As soon as he had his breath back, Cory rolled over, propped himself on his elbows and wheezed, “Everybody okay?”

He got all the reassurance he needed from Tony when the photographer began swearing as only he knew how. He left him muttering and fretting over his precious cameras and turned to Sam, who was sitting silently with her arms draped over her drawn-up knees, staring into the darkening canopy.

“Sam?”

She flashed him a glance that stung, and in a voice so low he could barely hear it, muttered, “Yeah, I’m fine.” She turned her face away from him then, but not before he’d registered, with a small sense of shock, the fact that she was angry.

Angry? Why in the world would she be angry? He sat without moving, the question spinning in his brain. Fear he could have understood-not that he’d have expected it, this was Sam, after all-but…rage? It didn’t make sense, but there it was: unless he was mistaken, Sam was about as furious as he’d ever seen her. And Sam-the Sam he knew-didn’t get mad. Oh, she had a temper, for sure, but she’d almost never let herself show it. She cared too much about keeping her cool, keeping it together. She’d just about rather die than let anyone see her upset, angry, hurt or scared. He understood that part of her so well, maybe because she’d developed her armor the same way he had, as a fatherless child learning to survive among unsympathetic strangers. It was, he realized, one of the things that had drawn him to her from the beginning, that intuitive recognition of a kindred soul. He’d understood her, then, better than she’d understood herself.

He wondered when all that had changed. Because he sure couldn’t say the same thing now.

Night fell with a crash, the way it does in the tropics. The guards returned from their reconnaissance, muttering amongst themselves, and the retreat through the jungle resumed, although in a somewhat more calm and orderly fashion than before.

It was the third night in a row of these moonlit treks, with only catnaps for sleep, but Sam was a long way from feeling tired. She was too angry to be tired.

Idiots!

The word had zapped through her mind when she’d heard the first spatter of gunfire, and it repeated there now like a drummer’s cadence keeping time with her plodding, crashing footsteps. Idiots-they were supposed to wait for my signal! Why didn’t they wait?

She’d given the message. She was certain it had been received and understood. Stand by.

Clearly, either the government forces hadn’t gotten the second message-the one after Target located-or they’d ignored it. Either way, they’d jumped the gun and attacked al-Rami’s hideout without waiting for her signal to move in. What were they thinking? We could all have been killed!

Even worse, Fahad al-Rami had escaped. The mission had failed. And all this-the risk of seeing Cory again, digging up old memories, stirring up so much pain-was for nothing.

In the singing, sweltering jungle night, she felt angry, and cold…and finally numb.

As nearly as Cory could tell, given the overcast skies, it was getting on towards noon when they came to the village. The smells of freshly turned earth and cooking fires assailed him the moment he emerged from the jungle into the open swath of cultivated fields, scents as rich and brown and mouthwatering as the aroma from a king’s banquet table. And carried on the breeze from somewhere out of sight, sharp and heady as wine, came the unmistakable salt tang of the sea.

“Lord, I hope that’s food I smell,” Tony said plaintively, pausing beside him to dip his head and mop his face on the shoulder of his T-shirt. “I’m so hungry I could eat a bug. Better yet-a whole lotta bugs.”

Cory grunted; his own stomach had been complaining loudly and painfully since before daybreak. Small wonder-they’d had nothing to eat or drink since the meal they’d shared with Fahad al-Rami the previous afternoon, other than some fruits they’d found growing wild in the jungle which Sam had assured him were safe to eat. He’d been hungry enough to take her word for that, but once again had been left to wonder where she’d come by such knowledge.

He looked over at her now, walking a little apart from everyone else, her gaze fixed straight ahead, her expression aloof and distant. “Any idea where we are?” he asked her in an undertone, with a wary glance at the nearest guard.

She looked up at the lowering clouds and shrugged. “We’re near the ocean. Can’t be absolutely sure, we’ve been doing quite a bit of circling and backtracking, but if I’m right, this would be the south side of the island.”

He gave her a long, meaningful look. “That would put us only a few miles from where we left the plane.”

“Yep.” She aimed an almost undetectable nod toward the right. “Wind’s coming from there, so I’m guessing that’s where the water is. That puts the plane-” she tilted the nod back toward the left “-over thataway.” She flashed him a stiff and humorless grin. “Just in case…”

Once again he didn’t question her conclusions, but as he returned her smile he felt the same nagging sense of unease that had troubled him since they’d left the house in the ravine. Truth was, for the first time since he’d known her she was a stranger to him. He couldn’t read this new Sam at all, and that bothered him. He’d always been able to tell when something was troubling her, and it had never taken much effort on his part to get her to spill what was on her mind. Which was so typical of Sam-didn’t mind telling you about her feelings, even if she did hate showing them. But now he felt certain she was shielding herself, evading, deliberately keeping secrets from him, and it came as something of a surprise to him that he found that so disturbing, and even felt vaguely wounded, as if he’d had a door politely but firmly shut in his face.

The village was as tiny and primitive as the others they’d seen, no more than a cluster of houses tucked away on the far side of the cultivated fields, nestled between the base of a mountain and a wide gully that had been cut by a river on its winding way down-to the right, Sam had been correct on that score-to a small sea cove. There wasn’t much water in the river now, this close to the end of the dry season, but when the monsoon rains began, Cory imagined it could become a raging torrent in a matter of minutes.

They crossed the gully on a swaying footbridge, their armed escort sandwiching them, two in front and two behind. As they made their way along a dusty road between haphazard clusters of houses, once again Cory saw few signs of life save for the usual placidly foraging chickens. But here, instead of a feeling of emptiness and abandonment, he had an uneasy sense of eyes watching avidly from shadowed doorways.

After passing through the village, the road narrowed to a footpath that zigzagged up a grassy slope to where a large house with a thatched roof perched, half-supported by pilings, on the side of the mountain. It had a large veranda that looked out over the village and cultivated fields, the fringe of jungle beyond, and probably even, off in the distance, a hazy glimpse of ocean.

A short distance away, to the right of the main house, Cory noted a smaller house sitting by itself in the shade of a large tree. He could just make out the figure of a man leaning against the wall in the shade on the near side of the house, cradling an automatic rifle in his arms.

He moved close to Sam and nudged her with his elbow, then nodded toward the smaller house. Without moving her lips she muttered, “I see it.”

As they approached the big house, Fahad al-Rami stepped out from the shadowed doorway and moved to the edge of the veranda. He was dressed in a white robe now, with a colorful open vest over it, sandals on his feet and on his head an Indonesian-style cap similar to the one he’d been wearing before. Above the graying beard his cheekbones looked gaunt, and his eyes were sunk deep in shadowed sockets.

“Now you see what I and my people must endure,” he said, his voice cold and austere, looking down upon them as he might an invasion of cockroaches. Al-Rami almost spat words as he continued, “Persecution by government forces, aided by your American army rangers, is constant and unrelenting. Every day my people mourn the slaughter of our innocents-old people, women and children. Where are your highly touted ideals? Your concern for human rights? Your so-called Geneva Convention? Pah-I would be entirely justified in holding you three as my prisoners-hostages, if you wish-to secure freedom for my people and the withdrawal of all invaders from our lands.”

He made an angry gesture with his hand as he turned, and said on a regretful exhalation, “But…I have given my word and I will honor it. Again, I offer you the hospitality of my house. Please-come. Rest and refresh yourselves. Food is being prepared for you. Tomorrow my men will return you safely to your plane.” With that, he stepped back through the doorway and disappeared inside the house.

“Well,” Tony said brightly, looking around at his companions, “I feel all warm and fuzzy-how ’bout you guys?”

Cory let out the breath he’d been holding. “We should probably consider ourselves lucky,” he said dryly. Lucky we’re here, and not in that other house-the one with the armed guard.

He was just glad he’d gotten the interview pretty much wrapped. Not that he’d wouldn’t have liked to spend more time with his subject, maybe get him to let his guard down and open up a little, maybe get some personal stuff. But it looked as though what he already had on tape and in his notes-and Tony’s photos, of course-was going to have to do, and he was grateful enough for that.

Yeah, and all I have to do is get the material-and us-safely out of this place. When I’ve done that, maybe I’ll be able to breathe again.