him as a float. He stretched and strained for it, but it was gone, a murky heaving object in the darkness. Simone kicked next to him.

I'm going to die, he thought. And suddenly he was in his car again, fighting to get out the window, clawing toward the surface while his lungs expanded and his mind began to dim.

He no longer had the strength to fight. His injured shoulder failed him; he was carried by the current. Jan was dead. Soon he'd be dead as well. His hopes diminished, flickered, died. He gave up and awakened as Simone pulled on the belt.

"Keep swimming," she told him.

"Can't. Too weak. Go on without me."

"No! We're almost there!"

He didn't think he'd heard correctly. "What?"

"The sh.o.r.e! We've almost reached it!"

Houston gaped stupidly. Black shapes. Hulking shadows. Silhouettes of trees and hills and "Jesus," he said. His new strength astounded him. His frantic need to live filled every portion of his body. He thrashed, kicking closer to the sh.o.r.e, and when he touched the mud beneath him, he began to shriek in triumph.

"We're here! We made it!"

He sloshed through the muddy water and flopped on the bank, staring toward the stars. He saw the moon. He worshipped it.

"We're safe," he told Simone, excitement warming his numb face. "They'll never find us. Even if they try to swim across, they won't know where we landed, how far down we drifted, not before we get away."

He tried to stand but didn't have the strength.

She told him, "Rest."

"We're cold and wet. If we don't find some shelter and dry clothes, we'll freeze to death."

He heard a far-off engine then, the motor of a truck. Behind him. Through the trees. He staggered to his feet, his breath hoa.r.s.e. "Hurry," he said.

"There must be farms around here. We can reach a phone. We'll call Bellay."

He stiffened. "No. We can't."

"But he'll protect us."

"Will he? Someone knew! Bellay made the arrangements! He's the one who sent us here! Those men attacked the lodge as soon as we arrived!"

"He set a trap for us? Bellay did?"

"It's for d.a.m.n sure someone did! Who knew where we were hiding?"

"But Bellay I don't see why he'd "

"If he works for them, if he's involved with them!"

She moaned. Her eyes were absolutely barren. "Tell me that's not true."

"What other answer is there? We were sent here to be killed!" Her lips began to tremble. "Then there's no one who can help us. We don't have a chance."

He faced her, wet clothes clinging to him. He could feel her anguish, how totally she'd been demoralized. "No," he said.

"There's still one man we can trust."

PART 4.

Chapter 36.

"Something's wrong. He shouldn't be this late," Houston said.

The cafe got more crowded. Simone and he waited anxiously inside a corner booth with easy access to an exit in the rear. Uneasily they sipped their wine. They heard the drone of murmured conversations as the room filled up for lunch. At last, there wasn't any choice. Houston told Simone they had to leave.

"No, wait a little longer."

"But we can't afford the risk," he said. "Suppose his phone was tapped. Suppose he spoke to ... All these people. What if one of them is here to kill us?"

"Now you sound like me last night."