Felicia reached for her daughter's hand and squeezed it.

Back in the driveway, the girls/guys were still waving and blowing kisses to the occupants of the helicopters. Myra was gurgling from her flask, and Annie was being haughty and arrogant as she once again extended her invitation to her evening barbecue.

The line of security didn't budge, but they did flex their muscles, until Annie whipped out her gun from the small of her back. In the blink of an eye she fired off six shots, nipping the toe of each man's boot. Then she brought the gun up and aimed for center mass of the man in the middle. "Well, see if I ever invite any of you again," she sniffed. "You can tell Mr. Spyder he isn't fit to shine my boots." She looked up at the helicopters, waved her gun for effect, and laughed out loud, but not before she gave her tiara a good tug.

"I think we're ready to rumble again, Myra. Let's put some juice in our takeoff this time." In the blink of an eye, Annie straddled the Harley, revved the engine longer than necessary, and peeled away, the others right on her tail.

The six guards spread across the driveway looked at one another. "Man, we are so deep in shit, we might as well quit now. What in the damn hell was that all about?" the bald, tatted guard said.

"An invitation to a barbecue is what I got out of it," one of the guards said as he looked down at his boots. "The lady-excuse me, the countess-has a mighty fine eye, if you want my opinion. She looks like she was born on that beast she was driving, and she's one hell of a gunslinger."

Six cell phones pinged to life. The helicopters were still hovering, the whump, whump sound deafening.

The guards trotted off, the helicopters having left to follow the countess and her crew. The beach was now patrolled only by Avery Snowden and his operatives.

Off to the right, Felicia pushed her daughter's chair down the walkway and up to the boardwalk. "I think this calls for an ice-cream cone, don't you, dear?"

"Peach this time." Gretchen laughed.

"Oh, darling, this is the first time I've heard you laugh since you returned to the island."

Gretchen laughed again, a sound of pure joy, as she held up her hand for her mother to take in hers.

Back at the de Silva compound, as the women called it, they parked the Harleys and ran into the house to be met by the rest of the gang. They reported breathlessly on what had happened. Questions were asked and answered, and a lot of high fives, along with some backslapping, ensued.

"Now what?" Sparrow asked.

"Now we wait. The next move is Spyder's," Myra said as she fluffed out her wig, then decided that since she was indoors, she didn't need it. She tossed it onto a chair.

"What's that I smell?" shouted Kathryn, their food critic.

Annie made a face. "Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."

"Nope! Shrimp scampi!" Dennis bellowed from the kitchen. "Come and get it!"

They did, and they ate till they couldn't eat any more. Dennis beamed his pleasure at all the accolades coming his way.

"We're having a barbecue this evening. We might or might not have a few guests," Annie said cheerfully. "If no one shows up, oh, well, more for us. Now, who is going to be doing the barbecuing?"

Ted, Espinosa, Sparrow, and Greg Albright volunteered.

"Then you better check the freezer and take out what you need now," Annie suggested.

"Let's hit the lanai," Jack said as he reached out to grab a pitcher of iced tea. Harry reached for a second one, and Yoko carried the plastic glasses. "We all need to talk now."

Angus Spyder, his face cherry red, stared down his men. Spittle and drool dripped from his lips and down his shirt because he didn't have a neck for it to roll onto. He cursed, using every vile, ugly word in his extensive vocabulary of vile and ugly words. Then he said it all over again in every language he knew. Jellicoe entered the room on the tail end of the tirade.

"All they were doing was inviting you and the guards to a barbecue. I have to admit, their approach was a little over the top, but you need to remember who you are dealing with. People like the countess thrive on publicity. You, Angus, can't afford any publicity. Be prepared to be looked at, scrutinized, and crucified. Your reputation is nowhere near what the countess's is. Now the media has it all on film. You couldn't leave it alone, could you, Angus? I warned you, and now what are you going to do?"

The little frog-like man hopped from one place to the other, still screaming the vile curses, which everyone was trying to tune out. "I don't know what I'm going to do. Yet. Is that what you want me to say? Well, I said it. This is not about some goddamn barbecue, and we both know it. Something is going on. I damn well want to know what it is."

"Then go to the goddamn barbecue and find out what it is," Jellicoe said quietly. "Just out of curiosity, what do you think this is all about?"

"I'll tell you what I think, you son of a bitch. It's about my daughter and the twins that she gave up for adoption. My heirs. My heirs, whom you swore you would find and bring to me. You failed. You bastard, you failed me! I do not tolerate failure. I told you that when I agreed to allow you to come to the island. And the other thing is those two men you have locked up at your house. Scotland Yard, MI6. Even if they're retired, they have more inside their heads than you will ever have. Somehow, someway, they got word out. If you think for one minute that gun-toting, tiara-sporting, motorcycle-riding countess came here by chance, you are a bigger fool than I thought. This is all a setup to take me down. I want them off my island. Right now. Now!" Spyder screamed, spraying everyone with his spittle.

Jellicoe sighed as he watched Spyder's men inch their way toward the door. "Well, Angus, short of shooting the countess and all her people, I don't see how that's going to happen. We do not have AK-47s and Uzis in our arsenal. Your men are piss-poor shots, and that countess can shoot better than I can. Thanks to you, I'm down ten men. As for your heirs, that's never going to happen. So you might as well give up on that pipe dream right now. That's another way of saying that you lost. If you want some advice, I'd be happy to offer some up. For free."

Spyder cast his evil, hooded eyes on his security head and waited. He gave a slight dip of his head to indicate that Jellicoe should continue.

"Leave," was the one-word piece of advice Jellicoe offered up, which was met with disdain. "And that's exactly what I'm going to do right now. When you're ready to talk sense, call me. Oh, one other thing, I quit!" Jellicoe stalked out of the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Felicia and Gretchen Spyder were in the hallway, probably listening to everything that had been said. He decided that was a good thing and pretended not to see them.

Angus Spyder looked around and, for the first time, realized he was alone. But then, he was always alone, at least in his mind. Not that he would ever subject himself to a roomful of people. He would never do that, because of his appearance. Here in his hideaway, with only servants and guards, it didn't matter.

Drenched in sweat, Spyder could smell his own stink. He hated the smell. It reminded him of scummy pond water rife with green algae, where frogs were hatched and bred.

He made his way to his luxurious bathroom, which was bigger than some people's entire home in terms of square footage. The room was done in all-natural earth stones, with luxurious velvet green moss growing between the stones. A trickle of water sliding down the stones was a soothing sound to luxuriate in when bathing. The only problem was that no one ever bathed in the deep tub with the gold faucets. Angus preferred the massive shower, which was almost as good as walking through a rain forest, with its 127 jets pummeling his shrunken body.

Angus never looked at his body, so there were no mirrors in the huge bathroom, only art hanging on the walls. He didn't need to look into a mirror to shave, since he was basically hairless. And he used an electric razor when he did shave.

A wide shelf above the sink held every exfoliating cream on the market, creams that he used three times a day because he felt the need to shower that much in case scales of some sort started to form on his swarthy skin. Sometimes he rubbed himself raw, but he didn't care.

Before he stepped into the shower, he pressed a button that flooded the room with soft, mellow music. He was partial to Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. As he listened to his favorite tunes, Angus wondered what it would be like to dance with a woman to the music on a moonlit night. Dreams and fantasies.

When Angus got tired of dreaming about dancing and the soft, mellow music, he recalled his life and how he'd gotten to this point in time. He thought about all the people he'd ruined, stepped on, killed, plowed under to garner the wealth that sat in many banks around the world. The one thing he was most proud of was the slick deal he'd pulled off in England, right under the queen's nose, with her new age city. He actually laughed out loud, choking and sputtering when the spray of water went into his nose and mouth. When it was finally finished by the end of the year, he would make billions and billions of dollars. So much for the queen and her MI6 and MI5, Sir Charles Martin and his buddy from Scotland Yard, Fergus Duffy. Over-the-hill action players. He laughed again, but this time he closed his mouth.

Angus no longer knew what his potential worth would be at the end of the year, when the new age city took off. And what was he going to do with all that money? How much was enough? There was nothing left to buy or acquire that he didn't already have. That was when he'd set his sights on acquiring his illegitimate grandchildren. He'd make them kings. Or at least that was the plan. He realized for now that he was going to have to shelve that plan and wait. Sooner or later, they would surface. Or he'd force it out of his slutty daughter. She'd give it all up if he threatened to kill her mother. Or would she? He should have done that months ago. If he had, he wouldn't be in this predicament right now. But, no, he'd listened to Hank Jellicoe, and look where it had gotten him. Nowhere. And now he had a crazy countess on his island, and he was willing to bet that she and her entourage were here for Gretchen.

His thoughts stayed in the past. He had done one good thing: he'd kept a promise he'd made to his wife. He'd made sure Felicia's family was taken care of, not lavishly, but taken care of. He continued to do it to this day, and he would never welsh on that promise. Never. Try as he would, he could not come up with any idea for why he did it. One good thing. That had to count for something.

Fall back and regroup. First things first. A trip to Jellicoe's house to pay a visit to the two guests.

Chapter 19.

Hank Jellicoe walked along aimlessly, trying to get rid of his anger. He was surprised to see where he was when he looked up. Angus Spyder's personal security hut, the building out of which his men worked. He was stunned to see the gaggle of men lugging backpacks and gear out of the building. He frowned. He turned when he heard his name being called. Don Finley, a man his age who was the head of Angus Spyder's personal security, the only man on the team worth a good spit. To his eye, Don Finley looked happier than a pig in a mud slide.

"Hank! How's it going? You here to wish me bon voyage? No offense, man, but I can't get used to calling you Chuck Diamond."

Jellicoe ignored the reference to his bogus ID. "What are you talking about?" he asked. "Where is he sending you now?"

"Rotation. We're leaving. New guys coming on board. You know how it works. I have a few minutes. C'mon, let's take a walk, just two guys. What do you say?"

"Sure. Why not? When was this decided, Don?"

"Last week. Two weeks ahead of schedule, too. I was surprised, but, hey, it works for me. It's fine with us. I can't wait to get off this damn island. Ten years is way too long to stay in one place, rotation or not. I don't know how you stand it. And just between us professionals, I'm not planning on coming back, but keep that to yourself. I made my money. So have the others. Look, man, I had nothing to do with blowing up that launch with your guys on it. I swear to good Christ none of us know who did it. Hell, that crazy bastard might even have done it himself. Regardless, that was our wake-up call."

Jellicoe listened to the words. He had no beef with Finley. If he said he didn't do it, then he didn't do it. It was that simple. Hell, he actually liked the guy. "You plan on swimming? Or are you taking the same boat the rotating crew comes in on? Take some advice. Swim."

"I'm not that crazy. That's what Spyder thinks we're going to do, but we're leaving from the northern end of the island. Got a flight chartered, and we're wheels up in two hours. I'm 99 percent sure we'll get off. Aw, you worried about me, Hank?" The big man grinned.

"Yeah, actually I am. Where is this new crew from?"

Finley shook his head. "Not sure. Miami, I think. Bunch of badasses. No integrity there. Thugs. Five steps down from some of these guys," he said, nodding in the direction of his own crew. "Give some people a gun, and they think they're king of the hill. All I know is they've never put in time here. You need to get out, Hank. Now!"

"I know. I know. I've been biding my time. Want to give me the name of the pilot who's going to ferry you out of here?"

"I'll do better than that. I'll clue him in, but who the hell knows if he'll even come back here once he gets us out of here? I had to pay some really big bucks to make this happen. Spyder's reach is long. As you well know."

"Tell me something I don't already know. I've stayed six months too long."

"Then come with us. Your call, Mr. Diamond. I know you have a safe haven somewhere, but it's the getting there that's the clunker. Right now, no one is watching except Spyder himself. If I tell my guys to stand down, they'll stand down. You might not get another chance, Hank. Your call."

Jellicoe thought about it. For a whole minute. Thought about his gut instincts, thought about Charles Martin and Fergus Duffy, and then he thought about Countess de Silva and the way his stomach crunched up because he knew he was being set up. To go or not to go?

A sharp whistle caused both men to turn around.

"We're locked and loaded. Time to shove off. What's it going to be, Hank?"

"I can't leave with you, but I can drive myself. He might pick up on it, and he might not. Do I have time to pack any gear, or do I go cold?"

"You have about sixty minutes. I'll hold the plane as long as I can, but you need to roll, buddy."

Jellicoe nodded. He held out his hand to Finley. The grip was hard and firm, one mercenary to another. Honor among thieves, that kind of code. Right or wrong, he'd take it. Like he had any other choice.

Jellicoe sprinted off. Inside his house, he raced up the stairs, unlocked the suite of rooms where Fergus and Charles had lived for so long under his watchful eye. "Listen up. I only have a minute here. I'm leaving the island. If you agree to remain in this suite for one full hour, you are then free to leave. Make your way to Countess de Silva. She's here to rescue you with her crew of vigilantes. Don't look at me like that, Charlie. Do you take me for a fool? Now, here's the thing. If you leave or try to leave before the hour is up, this place will blow up. You know how I like to wire things. You following me here?" To make his point, Jellicoe held up a small black square that glowed with two red dots. "This will tell me if you open a door or a window. I will press this button immediately. Tell me you understand."

Fergus and Charles nodded, their eyes wide, in shock at what they were being told.

"Let's hope we never see each other again," Jellicoe said.

Five heartbeats later, Jellicoe was in his truck, racing up the coast road that would take him to the northern part of the island, where his escape waited. He kept one eye on the road and one eye on the oversize watch on his wrist. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Felicia and Gretchen Spyder at the snack shop at the end of the boardwalk. He leaned on the horn and waved.

Good-byes were sweet, and some were bitter. One small corner of his heart wished the two women well. And then he forgot about them and concentrated on his own survival. He floored the gas pedal.

Back in Spyder's lair, the little man hopped about like a frog on steroids as he glared at the monitors in front of him. He knew that this was going to happen. Knew it in every fiber of his body. His new people should have been here two hours ago. In time to thwart Finley's betrayal. He'd deliberately pushed back the time so Finley would get caught in the act and mowed down. What he hadn't counted on was Hank Jellicoe joining forces with Finley or Finley beating him to the punch. How could he have been so stupid? His small webbed hands smacked down on the desktop. Pain shot up both his arms. Then he kicked out at the desk with his stubby legs and was rewarded with even more pain. He howled and cursed.

The e-mail alert glaring at him on the screen told him that his new security force was being delayed because of engine problems. Revised ETA was twelve hours away.

Aside from the pain shooting up his arms and legs, the only thing Angus Spyder could fathom was that he was unguarded. He couldn't even shoot a gun for the simple fact that he couldn't hold one in his webbed hands. A knife was also out of the question.

Spyder started to rant and scream again about how he'd made all those people rich beyond their wildest dreams. And this was the thanks he got for his generosity. Bastards. Unguarded. Anyone could get to him. He wasn't safe. He was vulnerable. For one wild, crazy moment, he thought about summoning his wife and daughter and holding them hostage. And how exactly would he do that? Another stupid thought. Felicia, if she knew what was going on, would not think twice about sticking a knife in his chest or slitting his throat while his daughter egged her on.

Felicia was in excellent shape. She worked out for hours in the gym. She swam five miles a day in the pool on top of all the exercise, then she used a tanning bed, preferring it to the real sun, and she ate healthily. He hated how perfect she was. Hated the disgust he saw on her face each time she was in his presence. And still he'd provided for her family. Where was her gratitude? She should be kissing his feet.

He needed to lock up, to fortify himself somehow. His eyes bulging in fear, the little man scurried as fast as he could to secure the bolts on all the doors that led to his suite. He kept one eye on the monitors as he hopped about, sweat dripping from every pore in his stunted body.

Angus Spyder had never experienced such fear in his life.

Breathless, he hopped up on his special chair and fixed his gaze on the monitors. He watched as the countess's men ran up the beachfront to gather in a knot. He could hear the sound of the ocean, but the voices were muted, the words all running together. A scrambler of some sort must be in play. Why weren't they chasing after Finley and his crew? Another stupid question on his part. Why would they do that? With Finley and his people gone, the countess's people could invade his compound with no resistance. Talk about a sitting duck. Rage once again took over, but this time the little toad just screamed and yelled because his hands, arms, and legs still hurt. Sweat continued to roll down Spyder's swarthy face.

Another monitor showed him his wife and daughter licking ice-cream cones like they hadn't a care in the world. His rage was so overwhelming, he spit on the computer monitor.

Spyder blinked. Two men were walking up the road toward the countess's house. Two men! Jellicoe's prisoners! The bastard had set them free. His rage continued unabated. He spit again at the computer monitor. His bug eyes moved at the speed of light. The two old-time spooks would spill their guts to the countess, who in turn would call in her security, and they, in turn, would call the authorities. Which authorities? His brain felt so scrambled. He tapped at the computer keyboard with his little fingers, demanding that his new security force charter a plane and do it immediately. His frazzled brain tried to calculate the time it would take for them to arrive. At best, six hours, possibly five. They could kill him in five hours.

The computer e-mail pinged. He leaned forward, sweat dripping onto the keyboard.

His new security force would land in four hours. Four hours was an eternity. Could he survive for four hours on his own?

Consumed with fear for his well-being, Spyder leaned back in his special chair to think. He needed a way out. He had enough money to last a hundred lifetimes, and it wasn't doing him one damn bit of good. He thought then about all the people he'd had killed so he could make money, take over their businesses, or steal them for pennies on a dollar, and it wasn't doing him one damn bit of good. He laughed when he thought about how he'd skinned Hank Jellicoe and made millions off his cyberspy crap. Right now, this very minute, this very second, he'd give it all up for safe passage out to his yacht.

Spyder wished then for a friend, a confidant. Someone to trust, someone to call on when he was in trouble. He'd read somewhere that to have a friend, you needed to be a friend. Felicia. She was the one who'd said that. He had laughed in her face and had been so cruel when he said he didn't need friends. Money was the only thing he needed.

Money wasn't going to help him now. Right now, what he needed was safe passage. And it wasn't going to happen, no matter how much money he had. He let his thoughts go back to months ago, to when he issued the order to kill the Domingos and snatch his grandchildren. Just like that, kill them and take the children. No one had questioned him. They'd simply nodded. A done deal. Only, it wasn't a done deal.

The toad-like little man leaned back again and closed his eyes. He wondered if there really was a God and what He held in store for him. Felicia was forever praying with a string of beads, for all the good it did her. He turned his thoughts to the devil and wondered if he was real. Such jibber-jabber. The only person he believed in was himself.

Spyder looked again at the monitor and saw his wife and daughter preparing to leave the snack shop. Gretchen was propelling the wheelchair, while his wife was twirling her straw hat in the air. He looked past them out to the ocean, where his yacht lay at anchor. He sighed so loudly, he scared himself. If only . . .

Avery Snowden ran faster than he'd ever run in his life, his men right behind him. He shouted orders, which were carried on the breeze, as he headed for the dune buggies that would carry him and his men out to the coast road. Snowden hopped onto one of the dune buggies and said, "The bastard is going to make a run for it. C'mon, c'mon! Move it, guys!

"He's got at least a fifteen-minute head start. Son of a bitch! He cut a deal with that guy Finley. We can't let him get away again. The first time was a fluke. Twice, and our ass is grass where those women are concerned. C'mon, c'mon! Can't you make this thing go any faster?"

Snowden hung on to the overhead strap as the buggy raced down the road, his men right behind him. This isn't happening. This is not happening, he kept saying over and over to himself. But it was happening. Hank Jellicoe, aka Chuck Diamond, was getting away. Snowden knew he was going to lose him, knew it in every fiber of his body.

"We're here. Which way, boss?" the driver shouted.

"Take a right. See that plane over there! Head that way."

"Can't, boss. The barrier is up. We need to get out and run the rest of the way. Oh, shit! There goes someone up the steps with a backpack. Look! Look! He's turning around. Ah, the famous middle-finger salute, boss. Talk about stupid, dumb luck. The door is closing. Double shit! The plane is taxiing down the runway. No way we can make it unless you want a shoot-out right here."

"Son of a bitch! The bastard pulled it off," Avery Snowden said hoarsely.

"Bad timing, boss. Hey, we tried. There was no way to know how this was going to go down. Until those guys started packing up their gear, it was business as usual. Not your fault, boss," barked Jim Ryan, Snowden's right-hand man.

"Try telling that to Countess de Silva and the other women. The first time he got away, we let it happen. Those women captured him fair and square, and we let him get away. They are never going to forgive this one. We're going to be damn lucky if we aren't exiled here on this damn island for the next hundred years. Those women are not the forgiving kind. Nor should they be. This falls on my doorstep. I'll take full responsibility."

Snowden's men hiked back to the dune buggies, their weapons out in the open. No one questioned them or opposed them.

"Now what, boss?" asked Jim Ryan.

"Now we head back to the countess's villa and get our asses handed to us on a silver platter. Don't even think that guy is better than we are. He's not. He caught a break out of the blue and was smart enough to grab it. We came here to take out Angus Spyder or, I should say, exfil him, when the women are done with him. He was and is our primary objective. Hank Jellicoe was a bonus. A twofer, if you will. That part of our assignment has not changed."

Snowden looked upward and off into the distance. He undid the red scarf around his neck and twirled it in the air, the signal for the helicopters to stop burning fuel and head back to their home base.