Warren Murphy: Troubled Waters

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 caught 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.

He only hoped that he wasn't too late to join the fun.

"I'm going on. You want to take a hike, feel free," he told his guide.

"Where should I go?" asked Humphrey, sounding timid now.