“You work with some very insidious people,” I tell her.

“I don’t work with them. I just know about them.”

“You think that’s what he’s doing, trying to pick up surveillance?” says Herman.

“I don’t know,” says Joselyn. “I know they have stuff that can fly and climb. And they’re working on weapons systems, some of them no bigger than the tip of your finger. They say within a few years they’ll have robotic insects the size of a grasshopper armed with lethal toxins and heat sensors to home in on the human body. They could release them by the millions using missiles tipped with cluster bombs. If they can do that, they can do anything.”

“Where do you guys get this stuff?” I ask.

“It’s not science fiction,” says Joselyn. The second she says it I hear a high-speed whirring sound. It comes from behind us, sounds like the wings of a hummingbird, and races over our heads. It’s gone before we can even see it.

“Son of a bitch,” says Herman.

When I look out at the field, Thorn is standing there holding the computer, looking down at the screen. The little model is no longer perched on the roof.

“Let’s get out of here,” says Joselyn.

“It’s too late. He’s seen us,” says Herman, who is already halfway to the car.

I lift the binoculars up to my eyes with one hand. “What the hell is that?” I am looking back at the jet under the camouflage netting. The rear ramp is now down. The man who was doing the welding is testing the motor that lifts the ramp up and down. As I look at it I realize why. The ramp was never designed to carry the kind of weight represented by the bomb. Resting on a steel cradle just above the stairs is the massive casing of a torpedo-shaped device.

“I gotta call Thorpe,” I tell her.

“Later,” she says.

I pull out my cell phone.

“Not now,” she says.

“Just a second.” I fumble with the applications until I find the camera. I look at the screen on the phone and wait for the ramp to come down again. It won’t be a great picture but it’s better than nothing.

“We don’t have enough time,” she says.

Thorn is down on one knee out in the field with the open cardboard box next to him.

The ramp starts to come down.

Thorn is charging up the little bird for another look. He finishes and then slowly stands, turns around, and looks up. Like a flashbulb going off in his head, he suddenly realizes what’s on display under the belly of the big plane. He spins around and looks up toward where Joselyn and I are standing. I don’t think he can see us, but he knows we’re here.

I wait until the end of the ramp reaches the ground, like a yawning mouth, and then I snap the picture.

It’s a footrace for the car, with Joselyn out in front. Herman is already behind the wheel, with the engine running.

We jump in the back and Joselyn yells, “Move!”

“Do you think he saw us?” I ask.

“I don’t, but I think we better find another way out of here,” she says.

THIRTY-NINE

There’s a map in the glove compartment,” says Herman.

He is ripping along the dirt road doing at least fifty miles an hour, fishtailing in the sandy soil. Joselyn and I are bouncing around in the backseat. My head hits the ceiling of the car.

“Get the map,” he says.

“I’m trying. Slow down or you’re going to kill us. We won’t have to worry about Thorn,” I tell him.

“Where does this road lead?” says Joselyn.

Herman is driving farther into the brushy hillside, away from the pavement we came in on.

“It’ll take us back to the highway,” says Herman. “There’s a turn, but I’m not sure where.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“’Cause I checked the map to make sure I had a way out before I parked,” he says. “But I don’t want to make a wrong turn.”

He slows for a few seconds and I reach over from the backseat, into the glove compartment, and pull out a folded single-page Avis map.

Herman glances over. “No, not that one. The one underneath.”

I fish around inside and find another, thicker map. As soon as I slump into the backseat I unfold it and it opens up like an accordion, enough paper to seal off the backseat. It’s a geodetic survey map showing the island in sections. “Did this come with the car?”

“No. Bought it yesterday while you guys were napping,” says Herman. “One of the little shops next to the hotel. Look for the exit off the highway you came in on and find the dirt road.”

Joselyn and I search for it until we find the right quarter section and then home in. “Here it is.” She points with her finger. “Let me have it.” She plucks it out of my hands.

We are climbing higher on the hillside, well above the trees at the end of the airfield. The plane is no longer visible down below, lost in the morass of foliage and the camouflage. But in the distance behind us I can see a trail of dust in the air. “Somebody’s on our tail,” I tell him.

“I see him,” says Herman.

“I hope you’re right about there being a way out of here.”

“He is,” says Joselyn. “There’s a fork up ahead, take it to the right.”

“Good girl,” says Herman. He gooses the engine and we start to slide around in the backseat.

“There’s another turn to the right about a quarter of a mile beyond that,” she tells him. “Then it looks like it turns to pavement. You take it all the way to the highway.”

“That’s the one,” says Herman. “It’s Thorn behind us. I got a glimpse of the pickup when he rounded one of the bends back there.”

I turn and look. I see the dust, maybe half a mile behind us and closing fast, like a cyclone.

Herman takes the fork to the right and a quarter of a mile beyond it takes a sharp right, nearly lifting the car up on two wheels.

“Maybe he’ll take the wrong cut at the fork,” I tell them.

“No,” says Herman. “He’s still behind us.”

I turn to take a peek. Herman’s right. The looming dust devil is still behind us and getting closer.

A hundred feet beyond the turn, the wheels grind over gravel and onto solid pavement. The road smooths out and Herman pushes the pedal to the floor. The midsize four-cylinder picks up speed, but we’ll never make it to the highway. The minute Thorn hits the pavement, the big Ford V-8 will run us down in less than a mile. And I am guessing that Thorn is probably armed to the teeth.

We swing around a curve, coming down the hillside. I can see the highway in the distance, maybe two miles off. The road we are on rolls over the hillocks like a ribbon leading right to it.

“Hang on,” says Herman. Suddenly the car swings to the right, skids on the pavement, and rolls onto a gravel road.

“Where are you going? It’s a dead end,” I tell him.

“I know,” says Herman. He pulls up about fifty feet and turns to the left into some heavy brush, then slams on the brakes and turns off the engine. “Get out of the car.” Herman grabs the field glasses and opens his door.

Joselyn and I follow him over the rough ground into the brush.

“Come on,” says Herman. He leads us toward a small rock outcropping, kneels down, and sets up with the glasses.

Joselyn and I really don’t need them, we can see the ribbon of paved road leading down to the highway just off to our left.

“Shhh…” Herman holds a finger to his lips and listens.

I hear the high-speed rush of rubber on the road, and a second later the rush of air as a vehicle races past the gravel turnoff. An instant later I see the Ford pickup as it blasts into the open and races down the road toward the highway. I’m guessing that he’s doing close to a hundred miles an hour. It takes Thorn less than a minute to reach the intersection on this side of the highway. You can see the truck’s tail end lift up as the brake lights come on. Thorn screeches to a complete stop right in the middle of the road.