Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

Jason had used his employer's credit card, which matched his false passport, to rent the sailboat. Someone in Alazar's organization knew his face and recognized the fuzzy copy the rental company had made of his passport. The thought was less than comforting, but not as immediate as his present intruders.

In a single motion Jason removed something resembling a television remote and a pair of strangely configured binoculars from a dresser drawer and stooped to retrieve from under the bed a large wooden box clasped shut by a combination lock. Quickly touching a series of numbers, Jason opened the lid to reveal three fully assembled weapons with a loaded clip for each.

"Close," he said aloud, as though addressing Pangloss. "They're gonna get real close."

Letting the potential proximity of the intruders dictate his choice, he passed over a Chinese version of an AK-47 assault rifle and a stubby Heckler amp; Koch MP5A2 machine gun, a weapon designed to fill very small spaces with a maximum number of nine-millimeter Parabellum bullets, to select the bulkiest of the three, the military model Remington twelve-gauge fully automatic shotgun. The weapon had been designed for urban riot control, hence the name "Street Sweeper." At twenty-five yards or less it could fill an area fifty by fifty with painful but relatively harmless rubber projectiles or, using the loads in Jason's clip, deadly lead shot.

Outside, the moonless sky was black silk paved with diamond chips. Ducking below the railing of the deck to prevent presenting his silhouette against the stars, Jason scooted back to the other building, followed closely by Pangloss. Once inside, Jason went to the kitchen and out what served as the back door and down steps to a room originally designed as a garage. From there, man and dog went outside and circled the house to face the front.

Straining his ears, Jason could detect only the soft lapping of the tide at the beach and the wind's sigh through the few scrubby trees. He put one reassuring arm around Pangloss, using the other to hold the pair of night-vision binoculars to his eyes as he swept the beach. At the moment he could see only interlocking fields of dull green, the color the glasses used to concentrate all available light. Jason wished he had taken the time to buy the newer technology, vision aids that picked up heat to display images. Deep shadows might momentarily conceal something from the equipment he was using, but there was no hiding body heat from infrared.

He forgot his discontent as a green blob emerged from the darkness and took form. A man carrying… carrying… a long-nosed handgun. No, a handgun equipped with a silencer. Why go to the trouble of using a silencer when the nearest neighbor was miles away? Jason wondered. His curiosity was replaced by awe as four more figures followed the first silently up the stairs to the house's deck.

Five men for a single kill? In other circumstances, Jason would have been flattered his enemies took him that seriously. At the moment he had other things to think about.

Before moving, he swept the area a final time, to be rewarded with the green image of a sixth man standing guard a few yards between the beach and the house.

"Taking no chances, Pangloss," he muttered to the dog. "Damn! Too many!"

In any action movie worth a box of popcorn, Bruce Willis or Arnold would have successfully taken on all six assailants, defeating each in a spectacular display of strength, marksmanship, and agility, Jason thought ruefully. Unfortunately, neither of those two heroes was available tonight. Six men, each armed, presented impossible odds in the real world.

He could simply flee, disappear into the night. But where? Anyone who had tracked him this far was not going to be discouraged by not finding him at home, and the islands presented few hiding places. No, he was going to have to terminate this venture here and now, giving himself plenty of time to find another place to live. Subliminally, he had known this moment would come no matter how much he hated the idea of leaving these islands. He had hoped he would not need the preparations for defense even as he had made them.

Jason sighed. His fight had been from the first very, very personal. He had taken satisfaction from the expressions on the faces of men who knew they would be dead within the next second. Satisfaction and a small degree of revenge, a minute reprisal for his loss. Tonight there would be only impersonal killing, from which he would derive little vindication.

Well, with one exception.

Commandolike, Jason crept forward on his knees and elbows, the plastic device between his teeth and the shotgun held in both hands. When he was close enough to see the sentry against the sky, he stood.

"Welcome to North Caicos," Jason said softly.

He waited just the split second it took for the man to spin around and begin to raise his weapon, that nanosecond of hope he might survive.

The shotgun's muzzle flash burned into Jason's retinas the image of the impact of six ounces of lead shot in the midriff, a blow that sent the man stumbling backward, hands flung outward if in one final, desperate supplication to his maker.

Before he could see clearly, Jason pushed one of the buttons on the remote. Instantly every light fixture or lamp in the building came on. Jason was standing just outside the rim of light that turned the surrounding sand a glossy silver.

Startled by the blast of the shotgun and the sudden brilliant illumination, two of the intruders ran out onto the deck, their weapons pointed in different directions. Even at this distance, Jason thought he could see shock and surprise on their faces. One had his mouth open, a black O in the bright lights.

"Come 'n' get it!" Jason shouted. "I've got a hell of a welcome waiting for you!"

Two more men joined the first pair in searching the darkness. Jason waited until one pointed at him before he dove headfirst into the sand at the instant he pressed another button.

Even with his face buried under his arms and eyes closed, the brilliance of the explosion lit the back of Jason's eyelids. He felt rather than heard the blast. By the time he raised his head, small pieces of debris and ash were floating down like a sprinkling of snow. Where the house had stood, timbers burned, sending sparks aloft in a Fourth of July fireworks show. There was no chance any living thing, including a recent infestation of mice, had survived.

Beside him, Pangloss whimpered.

He stood, running a hand up and down the dog's back. "Pangloss, looks to me like we're moving."

The next afternoon

Reagan National Airport

Washington, D.C.

Dirty rags of clouds squeezed oily moisture into rivulets that streaked the window of the 717. Jason gave his seat belt another hitch as the plane bucked in turbulence before thumping onto the runway. Winter-dried grass, shiny black pavement, and drab buildings emerged from the cloying fingers of fog.

Had he really begun the day with the glory of a Caribbean sunrise in his face, albeit diminished by the stench of the charred wood of his former home? Was it the same day he had dutifully reported to the island's sole constable, Stubbs, about checking a leak in the lines from his butane tank, the undoubted cause of the explosion? Had it been only this morning when he had counted out money under the gaze of the head teller at Barclays Bank, stuffed his sizable withdrawal into a money belt, and headed for the airport?

Pangloss, living up to his namesake, had eagerly sniffed the oversize dog carrier and even wagged his tail as he was locked into it. Now that they knew where he was, Jason couldn't risk leaving the dog until the unknowable time when his return could be made safely. The mutt would have to come along.