The steel dart plunged straight into the man's left eyeball in a cloud of blood and travelled upward to lodge deep into his brain. The diver relinquished his pistol as his hands flew to his face, and then began quivering and jerking as his damaged brain began to shut down.

A steel dart whipped past Ethan's shoulder and smacked into the dying man's chest with a dull thud.

Ethan whirled as a second diver rushed in with his pistol aimed directly at him. Ethan span in a grim pirouette to keep the shuddering corpse between himself and his new assailant. He reached down and grabbed the pistol now dangling from a cord attached to the dead man's utility belt, aiming it even as the second diver realized the danger and struggled to turn away in time to flee. Ethan jerked the dead diver's body around and let the still-running fan propel them in pursuit as he aimed and fired.

The first dart deflected off the fleeing diver's oxygen tank, and Ethan corrected and fired again. This time the dart struck the diver in his side, the metal sinking between his ribs. The man flinched in pain and turned, aiming himself back at Ethan on a collision course.

Ethan released the corpse and let the grisly projectile plough onward through the water as he swam behind it. The onrushing diver struggled to get out of the way but the corpse plunged into his chest and hurled him out of control as Ethan rushed in and fired the last two remaining steel darts. Both quivered as they sank into the man's flesh, one almost vanishing into his stomach as the other lodged in his thigh.

The diver coiled up into a fetal ball, one hand searching desperately to remove the darts as the other aimed his pistol frantically at Ethan. Ethan yanked his knife from its sheath and smashed the pistol to one side before ramming his blade into the man's skull, just behind his ear. The blade splintered the thin bone and sank hilt-deep into the brain with a muted crunch like a boot on gravel.

Ethan wrestled the pistol from the dead man's hand, yanked the cord free from his belt and turned as he dove once more toward the aircraft wreckage, where he could see Lopez crouched in the buckled remains of the cockpit, using a twisted piece of the nose cone as a shield against the lethal darts being fired at her.

Ethan plunged downward and aimed at the nearest diver, firing a single shot from barely two meters away.

The cruel metal dart zipped across the distance between them and buried itself in the back of the man's head. The diver's body twitched and then froze as he began to sink toward the seabed below, his arms floating uselessly beside his head.

The second diver charged up toward Ethan without a moment's hesitation and plunged into him before he could fire. The impact knocked the wind from Ethan's chest and he choked briefly on his respirator as he struggled to hold the diver's pistol away from his body. They tumbled awkwardly, spinning upside down in a frenzied cloud of bubbles as with one hand the diver tried to rip Ethan's mask from his face. Cold seawater flooded Ethan's vision as he felt himself propelled head-first in a vertical dive toward the seabed.

The sandy surface of the bed slammed into the top of his skull and his attacker landed on top of him and pinned him down, the force of the fan on his back driving Ethan through a choking cloud of sand that swirled in a golden vortex around them. Ethan felt his grip on the pistol fail and then suddenly the weapon slipped from his grasp. He saw the diver jerk upright and aim the pistol at Ethan's heart, the man's eyes shining with hatred behind his mask.

In an instant one of those eyes burst like a water balloon as a steel dart punctured his mask and shattered the plastic. Ethan stared in shock as the mask filled instantly with blood. The man's expression sagged and, with his remaining eye, he stared unseeing into Ethan's eyes as the pistol slipped from his hand. Ethan rolled out from beneath the corpse and saw Lopez aiming one of the fat pistols double-handed as she hovered above him.

Ethan was about to give her a thumbs-up, but as his vision cleared he saw the hull of the Free Spirit above them and another boat circling at a distance. Even from the seabed, he could see bullets shooting into the water.

25.

RICHARD E. GERSTEIN JUSTICE BUILDING, MIAMI.

June 28, 11:23 Olaf Jorgenson had not expected any problems during his assignment. Katherine Abell was one of the finest lawyers in Florida, and though she rarely spoke to him he held her in the highest regard. He could not have predicted that he would hear the name that Macy Lieberman had spoken, as she airily waved a thick wad of files in her hand.

Charles Purcell.

Olaf watched from the public gallery as Katherine stared in disbelief at Macy Lieberman. The very fact that she was as stunned as he had been suggested that the defense of IRIS might not go according to plan, and the knowledge bothered him immensely.

'Charles Purcell is your whistleblower?' Katherine stammered. 'That's ridiculous! You couldn't have found a less reliable witness!'

Macy smirked across at Katherine.

'Would you like to share with the court your reasoning?'

Katherine turned to the judge as Olaf watched, willing her on.

'Charles Purcell is currently the subject of a manhunt,' she reported confidently. 'He is wanted for the murder of his wife and child, and any testimony from him can be considered null and void.'

The judge raised an eyebrow and looked across at Macy Lieberman. Olaf's muscles tensed beneath his shirt as he waited for the prosecutor's response. She did not look at all bothered by the revelations regarding Charles Purcell's murderous tendencies, and in fact the smile did not fall from her face as she responded.

'That is absolutely correct, your honor,' she agreed. 'However, these documents were received this morning and were posted yesterday afternoon, long before an arrest warrant was issued for the arrest of Charles Purcell.'

Katherine Abell laughed out loud.

'Are you serious?' she stammered. 'The man's a wanted killer. His word means nothing, no matter when this supposed evidence was sent or delivered.'

Macy turned to face Katherine across the court.

'I should hardly have to remind you, Ms Abell, that the law in this country clearly states that an accused citizen is innocent of any crime until proven guilty. Charles Purcell is wanted for the murder of his own family, but that does not mean that he is responsible for the crime.' Macy Lieberman raised the file in her hands. 'This, however, is most definitely the work of Charles Purcell, and regardless of what he may or may not have done elsewhere since, this file proves beyond reasonable doubt that the case being presented by my client has its basis in solid financial facts and constitutes a viable cause for this case to go to trial.'

Olaf watched as Katherine Abell turned to face the judge once again.

'And I say again, your honor, that this case is based upon a combination of one family's desire to profit from the generosity of IRIS and one prosecutor's determination to gain professional satisfaction from a high-profile case that has no substance in the eyes of any unbiased observer. This case is reliant upon legal-precedent cases involving military and industrial firms working in warzones, not the work of a charity on home soil with a long record of philanthropic success.'

The judge leaned back in her chair and looked out across the faces of the Uhungu family for a long moment before finally speaking.

'The court will adjourn until this afternoon,' she said. 'All rise.'

Olaf stood with the rest of the court and watched as the judge filed out of sight before looking down at Macy Lieberman and the blue file that she slipped into her bag. Olaf turned and strode out of the gallery. Joaquin's orders had been clear. Despite Katherine Abell's confidence, Olaf knew that the papers stolen by Charles Purcell would almost certainly be enough to bring Joaquin Abell to the stand, and that was the one thing that Olaf did not want to see happen.

Joaquin Abell was like a brother, a father even, and he owed him his life.

Olaf stepped out of the court into the muggy Florida sunshine, watching the traffic flow by as he lit a cigarette. Pedestrians cast disapproving glances in his direction but his huge physique and stony expression stalled any complaint. It had been many years since anyone had dared threaten Olaf, a far cry from his childhood.

As he turned and walked along the sidewalk he reflected not for the first time how fortunate he had been to have encountered Joaquin Abell when he did, as a skinny, nervous 15-year-old. An orphan, he had been sent to a small school in Loen, nestled deep in the fjords of western Norway, where his companions had proved themselves every bit as cruel as the bitter winters that enshrouded his homeland in their icy embrace. After years of torment Olaf had become a virtual recluse within an already isolated community, taking any opportunity to avoid school and the torment of his peers.

He had been fifteen when tragedy struck the little village, a particularly severe snow storm producing an avalanche that killed almost half of his class. As others cried, Olaf struggled to contain his joy at seeing half a dozen of his hated tormentors hacked from the compacted ice, their purple faces twisted in the rigor mortis of death.

Days later, a ship had arrived bearing a large blue IRIS logo, and Joaquin Abell had promised money to rebuild the damaged school. Awed by the giant yacht and its charismatic owner, Olaf had seen his chance to escape the miserable little town in which he had been entrapped for so long. He had begged Joaquin personally for a job aboard the Event Horizon, only to be dismissed out of hand. Stricken with grief, for the first time in his life Olaf had taken matters into his own hands and stowed away aboard the giant yacht.

Years of evading his tormentors had given Olaf a primal instinct for survival, and it was almost three weeks before he was discovered by engineers and dragged before Joaquin Abell once more. To his surprise, Joaquin had agreed not to have him returned home. Maybe he had seen something in Olaf's desperate eyes or had simply taken pity on him, but by that evening Olaf Jorgenson was in his own quarters and sailing away from his homeland forever, into a world he had never seen before.

Over the years that had passed since, Olaf had grown closer to Joaquin. As a wiry little boy, working on the yacht had toughened his muscles and seen him grow stronger. His increasing size and confidence had led him to take up body-building, and that in turn had led him into the use of steroids. His habit financed by his employer, who always seemed to know precisely what he needed and wanted, Olaf grew into a giant. Now, at six foot four and 260 pounds, Olaf was an unstoppable force of nature who knew nothing of the meaning of the word compromise.

Olaf turned and followed the sidewalk around the edge of the court's parking lot, his cold blue eyes seeking his target. It was clear to Olaf that, win, lose or draw, Katherine Abell was not going to be able to prevent the court from hearing the details on the files held by Macy Lieberman. Therefore, he would ensure that the files simply disappeared.

The parking lot was overlooked on four corners by CCTV cameras. Olaf looked across the lot and saw several cars parked beneath a clump of palm trees that hung listlessly on the humid air. The trees were mature, the fronds hanging six or seven feet long and obscuring the area under the tree from the view of the cameras.

Several cars had parked there, the owners evidently seeking the shade offered by the trees. Olaf worked his way around the edge of the lot, careful to walk nonchalantly and not draw any more attention to himself other than that caused by his impressive physique.

He spotted an old man in a cheap suit shuffling toward a battered old Dodge Polara, its red paint faded by years spent sweltering beneath the Florida sun. Olaf guessed the man's age as about sixty-five. The car, the threadbare clothes and the nicotine-stained teeth all told Olaf the same story: old, alone, and won't be missed.

Olaf moved around to the sidewalk in front of the Polara, the palm trees shielding him from the view of the cameras as the old man limped around to the driver's door and reached out for the handle. As he opened the door, Olaf leapt over the parking lot fence and was directly behind the old man in two giant strides. Even as the old-timer turned his head to squint up at Olaf with rheumy eyes, Olaf reached out with one huge hand that encircled the old man's jaw like a glove around a baseball. He felt a thick wedge of his greasy, lank hair squeeze against his other hand as it folded around the back of the man's neck. The old man, his jaw clamped shut and his head pinned, gagged as he tried to cry out. Olaf turned him with unstoppable force and then drove his shoulders downward as he dropped violently at the knees.

The old man's forehead smacked with a sickening crunch across the top of the open driver's door. Olaf felt the brittle bones of the neck snap like dry twigs as he caught the old man's corpse and lifted him bodily into the car and shoved him into the passenger seat. Carefully, Olaf placed the seatbelt across him to keep the body upright as though he were caring for an elderly friend, and then climbed into the driver's seat. Olaf closed the door and reached into the old man's pockets, fumbling around until he found the keys to the Polara.

He started the engine and reversed out of the parking slot.

Now, all he had to do was wait for Macy Lieberman to leave the courthouse.

26.

[FLORIDA STRAITS].

June 28, 11:27 Ethan broke the surface of the water alongside the Free Spirit's hull, just in time to see a ragged line of bullet holes burst through it and spray fiberglass chips into the water around him. Lopez came up beside Ethan.

'What the hell's going on?!' she shouted as she pulled her respirator out.

Ethan saw a sleek speedboat roar past nearby, its powerful wake tossing him about on the waves.

'Get aboard!' Ethan hollered back, shoving her toward the Free Spirit's stern ramp.

Lopez swam to the ramp just as Doug Jarvis appeared and reached out for her hand. He hauled her aboard with surprising strength before reaching out for Ethan. Ethan dragged himself up out of the water just as a deafening rattle of gunfire crackled out from the bridge.

Scott Bryson was on one knee against the port rail beside the wheelhouse, an automatic rifle pulled tightly into his right shoulder as he fired short, controlled bursts at the speedboat circling back toward them. As Ethan yanked off his diving equipment he saw the shots fall close around the speedboat's hull, keeping it at bay.

'Who the hell are they?' Lopez shouted.

Jarvis hauled the heavy oxygen cylinders off her back.

'More to the point, who do they think we are, and how did they know that we'd be here?'

From the bridge, Scott Bryson bellowed down at them.

'How about we have this goddamned chat later and concentrate on staying alive?' The captain turned and tossed the rifle toward Ethan. 'Keep them off our ass!'

Ethan caught the rifle as Bryson leapt up into the wheelhouse and threw the boat's throttles open. The Free Spirit surged forward and sent Ethan reeling as he struggled to keep his balance.

'Incoming!'

Ethan heard Lopez's cry of alarm and saw the speedboat rushing toward their port hull at full throttle, two men with rifles aiming in his direction.

'Get down!'

Ethan hurled himself flat onto the deck, his fingers instinctively finding the safety catch and trigger with the same fluidity he had once possessed as a marine fighting in Afghanistan's Tora Bora caves. The weapon came up into his shoulder even as he saw the first burst of muzzle flash from their attackers' weapons and a lethal hail of automatic fire sprayed across the boat's deck. Ethan, enveloped in a bubble of adrenaline-fuelled silence, ignored the bullets that zipped and tore into the deck around him as he breathed slowly and took aim. A marine instructor's words drifted unbidden through his mind.

All the automatic fire in the world is useless against one well-placed round. Shoot slow, son, and you'll shoot sure.

The shooter raked the Free Spirit as the speedboat turned away at the last moment amid crashing surf and shining metal. Ethan's breathing stopped for a single second as he squeezed the trigger once.

The round hit the shooter low in his belly as the speedboat raced past and bounced on the churning waves. Ethan saw the man's mouth gape open in shock as he folded over at the waist, his legs crumpled beneath him, and he tumbled back into the speedboat.

Ethan looked over the barrel of the rifle and saw at least four other men in the rear of the vessel. He turned to Jarvis.

'We're going to need help!'

The old man already had a cellphone in his hand and was shouting into it as he sheltered close to the wheelhouse.

Scott Bryson shouted down at Ethan from the bridge.

'Nice shooting, boy scout! Now they'll be really pissed!'

Ethan stood up and rushed to the bridge, keeping one eye on the speedboat as it circled out for another pass. The adrenaline was now pumping through his veins like a freight train powering through the night as he leapt up the steps two at a time and pointed at their attackers.

'Turn the boat around,' he ordered Bryson. 'Head straight for them.'

'Like hell, son, this boat's my livelihood.'

'We sure as hell can't outrun them,' Ethan snapped back. 'And your livelihood's no good to you if you're dead.'

'We can't outshoot them, either,' Bryson pointed out. 'And you're not Jack goddamned Bauer, so what's the point of going down in a blaze of glory?!'

Ethan glanced out of the bridge windows to see the speedboat racing toward them again.

'You of all people should remember what you were taught in the SEALs,' he said. 'Defense and offense. When attacked by a superior force, you do the last thing that they expect.'

Scott Bryson looked down at him for a long moment, and then for the first time he smiled at Ethan.

'You advance on their position.'

With a flourish, Bryson span the wheel and the Free Spirit heeled gamely over, turning to face the speedboat until they were on a head-on collision course.

'Take them down the left side!' Ethan shouted as he jumped back down to the deck.

Ethan ran low to the stern of the boat, sliding onto his belly and aiming across the port stern. A crackle of gunfire snapped across the wind as he slowed his breathing. The speedboat soared past, two men firing their weapons from the hip with aimless abandon in the hopes of catching a lucky hit. A salvo of bullets splintered the hull close to Ethan's shoulder and showered him with debris.

As the boat thundered by, Ethan aimed at one of the shooters, taking advantage of the low-aspect movement now that the speedboat was moving almost directly away from him. Despite the pitching of the boats across the waves, the target was easier to track. Ethan held his breath and fired two rounds, double-tapping the trigger as he aimed for the man's torso.

The first round missed, hitting the deck low and to the man's left, but the second round hit him straight through the neck, a fine mist of blood spraying into the wind as the man was hurled backwards to sprawl on the deck in a tangle of writhing limbs and spilling blood.

Ethan rolled over and shouted to Bryson above the wind.

'Turn her around!'

Bryson responded without argument this time, the Free Spirit wheeling around on the churning surface of the ocean as she chugged her way toward their attackers.

Lopez struggled across the heaving deck and hurled herself down alongside Ethan.

'We can't keep this up forever,' she said. 'Sooner or later one of us is going to get hit.'