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“The flying machine is coming,” Reynaldo said.

“I see it. I hear it,” Jose replied.

“It will be very dangerous to kill the comandante here at the hacienda,” Reynaldo whispered.

“Think of the money,” Jose told him.

“I have been thinking about the money. I am also thinking about death … about dying today if we do not escape into the jungle,” Reynaldo replied, gripping with sweaty palms the Heckler and Koch sniper rifle the norteamericanos had given him.

The clatter of a helicopter’s blades grew louder from the east.

“We were promised to be paid in gold,” Jose muttered, jacking a shell into the firing chamber of his carbine. “There is no gold in Belize. We will be rich men if we follow the instructions the americana gave us. All we have to do is kill the mad-dog Nicaraguan who oppresses our people, calling himself a soldier. Think of the gold, Reynaldo.”

“If we live long enough to spend it,” Reynaldo said in a quiet, deliberate voice as he removed the plastic covers from the telescopic sights on his sniper rifle.

“What about the others guarding the landing place?” Jose asked.

“They will not shoot us. If one of us can kill Comandante Perro Loco when he gets out of the flying machine, the others will not know what to do.”

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“Where is Paco Valdez?” Jose wondered. “He is the one to be feared.”

“In Belize City. Some of our soldiers captured two americanos at the Yucatan border. Capitan Valdez had them brought to him at the Gray Gull.”

“I hope this works,” Jose said. “If it does not, we are both dead men.”

“Our families are starving. We have no money. It is a chance worth taking,” Reynaldo reminded him. “All we have from Comandante Perro Loco is empty promises and empty bellies. We have no choice.” He added to himself, “And my Rosita needs the money for her operation.”

Jose knew that Reynaldo was right. When the offer came to assassinate Perro Loco, it had sounded too good to be true. But when the soft-spoken americana who made them the offer gave them each a pair of gold coins, with the promise of much more if they could kill Perro Loco, he was listening closely. To a Belizian jungle farmer like Jose, it seemed like a fortune, more money than he had ever seen in his life.

“The black machine is coming down,” Reynaldo said. “Wait until you are certain of your target. The radio message from Belize City said that Perro Loco would be aboard this dark helicopter.”

“I will not miss,” Jose promised, shifting the butt-plate of the fancy gun to his right shoulder, glancing around him to be sure none of the other soldiers guarding the landing pad was suspicious.

Jim Strunk, a transplanted Englishman with a Belizian wife and four children, crept outside the hacienda walls with a Glock 9mm pistol, a silencer screwed into the muzzle. A houseboy for the comandante had said he’d overheard two of the guards talking as they surrounded the landing space hacked out of the jungle near the hacienda. As Chief of Security at Comandante Perro Loco’s headquarters, Strunk

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knew what was expected of him. Killing two green recruits was a far safer bet than waiting to see if Tomas, the houseboy, was right about what he’d heard when Reynaldo and Jose whispered to each other.

Strunk was an ex-SAS sergeant from the British Army. The Special Air Service units were specialized forces used for much of the British Army’s undercover work, which would range from operating behind enemy lines to the surveillance and infiltration of terrorist groups. They were so well trained and deadly, the Americans had copied their training methods for their own special forces. The Americans’ 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta was created with SAS as a model, the SFOD-Delta intended as an overseas coun-terterrorist unit specialized in hostages rescue, barricade operations, and specialized reconnaissance.

When Strunk infiltrated Perro Loco’s band of terrorists, he realized he could go much farther and get much richer if he switched sides and allegiance to the man known as Mad Dog. He also got many more chances to use his specialized training in killing, which he enjoyed almost more than the money he was paid.

Strunk entered the rain forest canopy leading to the landing space, his senses keened. The comandante would not care if he shot a couple of men suspected of being traitors, or assassins. It would make Strunk look like he was doing his job, even if he was wrong.

There would be no one left alive to dispute him.

The heavy Blackhawk lowered slowly and settled onto the grass, its turbines making enough noise to deafen anyone who was close by. Palm branches swayed fiercely until the rotor mast began to slow.

Reynaldo knelt down to steady his aim, keeping his sights on the pilot’s head. The pilot would be Eduardo. A helmeted figure in front of him was unmistakable as the comandante.

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Reynaldo’s arms trembled with fear. What he was about to do would make him a fugitive, or a hero. The gold coins he’d hidden in a deep hole behind his hut were enough to convince him that what he was doing was right, worth the risks.

The turbines grew softer, slowing, as the blades began to stop.

Now, he thought, glancing sideways to see if Jose was ready to fire.

Jose held the Heckler and Koch to his shoulder, unaware that Reynaldo was watching him.

Good, Reynaldo told himself. The Mad Dog of Central America will not escape a bullet this time.

Jim Strunk saw a uniformed Belizian aiming for the helicopter at the edge of the jungle with a large, unfamiliar rifle in his arms. Tomas had been right to say that an assassination attempt would take place.

“You ignorant bastards,” Strunk whispered, jacking a shell into his Glock pistol, winding his way through the forest until he was only a few yards behind the soldier.

A look to the right showed him another soldier aiming for the helicopter, a slender youth all but hidden by vines and brush.

can kill both of them, Strunk thought, calculating the range.p>

He aimed for the first soldier’s back and pulled the trigger. A soft, puffing sound came from the Glock when it jumped in his hand.

Before the first soldier fell, Strunk aimed for the second assassin and fired off another quiet round.

The Belizian closest to Strunk folded over on his hands and knees with blood pouring from his mouth. His rifle tumbled from his hands. A bullet through a lung sent a fountain

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of crimson away from his face … He began choking as he slumped to the ground on his belly.

The second soldier did a curious dance, like a ballet move away from the tree trunk where he was hiding, embracing the stock of his carbine as if he held a beautiful woman. He made a half circle on one foot and staggered to keep his balance, his eyes bulging.

“Drop, you bloody son of a bitch,” Strunk muttered in his crisp British accent, checking to see if any of the other men guarding the landing pad had seen what was going on. Sound from the Blackhawk’s turbines would have hidden the soft puff of his silenced bullets.

The second soldier collapsed on his rump and sat there with his rifle against his ribs, staring off at the jungle. A bloody hole in the front of his khaki shirt was proof that Strunk’s aim was good.

Impatient, Strunk aimed for the soldier’s forehead and put a bullet between his eyes. The back of his skull ruptured, sending bits of brain tissue and plugs of hair flying into the bark of the palm tree behind him.

The Belizian’s head jerked backward and he fell against the tree, his eyes still open, frozen in death while he stared up at the branches above him.

“Some are harder to kill than others,” Stunk said to himself as he picked up the rifle from the dead man’s arms and turned to go back to the hacienda. He’d lost count of the men he’d killed a long time ago. At fifty, after following a career as a British Special Forces sergeant, the body count had ceased to be important. The global war had given him so many chances to take another man’s life that it no longer mattered. Dead men told no tales.

Reynaldo crawled across a carpet of thick grass and weeds to reach Jose. He could not breathe. It was important to tell

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Jose where he’d hidden the gold coins, since he had not told his wife what he was planning to do, or about the money.

“Jose,” he croaked, reaching for his seated companion’s left arm.

Jose would not look at him.

“Jose!”

Jose seemed to be studying the treetops. And there was blood on the front of his shirt.

“Listen … to … me, Jose,” Reynaldo pleaded as a wave of dizziness swept over him. “The gold … is buried … behind my house … underneath the clay pot. Give it… to Esmeralda, and tell… her that… I love her.”

Jose remained motionless. Only then, as Reynaldo was losing consciousness, did he realize that Jose was dead.

Two gold coins lay buried behind his thatched hut, and his wife did not know where to find them, or why he had them at all. At first, he wanted to keep his role as an assassin a secret from her. Somehow, he must get a message to Esmeralda before he lost consciousness … or before he died.

He struggled up on his elbows with a strange ringing in his ears, trying to focus on the clearing where the helicopter sat near the wall of the hacienda.

“Dios,” he croaked, strangling on blood.

Six soldiers stood near the flying machine. Two men got out of the cockpit. One of the soldiers was pointing toward the spot where Reynaldo lay beside Jose.

“No!” The sound of Reynaldo’s voice was wet, unnatural.

One of the men aboard the helicopter started toward him as he drew an automatic pistol from his belt. The soldiers were following him.

The only thing Reynaldo could think about was the gold, a fortune, enough to feed his wife and children for many years to come. But how could he tell Esmeralda where he had hidden the coins?

The sounds of heavy boots moved closer to him. He rested

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his head in the grass, gasping for breath until a deep voice spoke to him.

“Who paid you to kill me?”

Reynaldo knew he was dying. “A woman and a man. Americanos.”

“Who were they? Who sent them?”

Reynaldo’s eyes closed. He heard the cocking of a gun and then a loud crack as his skull was split in half. After that, he heard nothing at all.