He chose an American-made M-16, enjoying the not so subtle irony, and walked out to the balcony. Looking down, he could see the prisoners squinting in the bright sunlight, most of them mesmerized by Alonzo’s body in front of them, then slowly noticing his presence above.

“Who is in charge?” Farruco yelled.

For several seconds nothing, then one of the men stepped forward. “I am.”

“Your name?”

The man said nothing. Farruco shrugged. “It does not matter. Pick one of your men.”

“For what?”

“To die.”

The man blinked. “What?”

“I am going to kill one of you. You have thirty seconds to pick who it is.”

13

Valika watched the few lights on Saba disappear from sight as the plane gained altitude. She was armed with only a laptop computer, a fact that made her quite uncomfortable, especially since she had met the man she was heading toward once before and it had not turned out well. Of course, in that meeting she had been representing herself, not Cesar and the Ring.

Cesar, at least, was confident that his backing would garner her a peaceful reception. Valika wasn’t as confident. She gripped the armrest as the plane banked hard, heading for Martinique, a neutral place. The flight would be short, the only good thing about this mission as far as she was concerned.

A thousand miles to the west, Aura II was circling a spot in the ocean two miles off the coast of Grand Cayman, all lights blacked out. An Aura transmitter was bolted to the deck of the ship, cables looping from it to a computer in the ship’s bridge. None of the crew were near the computer. It was linked by SATCOM directly back to Saba. Instead of bunks, the main cabin was full of lithium batteries to supply power to Aura.

At the appointed time, the captain of Aura II turned his bow toward the main harbor of Boddentown. He slid into the small bay and edged as close as possible to the town without running the yacht aground.

The SATPhone was answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

“I need some help,” Dalton said.

“Are you still at Bright Gate?” Mentor asked.

“Yes.”

“Something is happening,” Mentor said. “We’ve lost two others besides General Eichen.”

“ ‘Lost’?” Dalton repeated.

“Killed.”

“By the Priory?”

“Most likely.”

“Then I really need your help.” Dalton quickly told Mentor about his plan to establish an alternate Bright Gate. “I’ve got transportation lined up,” Dalton said. “I can get the stuff out of here, but I don’t have a place to take it to.”

“What are your requirements for a location?” Mentor asked.

“Someplace secure. Hidden. And access to power.”

There was no static in the SATPhone, just a dead silence for several seconds, which made him wonder if Mentor was still on the other end.

“I think I might have a place that fills those requirements,” Mentor finally replied.

Deep inside the extinct volcano in the center of Saba, Cesar rolled an unlit cigar between his hands. Souris was hooked to Aura I, the main transmitter located in the control center. Cesar knew there was no need for her to be in the virtual world, as there was nothing on the island that needed watching, but she spent all her spare time like that. Cesar’s fortune was built on addiction, so he knew the signs. Whatever she was in the virtual world, wherever she went on the other side, Cesar had no clue. But there was no doubt Souris definitely preferred the virtual world to the real to the point where she had little control over the decision about which to be in.

Using Raisor to do what had originally been slotted for Souris to accomplish was a bonus. He had not been very comfortable sending Souris on Aura II to help get the shipment ashore in Florida. If Raisor truly wished to be an ally, he would do as ordered, but if he was a spy, that would come out very shortly and then Cesar would have Souris do it as originally planned. He was having his doubts about the American scientist, though, and having someone waiting in the wings to replace her if she began to break down from her addiction was something he had long considered, but had only been able to be serious about with the appearance of Raisor.

He glanced at the digital clock. Each second that clicked by meant another stage in the plan was closer to fulfillment.

At Fort Carson, two Special Operations MH-60K Blackhawk helicopters, assigned to the elite Task Force 160, the Nightstalkers, and on temporary duty with 10th Special Forces Group, lifted off. The pilot in charge was Chief Warrant Officer Roby, a twenty-two-year veteran, with sixteen of those in the Nightstalkers. He was a veteran of numerous operations, including behind-the-lines flights during Desert Storm. It was on one of those flights that his craft had been shot down.

With his copilot injured, Roby elected to stay with the chopper even though they could see the lights from Iraqi vehicles closing on their location. The crew chief elected to try to escape and take his survival radio into the desert, where he would have more of a chance.

Roby had called in his position, then grabbed the MP-5 submachine gun they carried on board for personal defense. When the first Iraqi troops approached, he let them come within fifty meters, then fired a burst, killing three. The rest went to ground.

Then the air support came. Every Allied craft in the vicinity with ordnance to expend came by, surrounding his location with a wall of explosive and cannon fire. But as night fell, Roby could tell that the Iraqis were creeping closer and would soon be so near his position the air support wouldn’t help.

That’s when the rescue chopper came in. Another Nightstalker craft with four Special Forces men on board. The bird came in fast and blacked out. It touched down and the SF guys had his copilot on board in less than fifteen seconds, Roby jumping on board right behind.

Then he told them about the crew chief. The man in charge of the rescue team, Sergeant Major Jimmy Dalton, ordered the crew to search for him. They found him five miles away, wandering in the desert. So Roby returned with all his crew. And thus he owed Dalton and now he was paying back in response to the phone call he had received from the sergeant major that afternoon.

The Task Force MH-60K Blackhawk was a vast improvement over the standard UH-60 model the rest of the army used. It had an air-to-air refueling probe that poked from underneath the front of the cockpit, two M134 7.62-millimeter miniguns, one mounted on each side, and an external hoist. Most important, though, were the advanced avionics to help Roby fly the ship. He had interactive multifunction displays, forward-looking infrared, a terrain-avoidance/terrain-following radar, and a digital map generator that followed the flight of the helicopter, constantly updating the pilot with the helicopter’s exact location.

Making sure his equipment was working properly, Roby turned the nose of the chopper toward the high peaks.

Finding Grand Cayman via the virtual plane hadn’t been too difficult for Raisor. Cesar had ordered the ship’s captain to turn on the Aura transmitter intermittently and Raisor had located it on the virtual plane. Then it was a series of short jumps to the island itself. The yacht was less than two hundred yards from shore, and his target was only two blocks away from the ocean. Now he waited.

A stretch limousine was waiting for Valika as she got off Cesar’s jet at Martinique. Two men, guards, stood on the side, one opening the door. As she started to get in, he reached for the laptop case. She gave it to him and got inside. There was no one else in the spacious interior. The men got in the front.