A similar workout was taking place back at Alban's, as the Croatian's throaty accent took on a higher quality when the cracking of his knuckles took a sinister turn, separating from their normal position within his fingers. The pain jolted him out of the unconsciousness he had been enjoying, free of the pain he had had to endure for the last several hours.

It began at dawn, when a group of armed men had burst into his bar before opening, taking him by surprise and beginning his workout. They had not even asked him what he knew. If they did, he would have sung like a bird. Or like Goofy, who stood perched, watching the whole ordeal from the safety of a dowel protruding from a notch in the thatched ceiling.

"We're going to rough you up just a little bit, now," one of the intruders said.

Alban had a hard time concentrating on the man's words. He was confused by this statement. Hadn't they roughed him up already, more than a bit? His lip was cut, his eyes nearly swollen shut, and his nose was a couple of inches removed from its usual place upon his face. Now his knuckles were enjoying their own vacation away from their homes as his fingers lay useless in unnatural, sideways positions across both of his hands. These strange intruders were professional, he gave them that.

But that was all he would give them, now. A defiant streak rose from within him, a spirit that he determined would not be broken by these gangsters, whoever they were.

He looked up at Goofy.

The parrot rested just above where the speaking intruder stood poised to delivery another blow to the side of Alban's head, one the Croatian knew would send him back into pain-free unconsciousness. Goofy was positioned perfectly, Alban realized.

With a weak voice, he called to his bird, to perform the duty he had trained the parrot for.

"Goofy wanna cracker...?"

The intruder, puzzled by this statement, looked up...

Zarina let go of the vine, landing with a hard thud on the firm ground across the chasm. For a few moments she laid still, the breath knocked from her. Through the trees and bushes all around her, she could hear bullets zipping by, their sharp whistle chilling the hair on the back of her neck. Silently, she was thankful Gridley's men couldn't even 'shoot the bull' accurately, let alone guns.

When the whistling stopped she slowly crept out from the underbrush, crawling away from the chasm until she was certain she could not be spotted by any of the pirates on the other rim. Ahead of her, the brush grew thicker the further from the chasm she crept. The roaring sound of the river diminished and eventually fell away entirely, leaving her surrounded by the songs of thousands of different insect species, amidst the knotted, twisting green of the dense foliage. It would be slow going, but she knew where the Silver Bird lay docked.

Whether or not Pullman and the mousy man with him made it, she was not certain. But if that were so, then she would carry Charles Leach's mission on without them. They were not necessary for its completion. Without another thought, she inched forward, immediately becoming enmeshed in trailing vines, which reached out for her, yanking her hair.

Pullman fell slowly through the air. To his left, nearly two hundred yards away,
sunlight cast a mosaic of colors in rainbow arcs through the mist of the river as it
cascaded over three hundred feet to the ground below. To his right, the river
continued across the floor of the chasm, flowing out of the valley and off to the sea. In the same direction, Pullman knew his salvation lay. The Silver Bird was tied to a rickety dock in a lagoon, waiting for him to come fire up her engines and get off this pirate-infested dump. Above him, bullets raced across the sun-streaked sky, with little cloud cover to block the hot sun. Somewhere across the chasm, Pullman knew Zarina was either making her way to the safety of the Bird, or lying dead and bullet-ridden on the ground in the underbrush.

He didn't much care which, because right now, he and this doctor were concerned only with what lay below them.

Or didn't, such as ground.

Firm ground. Even squishy ground would make Pullman happy right about now. The mouth of the chasm stretched out magnificently below them, sunlight glinting off the ribbon of the river. Surprisingly, ground did lay just beneath them, far above the chasm floor, approaching them swiftly.

Pullman didn't have much time to let the thought of it register in his mind before his body was kissing terra-firma once again. Not too gently, he and Dr. Taylor hit the ground, grunting with the impact, losing their breath briefly, but none the worse for wear. Pullman shook his head and looked up.

They had only fallen twenty feet or so, landing roughly upon a ledge against the cliff face. The ground beneath them was soft with green, verdant underbrush, resembling clover. Blessed clover.

Pullman looked over at the doctor, who appeared woozy but alright, then quickly kissed the clover patch. Someone up there liked him. Or the doctor. Pullman didn't care who, as long as he was part of it.

Dr. Taylor stirred, shaking his head and fixing his glasses, which had gone askew during their hard landing. He looked at Pullman as the pilot came slowly to stand above him. Pullman looked around the ledge. His eyes widened as he looked behind them to the cliff face.

A black opening in the cliff face greeted his senses. Pullman blinked, not sure what he was looking at. Could it be a cave he was seeing?

"It's a cave," Dr. Taylor said, adjusting his glasses and coming to stand beside Pullman.

"Very observant. Let's get inside and see what kind of cave."

Dr. Taylor followed Pullman inside. After a few moments, allowing their eyes to adjust to the change of lighting, Pullman noticed the cave continuing on, forming a tunnel leading from the back of the cave toward the interior of the cliff. The smell of charred flesh entered his nostrils. Either someone burned to death in here, or --

"Someone's cooking food," Dr. Taylor announced. "Back there." He pointed down
the tunnel.

"Let's hope what whoever's eating has four legs and not two," Pullman said.

"Unless it's monkey," Dr. Taylor noted. "Monkeys have two legs."

"I know," Pullman looked hard at the doctor. "I've met a few."

The implication was lost to the doctor as he moved to the tunnel. Pullman went behind him and tried to look down the darkened pathway, but could only see a few feet before the tunnel plunged into blackness.

"Shall we drop in on whoever it is?" Pullman asked. "Maybe he'll have enough for guests."

"I don't know...what if they're cannibals?" Dr. Taylor looked nervous.

"Just tell them you're a vegetarian."

Dr. Taylor did not seem assured by the comment, but silently fell in step beside Pullman as the pilot made his way slowly down the tunnel, watching for obstacles on the floor and along the walls. The tunnel was rough-hewn but seemed naturally made,a geologic fissure caused by water rushing through the rocks' interior millennia ago. Stumbling more so from the darkness than from any formations along the floor, Pullman and Dr. Taylor at last came out of the long tunnel into the large, cavernous interior of the cliff. Eons of limestone drippings had created a mosaic of greens and blues, as stalagmites and stalactites reached for each other from ceiling and floor. The echo of water dropping from unseen sources into shimmering green pools of phosphorus made for quite a beautiful setting, and would have been thoroughly enjoyed by anyone -- anyone except Pullman Brown, who was more interested in getting through this cave to his plane that awaited him. The cave, to him, was cold and damp, and the smell of burnt flesh was beginning to annoy him.

He and Dr. Taylor crisscrossed the large cavern, and found a small alcove at the farther end, where a small tunnel exited this great cave, continuing down for a small space, ending in the alcove. The smell came from the alcove. Within, a small man in ripped and ragged clothing, stooped low over a fire. Above the fire, the carcass of a rabbit was slowing turning over a spit. The man's clothes were not of native Indian origin, but were in fact older, worn out, greasy versions of the so-called uniforms worn by Gridley and his air pirates. It was obvious to Pullman that this straggly little man belonged to Gridley's squad of pirates. The question in Pullman's mind: once upon a time, or now and forever. Why was this man down in this dank, dark cave cooking rabbit, instead of up on the cliff top popping off shots at Zarina, Pullman and Dr. Taylor?

Pullman turned to Dr. Taylor. "At least he's not a cannibal." Dr. Taylor's shoulders eased a bit. Both men cautiously approached the little man.

When they had gotten to within range of the firelight, the little man jumped up, holding a ragged knife extended between them. "Who be you?" he asked in a froggy voice, one that had not been used to speak aloud for a long time.

"I be -- uh, I'm Pullman Brown, and this wisp of a fellow is Dr. Taylor, but I don't know who he is, really. He's just sort of tagging along."

"I am Doctor of Mythology at the University of Utah," Dr. Taylor reached out a hand to shake the stranger's, but the little man just stared at it, as if it were being displayed only. After a few awkward seconds, Dr. Taylor pulled his hand away and scratched the back of his head nervously.

"Who are you, stranger?" Pullman asked sociably.

"Who you calling strange, tough guy?" the man snapped. A feisty one, this little man.

Pullman put up his hands in mock surrender. "Just being friendly, mister. We found our way in here, and just want to find our way back out. That's all. I've a plane waiting for me south of here."

The little man squatted before the fire again. "Name's Jaramillo. Larry. This is my home. Did anyone see you come this way?"

"Doubt it. Our way in was unconventional. We came --" Pullman started.

"--from the cliffs above," finished Larry. "I know. That's the only way in from that direction. You either came from below or above. I'd guess above, unless you can scale the cliffs after coming alongside the river, which wouldn't exactly remain still to let you do it. So, am I right?"

"Pretty much."

"And I'd say that meant you were either enjoying a nice walk in the jungle above us, or Russ Gridley and his swine were giving you a tour...at gunpoint. Am I right?"

"Not exactly Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Jaramillo, but you'd give him a run for his money."

"Larry, please. I despise pleasantries. If you aren't in with Gridley, consider yourself in with me."

"Much obliged...Larry." Pullman answered. He and Dr. Taylor moved to squat opposite Larry by the fire. "I take it you and Grid are not the best of friends."

"He's a-"

"Got any more of this rabbit? I haven't eaten in a while." Dr. Taylor interrupted.

Larry looked up sharply, then nodded. "Be glad to. Pull up a stone and figure soup's up in ten."

Pullman liked this guy. A little wary at finding one of Grid's men so far from the compound, Pullman judged by his appearance, his "home" location, and his attitude toward Grid, that Larry and the air pirate did not part on good terms. Perhaps this Larry guy could help get him back to the Silver Bird?

"Suppose after we eat you'll be wanting the guided tour to the other exit out of here?" Larry asked.

Pullman really liked this guy. He did not beat around the bush. "That would be ideal. I've got to get to my plane so I can fulfill some commitments."

"I would think you'd like to get the Brown Hound back. I would if I were you."

The bluntness of this statement took Pullman by surprise. "You seem to know a lot about me and my problems," Pullman said. "Care to share the source?"

"Eat first, then we listen to music." Larry ignored the pilot.

Air Force One touched down at the International Airport at Aruba under the tightest security the small island had ever known. No one was allowed to move about until the presidential motorcade had been whisked away to the President's hotel a couple of miles away. The hotel was no different. Security people swarmed about the hotel lobby and valet parking strip like ants at a sugar picnic.

Arun enjoyed this attention, even though his colleagues didn't. It was part of the territory, he knew, and he might as well get used to it. Once his economic package gained acceptance at this summit, he would become the most powerful man in history. Security was bound to get worse...

...for everyone else. He would remain in its protected glow, untouched by the rabble wanting to gain access to his inner circle of influence.

As he stepped out of the Hummer limousine along the valet parking strip, he failed to notice the telescopic lens trained on him from a clump of bushes across the street at an adjacent hotel, up on the balcony of the fifth floor.

Behind the bush, a small man zeroed in on Arun's swarthy form and grinned. This was too easy, he decided. The President of the United States, in his sites, and he could pick him off in the blink of an eye. All he needed was the go-ahead from his superiors.

The radio clicked beside him. A call from his superiors.

"Kody here."

"Do not, I repeat, do not engage the target."

"You never let me have any fun, Allan."

"You don't deserve any." Allan was not his superior. Nor was he exactly his equal. But he was a friend, so Kody tolerated his poor sense of timing and humor. "Com One says to eagle only. Repeat, eagle only."

"Eagle only" meant Kody was to only watch his target's movements, not to engage the target, something Kody liked a lot, because it involved bullets. And guns. Usually big guns. Big guns belching fire. It did not matter that his target was the President of his country. He was only doing his duty. His targets could be anyone, except children. He would not engage children.

His radio clicked again.

"Kody here."

"Key position Five, reporting movement in southeast quadrant ten."

Darin Oberholtzer, another compatriot who liked big guns. Someone was moving into target range for him in the Lobby of the hotel. Someone potentially dangerous to the mission.

"Key Five, Eagle only. Report at one minute intervals only if yellow elevation prevails."

"Confirmed and affirmative. Key Five out."

The radio clicked off, and Kody resumed his "eagle only" boredom.

In the Lobby, someone was approaching the President. She was in a smart blue blazer, with white, pleated skirt, and a big, gaudy golden brooch on her lapel. Secret Service immediately surrounded the President, sensing danger. But the danger was only in her normal dress attire that seemed out of place. Who would wear a blue blazer coat in the tropics?

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," the woman reached out with her right hand and shook Arun's politely. Her red hair whipped about in the breeze. "I'm Maria Chidester, Director of the Hotel Brun. The other summit members have arrived and are already assembled in the Ballroom. If you and your staff care to follow me, I will bring you to them."

Arun nodded. Hand and foot. He expected no less.

Darlene Nagao, Munchie in her arms, Merrill and Chippy at her feet, blended in to the crowd of the Lobby of the Hotel Brun. President Arun passed within a few feet, led by the buoyant Director. As the last of the presidential detail disappeared into the Hotel proper, Darlene twisted a peg on Munchie's collar. "Com One to Key Positions. Stand down. Security clear. Target with Mother Hen. Repeat, stand down. Return to Alpha State." Kody and Darin would love that, she thought. No body count...yet.

"Very funny man," the stranger growled, wiping his chin and forehead free of Goofy's "duty". "Any other tricks your bird knows?"

"That was the best one," Alban answered, low and weak. He was teetering on the verge of unconsciousness.

"I have one better," the stranger glared with steely eyes into Alban's face, coming to within inches of the barman. Then the stranger abruptly stood up and called to one of his associates, standing nearby in the semidarkness of the bar. "Sticky Bob!"

One of the associates, a small, burly man with a bristly moustache and a sour milk expression, came forward obediently. "Yes, Simeon! Right here, Simeon!"

"Sticky Bob, I have a task for you, that I think you can handle," Simeon said.

Sticky Bob reached into his shirt pocket. Alban flinched, thinking the thug was going for a weapon. Sticky Bob pulled out a yellow square of paper.

Post-It notes.

Simeon groaned. "No need to take notes, Sticky Bob. Just tie the bird up, and put him next to this mass of pulp fiction."

"I can do that," Sticky Bob answered, re-pocketing the pad. He grabbed Goofy, who nipped at Sticky Bob's thick fingers. Sticky Bob winced, but managed to tie thick rope around the parrot's flailing wings, until it could no longer move.

"Very nice work, Sticky Bob," Simeon complimented him. He turned his attention back to Alban. "You see, my friend. Our tricks can be just as funny."

"You fiend." A tear formed at the corner of Alban's right eye. The left was still swollen shut. "You should be locked up, you animal."

"Thank you for the sentimental title. Now, are you going to tell us what you know about Pullman Brown? For instance, where he might be?"

"Pullman Brown owes me too much money," Alban spat through loose teeth. "I haven't seen him since..."

From the back of the darkened bar, a new voice sounded. "...since three days ago, when he was in here with Tony Vincent, asking where Russ Gridley had taken the Brown Hound."

"Very good, Eric," Simeon turned to his other roughhouse associate, Eric Morgan.
"Your people have been busy, I take it?"

"Money talks, Commander." Eric answered. "Flashed a little of the local currency
and tongues start to wagging."

"Nice." Back to Alban. "Hear that, Alban? We know he was in here at least three
days ago. Where did he go from here?"

"Why don't you tell me, if you think you know it all." Alban said.

Simeon kicked Alban in the midsection, separating a rib. "Enough with this slouch. Find more palms to grease, Eric. We'll leave this gentleman and his bird to die together in this establishment." Simeon looked around. "Bet it is a local hot spot..."

The thug laughed heartily as he, Eric and Sticky Bob left Goofy and Alban to lie abandoned on the floor of the bar.

Into the night sky, several minutes later, a bright flash erupted. Several people in the nearby village spotted the flames licking the tops of the trees, but they arrived too late. Alban's was a charred mess, smoldering in the chill night air by the time they arrived to help.

Tony was led by Gridley into the spacious white brick front entrance to Sand Dollar, a large private residence right on the beach. Tony did not recognize what island they were on. Since he knew most of the Caribbean, he surmised that this island must be at the far reaches of general air and sea traffic lanes, and uncharted. There were probably several hundred such islands, small spots of paradise in the middle of a bright opaline sea. Tony wished he owned one.

This sight of a large, gruff looking man in military crew cut made him wish he were on one, any one other than this one, whether he owned it or not. The man meant business, Tony could tell, and business probably involved a lot of pain.

Pulling his face up even with Tony's, the man grinned. "Evening, Mr. Vincent." The man knew Tony's name. Not good. It put Tony at a disadvantage. "Nice day for a workout?"

"No thanks, I just ate. My doctor said no workouts until at least three days after eating," Tony responded, knowing it would get him into trouble with the man. "Sorry. Doctor's orders." Tony grinned for emphasis.

The man laughed, then pulled back and let fly with a right arm swing that loosened a few of Tony's teeth. Tony's head bounded sideways, absorbing most of the blow and causing the man's knuckles to roll off his jawbone.

"Been slugged before, I see," the man smiled. "This oughta be fun."

"For you, or for me?" Tony asked, rubbing his jaw.

"I suspect both of us, Mr. Vincent. I like a man who swings back."

Tony raised his eyebrows. This was different, he thought. He did not expect this. He might have a chance of escape after all. But the look on both Grid's face and the man's told Tony he was fantasizing.

"Tony, this is Brad McFarland," Grid explained, and Tony knew he was doomed. Brad McFarland, Golden Glove champion ten years in a row in the Navy.

Tony was about to be whooped.

"Bring him into my gym," Brad instructed Grid. "We'll start light. We've got 'til Saturday."

Tony groaned. He hated Wednesdays. He hated gymnasiums.

Tony was led out of the foyer and down deeper into the building. He was taken past a room filled with electronic equipment: banks of computers, technicians with headphones listening to various machines. TV Screens displayed CNN, CNBC, Fox, and other 24-hour news programs. It looked to Tony like these people were listening in or viewing most of the world's main events of the day.

As they passed by the door, he could hear what sounded like the President of the United States talking to a lady about room service. Wasn't President Singh supposed to be in Aruba for a summit or something? It seemed odd, but the conversation did not sound like a news broadcast.

It sounded like Tony was standing right next to the President.

"I see you are admiring our network operations," Brad noted. "We have listening devices in a great many of the world's top executive boardrooms. We know what is going to happen before the stockholders know."

"Isn't that insider trading?" Tony asked.

"Only if you are Martha Stewart," Brad answered. "Just kidding. Who's gonna
know? Not even the executives know we are listening in. They would be hard pressed for an explanation if word got out. Be Enron all over again, magnified a thousandfold."

"Nice setup. Got it all figured out, do you?" Tony was scrambling for a way out of this mess. He didn't particularly like the idea of being this guy's punching bag, but he also didn't like not knowing what these people were up to. Was Gridley in on this? Probably not, he was not particularly bright. Just a hired thug, doing the master's bidding. But who were these people? He knew Brad McFarland from the Navy fame, but who did he work for? Was he the man in charge? Probably not. Tony would need to find out. It sounded like he would need to find out by Saturday. Saturday was turning out to be a big day for he and Pullman.

He only hoped Pullman would be around to enjoy the weekend.

It turned out Larry Jaramillo was a big fan of Cuban music broadcasts, pumped through the airwaves to a shortwave receiver he kept in his underground cave apartment.

After eating a meal of rotisserie rabbit and various vegetables scavenged from the surrounding area, the three men sat down to an evening of Celia Cruz and
other Cuban artists. Pullman actually found himself enjoying this. A full stomach and light entertainment calmed him down.

Abruptly, right after dinner finished, Larry stood up, taking Dr. Taylor by the hand, attempting to lead him in a dance. Dr. Taylor firmly but politely pulled away. Larry looked over at Pullman, but the look on Pullman's face told Larry not to go there. Larry shrugged at the two men and began to dance with an imaginary partner. Probably the same dance partner he's had since making these caves his home.

The news came on the shortwave. It talked about the U.S. President's visit to Aruba and the economic summit scheduled to begin on Saturday. President Singh had arrived at the Hotel Brun in Aruba that morning, and was preparing for his meeting with Canadian and Mexican leaders.

"You'll stay the night here." It was more a statement from Larry than a question. "Tomorrow we get you down from the cliffs to your plane."

"We couldn't leave tonight? My plane might be gone by morning." Pullman was becoming anxious. With all those pirates running about, and the fate of Zarina
unknown, he didn't like the confining feeling these caves were giving him now.

"In a hurry?" Larry asked. "You just got here." The look in Pullman's eyes answered Larry's question. "Gather all your carry-on baggage, folks, and exit in an orderly fashion. Follow me."

He stood and started for the back of the alcove. In the shadows cast by the waning fire, Pullman could just make out a narrow fissure. He knew Larry and Dr. Taylor would have no trouble squeezing into the crack, but Pullman was fearful he'd be stuck.

"You'll make it," Larry assured him, noting Pullman's expression. "Shadows make it seem narrower than it is." He went to the shortwave to turn it off. As he was doing so, voices came on, replacing the news broadcast. The voices were broken, intermittent.

But Pullman was shocked to hear what he thought was Tony's voice coming over the unit! Before he could listen more carefully, Larry had turned the shortwave off and was marching them through the fissure into pitch blackness.

The journey through the cliff's interior took most of the night. Larry had produced a torch, which lit their way thankfully. Pullman was claustrophobic most of the way, feeling like the walls were coming together to squeeze the life out of him. Larry and Dr. Taylor, he noticed, had no trouble flitting through the fissure at a quicker pace, so Pullman had to rush most of the time to keep up with them. As the sun was stretching its rays across the pale white/blue sky of dawn, chasing reds and oranges across the bottom of the clouds, the trio of unlikely allies made it out of the mountainous interior, out into the freshness of day. Pullman was never so relieved.

"Plane's over here through the trees," Larry pointed out.

Pullman stopped. "How do you know where my plane is?"

"I don't just listen to music and eat varmints all day..." Larry answered. "I know everything that is happening on this island... such as Gridley taking your co-pilot aboard the Brown Hound."

"How would you know this?" Pullman asked.

"I'd be interested in knowing this, too," Dr. Taylor put in. "You seem to know a lot."

"One of the benefits of living outside the loop, on the fringe," Larry said. "And having a shortwave doesn't hurt either." He chuckled. "Grid and his pirate companions flap their yaps over the airwaves on everything they do." He turned to Pullman. "If you want to get your other plane and your co-pilot back, they're headed to Mountaintop."

"That's Suaste's spread," Pullman said. "Wonder what they're doing there?"

Larry shrugged. "Don't have a clue about that. But I do know that Tony is expected to have a workout. I suggest you hurry and get your Bird in the air. Grid's men here on the island shouldn't be a threat to you. Not without Grid here to hold their hands."

Pullman shook hands with Larry. "You've been a lot of help to us, Larry. If there is anything..."

"...just pop Gridley one for me, that's all." Larry finished.

"Doesn't take much to satisfy you, does it, Larry?"

Larry chuckled. "Just my music and my rabbit fondue."

"We best be off. We've lost a lot of time already." And with that, Dr. Taylor nearly ran into the jungle underbrush.

"So long, Pullman Brown. Win one for the Gipper." Larry saluted and turned back toward the fissure.

"Don't stay up late, Larry Jaramillo," Pullman said. He struggled for a response to Larry's odd advice. "Don't take any wooden nickels?"

Larry nodded.

Pullman raced to catch up to Dr. Taylor, who showed no signs of stopping. At last, they both broke through the dense vegetation and onto the thumbnail stretch of sand. Sure enough, as Larry had predicted, the Silver Bird sat in the lagoon, rising and lowering on the waves coming up to the shoreline. Sunlight glinted off her canopy.

"She's a beaut," Dr. Taylor commented.

"So's the Hound," Pullman added.

The two started for the Bird.

"Tell me, Doc, what's your tale?" Pullman asked.

Dr. Taylor shrugged. "Not much to tell you. I am a doctor of Mythology as I said earlier. I was hired by someone to join up with this Russell Gridley fellow. Something about the Four Elements legend. That's all I know. I haven't had time to even see these legendary things."

"I have. It was me and Tony who gathered them up earlier this week. We thought we were done with them, but apparently someone else has plans for them. Otherwise, Grid wouldn't have had anything to do with them. He's not that sophisticated, if you
haven't noticed."

"I've noticed. A very primal man."

"And that's saying a lot about him."

At that moment, there was a large amount of rustling coming from the bushes beside them. Judging by the sound, definitely not one of Larry's rabbits. A boar, perhaps? Either way, Pullman put the doctor between them out of reflex. The sound stopped
and a figure stepped out into the pale, morning sunlight.

It was a tangled mess of black hair and wild eyes.

Those eyes glared at Pullman.

Pullman laughed.

"Nice of you to join us again, Zarina. Did you bring coffee and doughnuts?"

"Shut up, Pullman."

Zarina pouted and stomped onto the sand, charging for the Silver Bird. "Let's get out of here. I hate this island."

"Obviously you just haven't given it time." Pullman followed her into the Bird, and Dr. Taylor climbed in after them.

The Silver Bird hung in the air momentarily, basking in the rising sun, before dipping back into a small cloud, dispersing it through her props, and heading south.

"Where are we going?" Zarina asked, combing the brambles out of her hair.

Pullman looked behind him at Dr. Taylor. "Ever been to Mountaintop, Doc?"

"Can't say as I have," Dr. Taylor answered. "Is it a five-star?"

"From what I hear, all the amenities are first-class," Pullman answered.

"Mountaintop?" Zarina asked.

"Grid has nabbed Tony and taken him there. That is where Suaste lives, where we were to take the Four Elements after getting them back from Grid. Hey, be careful with that thing," Pullman called over his shoulder to Dr. Taylor, who was holding Darlene Nagao's mysterious package in his hands, rolling it around to look at the wrapping covering whatever was inside. "I still have customers to deliver for."

Dr. Taylor apologized and replaced the item back in the seat beside him.

"Well, then." Zarina checked her makeup, glaring into the windscreen to test her appearance. Then she glared at Pullman. "That pirate is making your job easy."

"Too easy." Pullman eased back on the throttles, stared toward the horizon, and settled the Silver Bird into a steady cruising altitude. He wondered to himself exactly what Grid was doing at Mountaintop. And what exactly did that hermit Larry Jaramillo mean by Tony getting a workout while he was there? As far as he knew, other than the Suaste digs, there were no spas at Mountaintop.

As the Silver Bird climbed higher into the morning sky, disappearing finally from view, Mr. Ingram lowered his binoculars and turned to one of his men. "Radio Captain Gridley that the Bird has flown the coop. He can expect visitors sometime today."

"Yes, Mr. Ingram, right away." The man turned to follow his orders.

Mr. Ingram addressed the remaining men assembled with him along the beach. "The rest of you to your planes. We'll follow along, just to make sure there are no mistakes."

In a matter of minutes, seventeen small propeller planes were airborne, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees after the Silver Bird.

"Wayward Sparrow online, Com One," Kody spoke low into his wristband. "We have audio."

Darlene was seated at an antique desk in room 3046 on the 30th floor of the Hotel Brun, having checked in right behind the Presidential entourage. Kody had switched targets at her request, starting up the surveillance gear in his room across the street at the Eskew Hotel. Keep me posted, Key Position One."

"Roger that, Com One. Last transmission is 'That pirate is making your job easy,' followed by Wayward Sparrow saying 'Too easy.' It's been quiet for the last few minutes."

"You said you confirmed through transmissions that they are headed for Mountaintop?"

"That is correct."

Great. A showdown. Just like the Miami affair. Too much like the Miami affair.

Senator Lynch hung up the secure line and leaned back in his chair. If that old fool Singh was going through with his economic package proposal, then he would just have to go through with his own plans. His phone call to his agent in the field was reassuring. The Bird was headed to the nest, the Egg on board. The Eagle had already landed. Saturday would be a big day for the world.

If it survived the can of worms these Birds were going to open in a live CNN feed. He loved politics.

Ginnie liked an orderly office. She cringed when even one scrap of paper was out of place. Ben knew this and did his best not to interfere with her structure. Her space. But he could not avoid her wrath when she came storming out to the mechanic as he greased and oiled the two remaining birds, the Purple Kingfisher and the Orange Duck. With the Hound and the Bird on assignment, these two old relics were needed to fill the needs of ongoing business at ASD.

"Something is not right, Ben!" she screamed. "Papers missing, signatures not obtained. You know I run a tight ship here."

Ben nodded and pointed at the two planes with the oil can.

"And a greasy one, I know, Ben." She couldn't stay angry with her trusty handyman. "Still, Ben, something is going on here. I don't like it, and I will find out. And when I do, some heads are going to roll!"