J.J. stared at her. “That idea? The operation? A few days ago you almost strangled the kid for mentioning it!”
There were tears in her eyes. “Things weren’t so bad then.”
“I’m always the last to know everything,” Will complained. “What are you talking about? What operation?”
Luke filled him in on Ian’s idea of using Novocain and surgical instruments to remove the bullet.
Will was round-eyed. “And I’d get better?”
Ian shuffled uncomfortably. “It’s very risky.”
Will spoke once more. “Riskier than doing nothing?”
His voice was quiet, but the logic of his words resounded like a cannon shot. Yes, if they botched this operation, Will would probably die. But if they just left him …
“Wait a minute.” J.J. looked from face to face. “You’re serious? You say I’m crazy, and you want to cut someone open?”
“But if there’s no other choice — ” Will began.
“There’s the choice of not doing it!” the actor’s son exclaimed hotly.
“We have to help Will,” Charla insisted.
“Don’t let them!” J.J. pleaded with Will. “They’ll mess you up real bad, and by the time CNC gets here to rescue us, it’ll be too late!”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Lyssa said scornfully. “Who does less around here than you, J.J. Lane? We break our backs, and you treat this like some kind of tropical vacation! And now, suddenly, you’re so concerned about Will? What a crock!”
J.J. took a step back, shocked and hurt. All at once, he wheeled and ran up the beach. “Hey, you!” he shouted at the trees. “Whoever’s out there! It’s over! You’ve got to come get us!”
“Whoa!” Luke exclaimed angrily. “We’re not alone on this rock, remember?”
But J.J. was pleading with the hidden cameras and microphones he was sure were all over the jungle. “Hurry! They’re gonna cut him! They’re gonna cut him!”
Charla started after him. “Stop it, J.J.! There are killers on this island!”
With a furious look back at her, J.J. ran into the trees. Charla moved to pursue.
“Let him go,” ordered Luke.
“But the smugglers — ” she protested.
“They’re too far away. They won’t hear anything.”
The group straggled back to their camp. Lyssa helped her brother resettle himself on the raft.
“Captain!” J.J.’s voice carried from the jungle. “Mr. Radford! Whoever you are!”
Lyssa was nervous. “He’ll come back, right?”
Luke nodded absently. “He always does. Listen, we need to talk. I’ve got an idea. And to be honest, it’s scaring the daylights out of me.” He took a deep breath. “But if it works out, nobody’s going to have to operate on anyone.”
Silence fell. Luke had everybody’s attention. Ian leaned forward eagerly.
Even as Luke spoke the words, a part of him hung back, detached, amazed that it had come to this. Five months ago he had trusted a “friend” with his locker combination. A random inspection, a thirty-two-caliber pistol in Luke’s rolled-up backpack …
But it isn’t mine!
If the principal, the police, or the judge had believed those four simple words, everything would have been different. Luke Haggerty wouldn’t be standing here, about to suggest the unthinkable. A plan that was little better than suicide.
“The smugglers leave their cargo in the floatplanes,” he explained, laboring to keep his voice steady. “There’s no way they’d ever see me if I stowed away in one of the crates. The next morning they’d fly me off the island without even knowing I was there. Then all I’d have to do is slip away from them at the other end and go to the police.”
“All you have to do?” Charla was horrified. “Luke, you’re one kid. They’re three adults with guns. Plus who knows how many guys waiting at the place where the plane lands.”
“Yeah, but they’ll be looking for the shipment, not me,” Luke argued. “I’ll climb out of the crate while we’re in the air. Maybe I can stay hidden until there’s a chance to make a run for it.”
“That’s a big maybe,” said Ian. “You’re dead if they catch you.”
“Don’t you think I know that? But look, we’ve been on this island almost a month and we haven’t seen so much as a lousy canoe paddling by. Face it, the air force picked this place because it’s totally nowhere. It took more than fifty years for somebody else to show up here — the smugglers and us. How’d you like to wait that long to be rescued?”
A gloomy silence descended on the group. Luke knew he had them. “Yeah, it’s dangerous. But if we’re ready to operate on Will, we should try this first. It’s exactly the same risk — one life. And if it pays off, we get rescued. Once I’m back in the world, I can contact the police or the coast guard or somebody.”
“How will they find us?” asked Lyssa. “I mean, you know the island, but you can’t pick it out of a whole ocean.”
Ian spoke up. “I’ve got some papers from the base that give our latitude and longitude.”
Charla frowned. “When would you stow away? We have no way of knowing when the smugglers plan to leave.”
“That’s our biggest problem,” Luke agreed. “Actually, I can’t figure out why they didn’t fly off a couple of days ago. How long could it take to trade the cargo for the money and scram? Why would they stick around?”
Ian looked puzzled. “You don’t think — ”
Charla read his mind. “The suitcase! They still haven’t found the money! And they won’t leave without it!”
“That’s impossible!” Luke protested. “We left it right out in the open near their camp! We did everything but put up a neon sign!”
“The jungle’s a funny place,” said Ian. “Your eyes play tricks on you in there.”
Will looked even paler than usual. “If they don’t have their money, that means they’re probably out looking for it. We’re lucky they didn’t stumble into our camp by mistake.”
“We can’t let that happen,” said Lyssa with gritted teeth. “First thing in the morning, we’ll move the suitcase somewhere so obvious a blind man couldn’t miss it.”
“In the jungle there’s no such place,” Luke said thoughtfully. “We’ve got to do it right this time — even if we have to shove that suitcase down Fatso’s throat!”
Luke dozed in and out of uneasy dreams to the raspy metronome of Will’s tortured breathing. He had never been much of a sleeper at times of stress.
This isn’t stress, he reminded himself. This is being scared out of your mind.
He lay awake, staring at the sun canopy that covered them. Outside, their small fire cast a dim glow through the rubberized material.
The others were asleep, and all was quiet except — the snap of a twig seemed as loud as a gunshot. He sat bolt upright, instantly alert. He could make out a silhouette against the canopy. Someone was out there!
The smugglers! His mind raced as he wracked his brain for a way to wake his fellow castaways without alerting the intruder.
And then the head turned. In profile, Luke caught a glimpse of the outline of sleek sunglasses.
He relaxed. It was J.J., back at last.
Only a true Hollywood idiot would wear shades at night on a deserted island. J.J. adored those dumb glasses. He hardly ever took them off. They were one-of-a-kind frames, custom-made for J.J.’s father by Paul Smith, the fashion designer. Luke had an image of the boy blundering through the rain forest in the pitch-black, walking into trees because he refused to remove those ridiculous shades.
Luke picked his way around his sleeping companions. He noted that Will’s face glistened with perspiration. Night sweats again. And getting worse.
He stepped through the flap. “Hey,” he greeted.
J.J. stared into the fire, his arms hugging his knees. He didn’t look up.
Luke tried again. “You okay?”
“Fine,” came the hoarse reply.
/> Luke could tell that the actor’s son had not been far away. Anyone who spent nighttime hours in the heavy rain forest would come out eaten alive by mosquitoes. J.J. had only a few bug bites. Most likely he had retreated to the edge of the jungle at the first sign of darkness. There he had remained hidden, too embarrassed or too stubborn to rejoin the group.
J.J. flipped up his shades, and in the glow of the fire Luke could see he had been crying. “Did you do it? Did you cut him?”
Luke shook his head and explained his stowaway plan. “We just have to get that suitcase into the smugglers’ hands,” he finished. “We could use your help tomorrow.”
“Forget it,” said J.J. “Somebody has to stay here to meet CNC.”
For the first time, Luke felt no jealousy toward the actor’s son. When he looked at J.J. now, all he saw was a scared boy clinging to a half-baked theory because the alternative was just too awful. Because bad things like that didn’t happen to a movie star’s kid.
“You know, CNC isn’t coming,” Luke said almost kindly.
J.J. flipped the shades back down, shutting Luke out.
They had all messed up to get sent on the trip, Luke reflected. But in a strange way, J.J. was the grand champion mess of the group. For the rest of them, the very problems that had brought them to CNC had yielded strengths that had helped them survive. Yes, Ian was a TV addict. But his Discovery Channel knowledge had saved their lives time and time again. The same was true of Charla’s obsessed athleticism. Will and Lyssa had been shipped out because of an inability to get along. Yet hidden somewhere inside the fighting had been a loyalty to each other that grew stronger even as Will’s health failed. And as for Luke, it was misplaced trust that had started him on this roller coaster. But that trusting way had made him the only one who could bring this ragtag band of castaways together and keep them from losing hope.
That left just J.J. What was his special talent?
Spoiled brat, flake, impulsive hothead. Not exactly an impressive résumé.
How would that help the castaways through the most terrifying experience of their lives?
Charla shinnied quickly up the narrow palm tree. Twenty feet below, Luke, Lyssa, and Ian craned their necks, regarding her nervously.
“Quit staring!” she called down in annoyance.
But they continued to follow her effortless progress up the trunk. Did they expect her to fall and kill herself? When were they ever going to figure out that this was easy for her? Compared with a back giant, long-hang kip dismount from the uneven bars, this was nothing!
She continued her climb up the smooth trunk. The tree was tall — fifty feet, she guessed. But she wasn’t going all the way to the top. There she’d be lost in the canopy of the rain forest, out of touch with the ground. When she was about thirty feet up, she stopped and signaled the others.
It wasn’t exactly a panoramic view — in heavy jungle there was far too much foliage in the way. But this was the closest thing to a lookout spot they were going to find on this side of the island. She couldn’t see the Quonset hut, of course. The plant life around it was too dense. But she’d see the smugglers when they came to continue their search for the money. At least she hoped she would. Charla’s signal would tell the others where to drop the suitcase. She had to pay careful attention. Their lives depended on it.
An hour earlier they had found the suitcase exactly where Luke and Charla had left it — on the edge of the small clearing.
“How could they miss it?” Luke had asked in disbelief.
From the clearing, it was the most obvious thing in the world. But Charla could see how, just a few short yards into the jungle, it disappeared in the thick weave of foliage.
The waiting began. Now that was every bit as hard as being a star athlete. Hanging in a tree was easy, but hanging there for hours, knowing that if you let your guard down …
No, don’t think about that.
Hours. It felt more like months. Thirty feet below, she could see the others talking among themselves. The image made her feel alone and resentful. Stupid, she realized. Who else could do this?
It was amazing that, even after all these weeks, she was still so suspicious of the others. Were they talking about her behind her back? About how she was the poor girl whose father worked three jobs to support her training, and who went into debt to pay for CNC?
She shook her head to clear it. Yeah, they knew. But why should they care? They had their own problems to worry about. If there was a bright side to their terrible predicament, this was it: Being shipwrecked was a great equalizer. According to J.J., his father made thirteen million dollars a movie — twenty working lifetimes for her dad. But here they were both castaways. And neither was better, richer, safer, or more comfortable than the other.
When she saw the movement, it took a moment to identify it. Tiny gaps in the leaves and tall grasses gave glimpses of colored shirts, almost like staccato pulses of light.
Deep shock. She wasn’t surprised that the smugglers were coming, but by how close they were before she spotted them. She tried to give the signal — the hooting of an owl. But she was breathing too hard and couldn’t seem to manufacture the sound. Thinking fast, she kicked off a tattered sneaker and watched it drop.
Coming from thirty feet up, when it hit Luke in the shoulder, the impact knocked him to his knees. By this time Charla was already scrambling down the trunk. She leaped the last five feet, stepping into her shoe.
“They’re coming?” Luke whispered.
“They’re here!” Charla hissed back.
Lyssa and Ian looked around desperately.
And then they heard the swishing sound of legs plodding through the vines and bush.
Luke mouthed the word: Freeze, but the command was unnecessary. Fear had turned the castaways to statues. There wasn’t even time to duck down into the underbrush. The men were nearly upon them.
Charla’s mind worked furiously. What should they do? Fight? Run? She looked to Luke but his face was all horror and indecision.
A blue-jean-clad leg burst out from a fern not four feet away. She felt a scream forming in her throat. She shut her eyes tightly and grimaced it down. When she opened them again, his face was right there. Through the gridlike leaves of the fern, she recognized his red hair. This man was a murderer. The castaways had seen him kill one of his own people in cold blood.
And now he had found them.
Or had he? Looking straight ahead, Red Hair stepped right past them and disappeared into the jungle. Charla let out a low whimper and nearly choked on it. The other man was only half a step behind him.
She watched his beady eyes dart around. Had he seen them?
No, he was looking down — for the suitcase. She held her breath as he passed by.
The castaways stood frozen, breathing silent relief into one another’s faces.
Lyssa was the first to speak, her voice barely a whisper. “We are so lucky.”
“I don’t feel lucky,” Luke grumbled. “Now that those guys are past us, we’ll be chasing them around all day.”
“Wait here!” Charla snatched up the suitcase and ran off after the smugglers.
It was impossible to sprint in the jungle; a high-stepping jog was the best she could do. A low vine tripped her up, but she was able to use the suitcase as a shield when she collided with a tree. Careful, she admonished, speeding up again. If she knocked herself unconscious out here, only the snakes would find her.
As she ran, she formulated her plan. It was a classic outflanking move — used by track stars to get the inside lane. Setting herself on a course parallel to the smugglers, she raced ahead until she was sure she had passed them. Then she made a right turn, stopping where she estimated their path would take them. Hidden in the underbrush, she waited, the suitcase in her trembling arms.
Good-bye, megabucks. I’ll never see this much of you again.
A thin smile came to her lips. Her whole life, money had been a worry. Now she had her mitts
on a boatload of the stuff — in the one place where money meant absolutely nothing!
I wouldn’t take it anyway, she thought. It’s dirty money, earned with the blood of endangered elephants and tigers.
Crackling in the underbrush. The smugglers were here already! Only — where were they? Frantically, she looked around for the warning signs — swaying fronds, snapping twigs, hints of color behind the foliage. Nothing, except —
There, fifteen feet to her left, a stand of ferns was rocking. She had guessed wrong. And now she’d have to start all over again.
I can’t do this. A whole day of shadowing these killers, trying to predict where they’ll be —
Acting on instinct, she picked up the suitcase and hurled it with all her might into the smugglers’ path. While it was still in midair, she realized the mistake she had made. If the men saw it land, they would know someone had thrown it.
A body pushed through the fern. Oh, no! She was caught!
But wait! Red Hair was turned away, talking to his partner behind him.
The suitcase landed with a soft thud. Money spilled out.
See it! See it! See it!
But he didn’t. Charla was thunderstruck. She wanted to scream: There, you idiot! Right in front of your nose!
The jungle hit you with such a vast array of details. With that overload of input, it was possible to miss anything.
Red Hair was walking again. In a second he’d be past it. Charla was in agony. They’d never get the suitcase any closer than this.
And then …
“Ow!”
He stubbed his toe on it, looked down, and found himself gazing into two million dollars.
“I got it! I got it!”
Charla held her own silent celebration alongside the smugglers’ raucous one.
“Now we can get out of here!” Red Hair exclaimed.
Music to her ears. She followed the smugglers at a safe distance, keeping an eye out for any landmark that might point her in the direction of the lookout tree, where Luke, Lyssa, and Ian should be waiting.
Suddenly, there was a yelp, followed by the crashing sound of someone tumbling through the underbrush. Her stomach tightened. Her friends!