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slammed the door.
    In the cramped darkness of the tiny room they could see the harbor’s water through the anchor port.
    Jason motioned with his pistol. “You first. I’ll cover.”
    â€œNo, man. Take me too long to get through th’ fookin’ hole. You go.”
    The door trembled in its frame as jagged holes admitted light from the passageway outside. Wood fragments buzzed through the air like angry bees. No sound of gunshots. Silencers, Jason thought. They weren’t using the arsenal of automatic weapons Alazar usually carriedbecause rapid fire quickly burned out sound suppressors.
    Jason fired two rounds through the shattered door. The SIG Sauer might as well have been a cannon in the confines of the small room. He didn’t expect to hit anything, but the noise should back Alazar’s men off for a moment or two, since their reluctance to use automatic weapons indicated that they wanted to avoid attracting the attention of anyone on shore, particularly the local cops.
    His ears ringing, Jason stuck the gun into its holster, made sure the computer was securely inside the back of his belt, and grabbed the anchor chain with both hands as he swung his feet through the hawsehole. He squeezed through the aperture until only his head was still inside.
    â€œC’mon, Paco!”
    In the dim light reflected through the opening, he saw Paco grab the chain.
    Jason was halfway down the anchor chain when Paco grunted. “I’m stuck! I can’t get through! The fookin’ bottle . . .”
    Jason’s feet were feeling for the
Zodiac.
“Dump the goddamn champagne bottle!”
    Above his head Jason saw Paco’s legs wrapped around the chain hawser. They struggled and went limp. Arms dragged Paco back inside.
    A face appeared at the opening.
    It was not Paco’s.
    Jason grabbed the pistol and squeezed off a shot, the report merging with the clang of the bullet ricocheting from the steel hull.
    The face disappeared.
    His weapon pointed at the anchor port, Jason used his other hand to snatch the inflatable’s line from the anchor chain and shoved the craft clear. He was tugging at the outboard’s lanyard when a spitting sound was followed by the hiss of escaping air.
    Shit, somebody had hit the
Zodiac.
    The motor caught on the third pull. Lying flat against the coolness of the thin rubber, Jason opened the throttle and streaked for the middle of the harbor. Something whined overhead and hit the water with a crack.
    When he was certain he was out of range, Jason cut the motor and considered his options. He wasn’t concerned about the
Zodiac.
Its inflatable hull was compartmentalized; one puncture wouldn’t sink it.
    Paco.
    Dead or wounded. A prisoner.
    Jason tried not to imagine what would happen to his comrade if he were alive.
    Orders were clear: If something went wrong, the mission was nothing more than an effort by individuals to revenge one of the many vistims of Alazar’s business. Neither Jason nor Paco were employed by any government. The United States disavowed any connection with such a violation of France’s sovereignty by mercenaries, even if one was a U.S. national. Any survivor was to vacate the area as quickly and quietly as possible, leaving his comrade to whatever fate he might suffer.
    Rules of the game.
    Fuck orders.
    Had the syringe contained the nonlethal dose as advertised, a sedated Alazar could have been dragged with them, used as a shield or hostage. Because of someone’s incompetence or dishonesty, a good man would likely die a very unpleasant death. Jason was not going to leave a comrade to the tender mercies of people whose stock in trade was death.
    Water slopped over the deflated compartment of the Zodiac as Jason made for the harbor’s mouth. Once he rounded the quay, he was out of sight from the
Fortune.
He beached the
Zodiac
on a rocky shore just beyond the lights of Chez Maya, a restaurant where waiters were stacking