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Jake, that’s exactly what I propose to do.…”
    So Jake Hayes had arranged the meeting; a meeting with Curtis in Belize at eight P.M. at the Fort George Hotel on a Tuesday in June. But Curtis had sent his whore and confidante, Laurene Catocamez, instead. Now the woman had proposed taking him to Guatemala in the morning. By taking his key had she also proposed something more?
    It would be a while before Hawker would find out. He exited the hotel to the walkway that led to his room. It was a clear Caribbean dusk: high, bright sliver of moon; orange afterglow of the setting sun; and a balmy wind that smelled of the sea. The Fort George Hotel was well named. Steel fence and barbed wire surrounded the grounds, protecting the outside entrances to the rooms. This was a more accurate picture of paradise in Belize and also of tropical retreats like Jamaica and the Bahamas; tourists had to be fenced away from the citizenry to protect them from the poverty and the crime and the hatred.
    Hawker was anxious to get the hell away.
    As he approached the door to his ground-floor room a rustling in the bushes drew his attention, a noise from behind. Hawker whirled quickly, reaching for the 9-mm. Beretta holstered beneath the sea-blue worsted blazer that he wore. But he was too late. Standing before him was the huge bearded black man he had seen moments earlier in the bar.
    In the man’s hand was a long-barreled revolver, pointed at Hawker’s face.…

three
    â€œYour name is Hawker? James Hawker?” the big man demanded, walking slowly toward the vigilante. “Answer me!”
    Hawker took a deep breath, trying to control the rush of adrenaline charging through him. “I have a policy against making sparkling conversation when someone is holding a gun on me.”
    The big man stopped and gave a deep, oily chuckle that was touched with the British accent of the islands. Hawker realized that the man reminded him of someone: Geoffrey Holder on the 7-Up commercials. “You are telling me you don’t answer questions at the point of a gun?” The man smiled. “If that is true, Mr. Hawker, then I am very surprised that you are still alive.”
    â€œThat makes two of us, friend. Now why don’t you just put that weapon away before one of us gets hurt.”
    The man laughed again. “Yes, you are the James Hawker I have heard so much about. Calm in tight situations, they told me. Fearless—even taunting—when confronted by deadly force.” The laugh turned into a sneer as the man took a quick step and slapped Hawker sharply across the face. “And do you know what my reply was, Mr. Hawker? I told them you have not yet met me. I told them that before I killed you—and I will kill you in a very few minutes—that I would have reduced you to tears, to begging for your life. I told them that I would have you on your knees.”
    His muscles tense, all his senses alert for the opening he needed, Hawker gave a mock sniffle as he wiped away the blood that now poured freely from his upper lip. “There,” he said, “I’m in tears. Now I’m begging you: Put that weapon away, you fat fuck, before I stick it up your dirty black ass!”
    Hawker got just the reaction he had hoped for. The big man’s nostrils flared with anger, and Hawker drew back the revolver to club him with it. As he did, Hawker stepped down on the man’s foot, knocked his gun hand away, and drove his fist deep into the man’s solar plexus. The huge man gave a guttural whoof , bending over in agony, as the vigilante took the huge right arm in his hands and drove it across his knee. The big man let out a shriek as the revolver spun wildly into the air and landed with a clatter on the cement. Hawker reached for the Beretta, but before he could get to it, the black man gave a brutal kick that caught the vigilante on the inside of the thigh, just below and to the left of the scrotum.