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ocean, and then he could see it: the exit, a faint light cast by the moon revealing an opening. A way out.
    When they emerged into the moonlight, the two men found themselves on a tiny pebble beach, barely more than 15 feet in width, almost entirely concealed from the ocean by towering rocks to either side, and home to something that took John by surprise.
    “Son of a bitch ,” he breathed.
    A boat. Victor’s contingency. John felt like laughing out loud. They had travelled all this way to catch the lunatic and his paranoid mania and obsessive planning might just have ended up saving their lives.
    The boat was moored to a steel rod driven deep into the beach. John clambered aboard , pulling the wet rope with him. It had an engine, the use of which he dismissed instantly as too noisy. They weren’t going to make for the open sea, just for the next spot at which they could make land. The boat was a bonus, but the helicopter remained the real prize.
    After a moment’s search, John found what he was looking for under one of the low seats tha t ran port and starboard: oars.
    Further investigation revealed something else: a flare gun. John tucked it into his waistband, comforted to be once again in possession of something with a trigger.
    “Grab an oar, Ash,” he said. “We’ll go out around that rock.” He pointed to the rock to the right of the beach. “First chance we get, we’ll get back on land, get back to the chopper and get the fuck out of here.”
    Ash nodded.
    I’m the leader now , John thought. Shit.
    The boat was heavy, and they made slow progress with the oars, straining to manoeuvre it through the narrow entrance to the beach, muttering low curses of frustration. The tide was working against them, quickly draining the strength from John’s arms.
    He caught Ash looking at the controls to the engine and burned a glare into the pilot’s eyes until Ash turned away, his face flushed.
    It took them a long time, maybe as much as an hour, to finally get the boat out onto the open water and clear of the beach. The going got a little easier then; with less chance that they would strike sharp rocks the two men were able to put in smooth, powerful strokes to drag the boat, inch by inch, through the rolling water.
    The cliffs were steep for a long way, but John could see their destination in the distance, a drop in the rocky walls to a level that would allow them to leap from the boat back onto land. They would be losing the boat, trusting to chance that there would be no welcome party waiting for them, but it seemed like the only spot available. John pointed at it, returning Ash’s nod of understanding.
    It took them another thirty minutes, long enough that when they made the jump back to land, John’s arms were aching so much he was unsure he still had the strength to haul himself back up over the rocks. When finally he dragged himself back onto flat land, he crashed onto his back, panting as quietly as he could, eyes scanning the woods around him for signs of movement.
    It took him a moment to see it, the shuffling shape in the woods, maybe fifty yards distant. As he focused on it, he saw that it was not alone. There were other shapes out there in the dark, stiff-moving and aimless, blundering blindly through the forest. He counted five. There would be more.
    Shit.
    Ash hauled himself up over the edge of the rocks, eyes widening in surprise as John clamped his palm over the pilot’s mouth. John’s eyes narrowed and he nodded his head toward the figures in the distance.
    John pressed his mouth to Ash’s left e ar, breathing the words softly.
    “You know the way to the chopper from here?”
    Ash nodded; his face pale. He pointed to the east.
    “We go slow, and silent. ”
    Ash nodded again.
    It would have been a risky plan anyway: they had probably a couple of miles to travel and rough terrain to cross in the darkness. Still, John had hoped it would prove slightly more successful. As it was, the two men had