"You're suggesting that I'd risk being massacred by vicious psychopaths just to charm you into the sack?"

"Some men'll do anything."

"No offense," Tom said, "but I'm not quite that starved for affection."

"Oh really? Before last night, when was the last time you made love to a woman."

"A week ago."

"Yipes," said JoLayne, with a blink.

"The wife of a judge." Krome got up to toss more driftwood on the embers. "Apparently she kept a scorecard. I could probably get a copy, if you want."

JoLayne recovered admirably. "So we've ruled out money and nooky. What about valor?"

Tom chuckled mirthlessly. "Oh, how I wish."

"White man's guilt?"

"That's possible."

"Or how about this: You're just trying to prove something to yourself."

"Now we're getting somewhere." He lay back, entwining his hands behind his head. In the firelight JoLayne could see he was exhausted.

He said, "Hey, we missed the lottery."

"Lord, that's right – it was last night, wasn't it? I believe we were distracted." In her handbag she found the Lotto coupons Moffitt had confiscated from Bodean Gazzer's apartment. She fanned them, like a royal flush, for Tom to see.

"You feeling lucky?"

"Very," he said.

"Me, too." She leaned forward and dropped the tickets, one by one, into the flames.

By the time they reached Pearl Key, Bodean Gazzer and Chub were hardly speaking. At issue was the newly purchased marine chart of Florida Bay, which neither of them was able to decipher. Chub blamed Bode, and Bode blamed the mapmakers from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, who (he insisted) had purposely mislabeled the backcountry channels to thwart the flight of survivalists such as the White Clarion Aryans. This time Chub wasn't buying it.

The inability of either man to make sense of the navigational markers resulted in a succession of high-speed groundings that seriously eroded the aluminum propellers. The ski boat was shaking like a blender long before the militiamen got to the island.

Chub seethed – he had so hoped to impress Amber with his nautical skills. Yet, during their third mishap after departing Jewfish Creek, he'd heard her say: "This is a joke, right?"

At the time he was waist-deep in water, fighting the tide, pushing against the transom with all his strength. Bode Gazzer sloshed next to him in the shallows, working on the starboard side. Amber was in the boat with Shiner.

This is a joke, right?

And Chub had heard Shiner say, "If only."

The snotty fuck.

Panting in the marl, Chub found his worries turning to the lottery tickets. Both were hidden in the steering console – the stolen one still damp from the previous near disaster; the one in Bode's wallet relocated when Chub made him go overboard to push.

The console had cheap plastic doors that didn't lock. Chub resolved to shoot Shiner in the kneecaps if he went anywhere near it.

Night had fallen before they beached at Pearl Key. Bode Gazzer used liquid charcoal lighter to get a fire going. Chub stripped down and hung his sopping clothes in the mangroves. Shiner was ordered to unload the boat. He couldn't believe Chub was sauntering around camp in his underwear, right in front of Amber.

"Want some bug spray?" Chub asked her.

"I'm cold," she said.

In an instant Shiner was there with an army blanket. Chub snatched it and wrapped Amber's shoulders. He handed her an aerosol can of insect repellent and said: "Squirt a lil on my legs, wouldya?"

She did as she was told, her expression concealed by Chub's lanky shadow. Bode Gazzer glanced up from the campfire – it was foolishness; such a girl had no place in a paramilitary unit. Shiner was equally dismayed, but for different reasons.

He piped, "They's some dry camos in the duffel."

Chub ignored him. He seemed entirely relaxed in mud-splattered Jockey shorts.

"So, Amber," he said, "where'd y'all sleep last night?"

"The car."

Chub cut a hard look at Shiner, who said: "By the side of the road."

"Is that right."

"Whatsa big damn deal?" Shiner didn't appreciate how Chub was putting him on the spot: giving him the eye, acting like Shiner was holding something back.

Amber came to his defense. "It's a Crown Victoria. You can fit a football team in there," she said. "I slept in the back seat, Shiner slept in front. Anything else you want to know?"

Chub got red and flustered. The last thing he'd wanted to do was piss her off – hell, some girls were flattered when you got jealous. He offered Amber a Budweiser.

"No, thanks."

"Some jerky?"

"I think I'll pass."

Bodean Gazzer said, "We got to have a meeting. Sugar, can you leave us men alone for 'bout thirty minutes."

Amber looked out toward the gray woods, then turned back to Bode. "Where exactly am I supposed to go?"

Shiner cut in, saying it was all right for her to stay. "She knows who we are, and she's a hundred percent with the program."

Now it was the colonel's turn to shoot him the evil eye. Shiner didn't cave. "She's even gonna fix my tattoo!"

"Too bad she can't fix your fuckin' brain." Chub, picking at his eye patch as if it were a scab.

Bodean Gazzer sensed that his hold on the newborn militia was slipping. Amber would have to shut up and behave, that's all. Her presence was disrupting the group; the scent of her in particular. While Bode was grateful for any fragrance potent enough to neutralize the stink of Chub's perspiration, he felt throttled by Amber's perfume. It fogged his brain with impure thoughts, some of them jarringly explicit. Bode was angry at himself for entertaining base fantasies when he should be concentrating totally on survival.

He spread an oilskin tarpaulin and called the meeting to order. Amber sat cross-legged in the center of the tarp, with Shiner and Chub on each side.

"As you know," Bode began, "we're here on this island because something – somebody – calls themselves the Black Tide is out to destroy us. I got no doubt it's a Negro operation, a pretty slick one, and I expect they'll find us eventually. We come all the way out here to regroup, get our weapons in tiptop shape and make a stand.

"Now, I believe with all my Christian heart we're gonna prevail. But to whip these black bastards we gotta be prepared, and we gotta be a team: armed, disciplined and well-regulated. Pretty soon 'Merica's gonna come under attack – I don't need to tell you about that. The New World Tribunal, the communists, NATO and so forth. But this here's our first big test, this Black Tide ... now what?"

The Hooters girl had raised her hand.

"You got a question?" Bode Gazzer said, perturbed.

"Yeah. Where do you guys see this going?"

"Pardon?"

"The plan," Amber said. "What's the long-range plan?"

"We are the White Clarion Aryans. We believe in the purity and supremacy of the Euro-Caucasian people. We believe our Christian values been betrayed and forsaken by the United States government ... "

As he spoke, Bodean Gazzer glowered at Chub. How were they going to win a race war with a damn waitress hanging around?

Chub wasn't annoyed by Amber's interruption; he was too busy trying to cop a peek up her shorts. Shiner, by contrast, was painfully attentive. Taking Amber's lead, he raised his right arm and waved at Bode.

"What!"

"Colonel, you said Euro something ... "

"Euro-Caucasian."

"Could you 'xplain what that is?" Shiner asked.

"White people," Bode Gazzer snapped. "White people whose folks come from, like, England or Germany. Places such as that."

"Ireland?" asked Amber.

"Yeah, sure. Denmark, Canada ... you get the goddamn idea." He couldn't believe these nimrods – the concept of ethnic purity wasn't that complicated.

Then Shiner said: "They got white people in Mexico."