the reflection of the pool's light that Floyd held a pistol in his free hand. Floyd spoke to Barak. 'I will deflect them, mon. To the west. I know the property good, mon!'
'Be careful! You two,' said Barak to Whitehall and McAuliff. 'Go straight into the woods; we'll meet at the raft. One-half hour from now. No more. Whoever is there, leave. Pole down, mon. The Martha Brae is no good without a raft, mon. Go!' He shoved Alex through the door.
Outside, McAuliff started across the strangely peaceful lawn, with the blue-green light of the pool illuminating the stately wrought-iron furniture. He could hear the shouts from behind. Men had raced up from the entrance drive to the sides of the house. Alex wondered if they could see him; he was running as fast as he could towards the seemingly impenetrable wall of forest beyond the sloping lawn. He gripped the oblong receptacle under his right arm.
Long-forgotten instructions returned once more. Diagonals; make diagonals. Short, quick spurts; but not too short. Just enough to give the enemy a half second to assume position-aim.
He had given those instructions to scores of men in the Korean hills.
The shouting became an overlapping chorus of hysteria: and then a single scream pierced the symphony.
McAuliff hurled himself into the air, into the sudden growth of dense foliage that bordered the lawn. He fell into a thicket and rolled to his left.
On the ground, out of sightlines, roll! Roll for all you're worth into a second position.
Basics.
Fundamentals.
He was positive he would see men coming after him down the hill.
There weren't.
Instead, what he saw hypnotized him, as he had been hypnotized watching the two black revolutionaries in the high grass pretending to be wild pigs.
Up by the house - to the west of it, actually - Floyd was reeling around and around, the light of the pool catching the dull green of his field jacket. He was allowing himself to be an open target, firing a pistol, pinning the police to the sides of the house. He ran out of ammunition, reached into his pocket, withdrew another gun, and started firing again - now racing to the edge of the pool, in full sacrificial view.
He had been hit. Repeatedly. Blood was spreading throughout the cloth of the field jacket and all over the trousers covering his legs. The man had at least half a dozen bullets in him, ebbing away his life, leaving him only moments to live.
'McAuliff!' The whispered shout was from his right. Barak Moore, his grotesque shaven head glistening with sweat in the filtered moonlight, threw himself down beside Alex. 'We get out of here, mon! Come!' He tugged at McAuliff's drenched shirt.
'For God's sake! Can't you see what's happening up there? That man's dying!'
Barak glanced up through the tangled overgrowth. He spoke calmly. 'We are committed till death. In its way, it is a luxury. Floyd knows that.'
'For what, for Christ's sake? For goddamn stinking what? You're goddamn madmen!'
'Let us go!' commanded Moore. 'They will follow us in seconds. Floyd is giving us this chance, you white shit, mon!'
Alex grabbed Barak's hand, which was still gripping his shirt, and threw it off. 'That's it, isn't it? I'm a white shit. And Floyd has to die because you think so. And that guard had to die because Whitehall thinks so!... You're sick.'
Barak Moore paused. 'You are what you are, mon. And you will not take this island. Many, many will die, but this island will not be yours... You will be dead, too, if you do not run with me.' Moore suddenly stood up and ran into the forest darkness.
McAuliff looked after him, holding the black oblong box to his chest. Then he rose from the ground and followed the black revolutionary.
They waited at the water's edge, the raft bobbing up and down in the onrushing current. They were waist deep in the river, Barak checking his wristwatch, Alex shifting his feet in the soft mud to hold the bamboo sides of the raft more firmly.
'We cannot wait much longer, mon,' said Barak. 'I can hear them in the hills. They come closer!'
McAuliff could not hear anything but the sounds of the rushing river and the slapping of water against the raft. And Barak. 'We can't leave him here!'