

Savage Island

Savage Island

by

Eric Wolf

Savage Island

by Eric Wolf

Published by Paw Print Studios

© Copyright 2020, by Eric Wolf

ISBN-13: 978-1534602397

ISBN-10: 1534602399

www.PawPrintStudios.biz

Cover art by E. Coyote Elliott and Laura Cummings

Part One

Opening Day

### Chapter One

The first combatant released onto Savage Island came out the center gate at a run just as the edge of the sun rose above the horizon and glared over the sea. Cameras whirred and turned to follow him as he cast around the wide sandy arena that bordered the Wall. All over the world viewers watched as he crossed what was already called the killing ground, and headed for the treeline a hundred yards away. The only weapons in view were the machete and long knife at his belt. He wore lightweight camouflage pants and shirt, and hiking boots. Green, black and gray blotches covered his face and arms in an artful lack of pattern. A camo cap covered his short curly black hair.

In his backpack he carried a couple of camouflage nets, another long knife, a collapsible shovel, lengths of cord of various weights, and several more pounds of food beyond the required three-day rations. He also carried the obligatory first aid kit, two liters of water, and water purification tablets. In addition in his pack he carried, among other items essential to his strategy, two collapsible plastic 5-gallon jerrycans. His fighting name was Scorpion.

He had the build of a football player, big, burly and hard-muscled. He was dark skinned, six foot three, and weighed just over two hundred pounds. His plan, obvious from his equipment, was long-term survival rather than immediate confrontation, so it was not surprising when he chose a path leading toward the interior of the Island.

It was good to be on the move at last. He had broken a sweat already in the humid warmth of the early morning that promised a sweltering day. He tasted the salt in the air, and the heavy damp scent of the jungle. He could hear the surf roaring under the cliffs that bounded the arena on either side, and the ruckus of birds and the buzz of insects in the trees ahead, and that was good. They would be his natural alarm system when the other combatants began to arrive.

He had drawn the first position, and that was an unlooked-for stroke of luck. For half an hour he would be the only predator out here. That gave him time to check out the island, and perhaps even establish a defensible position.

Aware of his foes lined up only minutes behind him, he felt the upsurge of a familiar excitement. When he was a soldier he had hated with an angry loathing every minute of his time in country. But this was different. Here there weren't any mistakes to make. Everyone on this side of the Wall would be a volunteer, and everyone of them was fair game.

Arthur Baines had made his plans. He would be careful; he would be elusive. He would kill only if he absolutely had to. All he had to do was stay alive for fifteen days. Then he would go home. Trish would skin him alive when he got there ― but it would be worth it to pay off their debts at last, and start clean.

He'd been good at this in the war. Now he would be paid what he was worth.

In the control room in the admin building a little red light appeared on the computer-generated map as soon as the Scorpion emerged from the Wall. A cheer broke out, and the director, Dr. Hari Mukhtar, led the technicians in a round of applause. Years of preparation led up to this day. Test after test had been conducted. It was one thing to do well in rehearsal, but now was the hour, and to see the red light blink on, and the long, medium and close shots of the Scorpion appear on the monitors lining the walls, was cause for as much relief as satisfaction. Everyone who could find an excuse crowded the control room where half a dozen techs manned their stations.

In front of the huge map, Jules Van Allan, owner and dictator, visionary and creator of Savage Island, nodded to the director, and raised his glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice in salute to the first combatant. His employees, who had brought his vision into being, saw and approved his gesture, believing that he was toasting the Scorpion, who had come to this Island to chance his life, prove his courage, and earn his reward. But Van Allan raised his glass to a man far away, who had no idea what was about to come down on him.

The technicians watched as the cameras in the tree line pick up close and long shots of the Scorpion as he left the killing ground and found a trail into the jungle. The trees and foliage had been artfully thinned over the last year, so that the jungle gave plenty of cover, but still provided good sight lines. The Scorpion showed up on dozens of screens as cameras tracked him near and far, but only one person in the world understood the sign he made with his hand as he entered the trees. Thousands of miles and many time zones away, Tricia Baines sat in front of the television, wringing the battered leather cushion clutched to her chest as she watched her husband on the big screen. "You stupid, stupid fool," she told him, as he headed into the jungle.

Half a world away, the emergence of the Scorpion onto Savage Island was greeted by screaming cheers from the sold-out crowd who had paid to watch the first day's combat live as it unfolded on camera. The coliseum smelled of spilled beer, the crowd noise was incredible, and dozens of bets were called in as Scorpion loped up a path between the trees.

"Go back! Fight!" a bellicose voice shouted over the noise. Other voices answered. In the dim lights eyes shone wide, faces flushed and not only with drinking. It was as though they themselves were there, as though they could smell the air of the island, taste the humidity, as though the next combatant, armed and ready to kill, was on their heels as well.

"Kill him! Kill him now!" someone shouted, though it would be twenty-eight more minutes before there was someone there to kill.

In the studio that adjoined the control room on Savage Island, on his first day in the job he'd been waiting for his whole life, James Grayson gazed into the camera, his blue eyes gleaming with excitement, and pitched his dark golden baritone just right. "This is the beginning of a new age of sport," he told his viewers, "the oldest sport, that pitches man against man in a battle to the death, for honor, for wealth, and for eternal fame among men. Not since the days of Imperial Rome have human beings seen such a contest as we are about to witness today. Is this a sign of the regression of human civilization? Or is it just the honest recognition of what we truly are? This remains to be seen as the excitement unfolds on Savage Island."

He sat back, emanating sympathy and concern now, rather than excitement. "But these combatants are not the faceless slaves of those ancient and departed days. Each of these men has a story. Each of them has chosen, for reasons of his own, to place his life at risk in combat to the death ― on Savage Island. And now, the first of these stories is about to unfold." Grayson smiled in a way that he knew made people feel that secrets were about to be told, and looked away off-camera at his invisible reporter. "Lucy? What can you tell us of the man now known as 'Scorpion?' How does he come to be on Savage Island?"

The light went off on the camera. James Grayson looked up at his monitor as the clip began to roll. It had been taped days ago, but Lucy Tran, tiny and exotic, in simple suggested-oriental clothing, answered on cue as though she stood by live to respond to his question. Lucy seemed to stand in front of a cityscape (thought in fact her picture had been dropped in by computer onto a stock shot of the city) as she told the viewers, "This is Oakland, California, in the United States of America, the home of our first contestant, who fights under the name of 'Scorpion.'" She smiled as though the name sent a tingle through her body. She was good, James thought. She was really good.

James wasn't supposed to have another sportscaster working with him. The whole thing was supposed to be his show. Lucy was just an assistant producer when she arrived, but she had conceived the idea of the personal profiles of the combatants, and filmed half a dozen of them on her own time and shown them to the producer, and then to Jules Van Allan. By the time James Grayson reached the island, her new position had been a fait accompli. He knew better than to protest. Lucy Tran was beautiful and sexy, her engaging gamin grin and her obvious interest in each of the combatants made even a dead-beat felonious thug out for the thrill of the most forbidden sport tell his story in a way that made his life seem valuable. And that was good for the show. And what was good for the show, was good for James Grayson.

Once enough combatants had been released so that they were all over the Island, and fights happened all the time, Grayson and his team would pull together all the fights of the previous twenty-four hours, and make a broadcast from them, which Grayson would report on. But for the first days of the opening week, Grayson would be broadcasting live, almost in real time. He felt a surge of elation. It was like being a sportscaster at the Olympics, where you are on all day everyday for three weeks. Only this was his show, and he was the only – well, almost the only – sportscaster involved.

James took a sip of water as, on tape, Lucy interviewed Arthur Baines while he packed his equipment. "Aren't you scared?" she asked him.

Arthur Baines responded with a half-smile at her seeming naiveté. "Of course I'm scared. That's part of it. I know all about that. But you know what really scares me?" He turned and looked at the camera. "Being broke in my old age. Me or my wife. That's what we're looking at now, and I will do anything ― " he shoved down on the contents of his backpack for emphasis ― "to keep that from happening." He looked down, adjusting the straps on his bag. "That's why I'm here."

In the next shot, Lucy stood in front of the Wall that separated the administrative section of Savage Island from the designated battleground. Dressed now in a soft linen suit that emphasized her slender form, she looked like she was made to be an exotic inhabitant of a secret island in the middle of an uncharted ocean. Over her shoulder, through the open gate, the fighting ground and the trees beyond were visible. Lucy looked grave as she said, "When Arthur Baines goes through that gate he will become both the hunter and the hunted, predator and prey, until he chooses to leave Savage Island, or until that choice is made for him. Will he achieve his prize? Stay tuned, there's more to know ― on Savage Island." And she smiled.

James Grayson almost smiled back at her. The real Lucy Tran was in the control room next door, standing beside Jules Van Allan, watching the monitors. In three weeks she had made profiles of almost all of the two dozen men who were scheduled for release today, and had started on the hundred and twenty others, already on the island, who would be released in the days to come. She was a great addition to the team, he knew. If only that didn't make her his rival.

James Grayson's early career had been a meteoric rise from intern at a local news station in Southern California, to reporter at a major station, to sportscaster, all in just a few years. His passion for his subject, his boyish good looks, his charm on camera, made him a memorable addition to any news show. His career seemed set, his future fixed; he would become one of the legends of TV journalism. When he failed to get two expected promotions, he moved to a cable network dedicated to broadcasting sports highlights. The company's subsequent descent into bankruptcy had left him in limbo for a time. He got back into the majors by taking the job of co-anchor on a morning show, and in four years, though well-paid, he'd felt like he was fading into oblivion. The show had just missed being canceled the last two seasons.

When Grayson heard about Savage Island, he caught fire. The audacity, the danger, the murderous evil of the very idea had riveted him. He'd seen at once that Savage Island must have a sportscaster, and that the sportscaster for this new ― this ancient, newly-revised sport ― would achieve a unique position, which could be his new chance at fame. He called on every contact he'd ever made in his effort to land the job. Oddly, the biggest problem he'd had wasn't beating out the competition; there hadn't been any competition. It had been in finding someone in the company to speak to, in order to offer his services. His agent had explained to him that, since the whole sport was of dubious legality, the number of cut-outs employed to hide who owned what, and who was running it, was just a precaution. But the fact that they hadn't put out a casting call, that they hadn't thought they'd need a sportscaster, was odd.

At last his agent ran to earth the executive producer finalizing the deal for the cable channel that would broadcast events on Savage Island He scheduled an interview so that Grayson could make his case. Grayson was surprised to be sitting down to lunch at Dino's in Hollywood, with a 20-something entertainment lawyer, but that turned out to work in his favor. Sam Iveson had grown up watching Grayson as a sportscaster, and was immediately excited at the idea of Grayson sportscasting for Savage Island. He'd promised his support in sending the plan up the ladder, and he'd come through. An executive producer had contacted Grayson's agent, and he'd been able to write his own ticket from that point forward.

As he sped across an unknown ocean in a huge, fast-flying helicopter, on the last leg of a long, long journey, he felt his fortunes rise as the Island grew at their approach. Staggering with jet-lag, weighted with inappropriate clothes, far, far away from Los Angeles or even New York, but still, here he was. In the right place, at the right time. He was certain of it. As they came in for landing, he leaned against the window, looking down on the lower peninsula of the island, bisected with roads, lined with warehouses, barracks, an administrative complex. He spotted the tall square building with the roof covered with aerials ― his studio would be there. There were little bungalows along the cliffs overlooking the harbor, and one red and golden villa like something right out of the Mediterranean ― that would be Jules Van Allan's house, he expected. And there was the Wall, very clearly demarking civilization from savagery, the rule of law from the law of the jungle. The phrases came easily to him as the helicopter set down. He knew they would. Savage Island was going to take off, he was sure of it, with every instinct he had ever had for this business, and he would be catapulted into the stardom he had always known was his due. Hands reached to help him step down, onto Savage Island, and into his destiny.

And now, here he was, it was opening day, and in the minds of all the viewers he was going to be the face and voice of Savage Island for a long time to come. He leaned forward to the camera and as the light went on James said, "You are probably asking yourself, 'Is this real?' Or is this just some choreographed reality show broadcast from an undisclosed location? Well, I can tell you this. I was in flight for twenty-two hours to reach this place. We are on an island. There is no other land in sight. There are twenty-three more men preparing at this moment to walk out today through one of the three gates that lead onto the island, all of which, beyond the Wall, has been designated a free combat zone. Until an hour ago, these men did not know in what order they would cross through the gates. These men have seen one another in passing, they've met in the induction center, during orientation, in the canteen, or in the armory. But each man's plans, each man's equipment, and each man's fighting name, is a closely guarded secret. And let me tell you, out there, beyond the Wall, there are no rules, but one. To get the prize, you have to live. To claim it, your opponent has to be dead. And how that happens is completely up to you."

Grayson took a pause, leaned back slightly, and turned on cue to face the second camera and continued, "There are twenty-three other men who will be released today, every half hour during daylight hours. The next one will pass through the gate beneath the wall in exactly ―" he looked at his watch, "nineteen minutes. And after that ― anything can happen. Stay tuned. You won't see anything like this anywhere else in the world." And he smiled.

Out in the combat zone on Savage Island, Scorpion reached a fork in the trail, and unhesitatingly chose the one that led to higher ground. It was a good idea to learn the layout of the island while he could.

The air was fresh, moist and warm. He felt good. Thank God he'd kept in shape all these years, at the Y, and teaching karate. His senses tingled in the knowledge that any minute now his first opponent would be released, and he would no longer have this island to himself. The adrenaline in his blood sent a well-remembered rush through his body. He controlled his excitement, focused his attention, and climbed swiftly up the slope ahead of him.

James Grayson said to the camera, "The Scorpion, with ten minutes to go before his first opponent follows him onto the island, has turned inland, and up hill. What is he planning? Well, there's no way to know for certain, but here in our studio we have," the camera pulled back to show the man sitting to his right, "Colonel Robert Dawes, formerly of Army Special Forces, and one-time Professor of Tactics at West Point. Colonel? What do you make of the Scorpion's action?"

Grayson had asked for an expert on tactics that he could throw all the questions to that he and his viewers wanted answered. The production team had come through spectacularly with Colonel Dawes. Grayson expected to know a whole lot more about fighting before Colonel Dawes departed. Dawes's contract ran for only three weeks, another reason why Grayson was pleased to have him around. He planned to use him to the utmost, and then make sure he went back home and stayed there.

The Colonel sat ramrod straight in immaculate jungle camouflage fatigues. Rugged and slight, with spiky short gray hair, his piercing blue eyes gave him the air of a predatory bird poised to strike. When he spoke, his voice was even, his words measured, but the light in his eyes belied his calm. He said, "Well, James, we have to take into account the fact that these men, these first two dozen combatants, have no idea of the ground they're on. Correct me if I'm wrong, but they've never even seen a map of island, right?"

"That's right, Colonel," Grayson had met the Colonel briefly the day before, and found the man irritated him. It was probably his air of infinite worldly superiority, Grayson thought. Well, in this studio, he was the one with experience and superiority. So the Colonel was just going to have to take his chances.

"Now this man, Scorpion, he has one advantage," the Colonel continued. "He's had these thirty precious minutes to scout out the ground and find himself the best possible position, and he's made the most of it, so that's very good thinking on his part. You can see he's headed for the higher ground, and that may allow him a view of his opponents."

"So he can see them, without their seeing him?" Grayson suggested.

"That's right."

"Is that what you'd do under the circumstances, sir?" Grayson asked.

"Well, you know, I'd want to know the ground . . ." the Colonel began, and then stopped.

Grayson slipped in, "But of course you wouldn't have seen the ground, like these men have not. What do you think you'd do in this man's position? What would you do if you were the Scorpion?" He asked several questions without giving the Colonel time to answer, and that would give the impression that the soldier didn't actually have all the answers ready at hand. It was really unfair, Grayson thought as he let the pause grow after his last question. There are all kinds of combat, he thought to himself. This is mine.

"Well, of course each man has his own choice of weapons, and his tactics will depend on what he brings with him into combat."

"That's right," Grayson interrupted him smoothly. "And what did the Scorpion bring with him. Lucy?"

The light went off as the next tape began to roll. The Colonel turned to Grayson and James thought for a moment he was in for it. But the Colonel said, "God, what I'd give to be twenty years younger, and out of this uniform, with an opportunity like this. God, what I'd give!"

And that was the trouble with his form of combat, Grayson thought, reaching for his water glass. Sometimes your opponent didn't even notice when he'd been slapped to the mat and stomped.

Behind the left-hand gate in the Wall, Manny Aklan checked his weapons one more time. He wasn't nervous. He just liked the feel of the weapons in his hands. They'd given him anything he'd asked for when he got to Savage Island. He liked the food, good and plenty of it. He liked the girl who'd come to his room last night, to wish him well, she'd said. To bring him luck. He smiled, hardening a little as he remembered her. He liked this place a lot.

He'd gone through their catalog when he arrived and picked out whatever looked good to him. Of course they'd had to come back to him a few times, because he hadn't paid attention how many points stuff cost in the catalog, but one of the guys from the armory had sat down with him, and they'd worked it all out.

He drew the long sword, the kampilan, from its sharkskin sheath. The sheen of the metal, the smell of the oil, pleased him. He swung it in a fast figure eight so that the air whistled. He hooked the karambit, the cat's claw knife, out of his belt with his finger and did a few moves. He'd never used one of these in a fight, but it was so cool, and so beautiful, he wanted to try it. He'd picked a big boar spear because that would give him an edge. All his life, he'd been the big strong guy. In Queens, New York, he'd run with his brother Jaguars, and when someone needed smashing, he'd done it, because then they didn't come back for more. And that had led to trouble, so he'd been sent to his dad's family in the Philippines, where some of his cousins ran a martial arts studio. They taught him that being big and strong wasn't enough, he had to be fast, too. Then he'd gone into the army, where he was the one who carried the other guys, and everybody liked him for it. There were parts about that he didn't remember once they got to Iraq, but after that he was home again, in Queens, until his leg healed up. But then he found out he wasn't in the Army anymore.

When he'd been shown the article in an airplane magazine, he'd thought it was a joke. "A Call for Brave Men Everywhere! Combatants wanted! Apply online!" But he'd gotten his little sister in to show him how to find the website, and they'd filled it out together. And now he was here. And in a few more he'd be out there, where a man could truly be a warrior.

"The rules are simple," Dr. Hari Mukhtar, the control room director, explained to the camera. "If you kill an opponent, you receive one hundred thousand dollars."

"One hundred thousand dollars ―" James Grayson echoed. ―

"One hundred thousand American dollars for each kill, deposited in the bank of your choice," Dr. Mukhtar agreed, "and five thousand dollars every day you stay alive."

"But if you die, you get nothing."

"You get nothing," Dr. Mukhtar agreed.

There were four minutes left before the next combatant crossed through the Wall. James Grayson let the conversation unfold, making sure each point was covered, so even distracted viewers would get all the information they needed to understand this game.

"What if you just wound your opponent?"

"You get nothing," Dr. Mukhtar said.

"And if you wound him, and he dies later?"

"Look," Dr. Mukhtar began to sound impatient at Grayson's intentional stupidity. "Every combatant has one of these." He held out something in his hand to the camera. They had rehearsed this, and Shang-zu, behind the second camera, was already focused on the little bead, about the size of a grain of rice, in the palm of the doctor's hand.

"And what is that?" Grayson asked.

"It is a chip, containing a homing beacon. It is what allows us to see that the Scorpion, right now, is climbing the ridge of Mount Hakluyt."

James glanced over at the monitor where the small red dot moved slowly along the map. He didn't know the island well enough to identify where exactly the first combatant was now but it was somewhere to the left of the middle of it, northwest of the Wall.

"It also monitors the body's heartbeat. It sends a signal to us, and tells us the combatant's location, and also the fact that he is still alive."

"Right," Grayson agreed.

"And each combatant also has one of these." The director held up an orange plastic ear tag. "These are ― attached ― to the combatant's right ear ― "

By 'attached,' the director meant 'stapled,' just like cattle, but Grayson had decided they wouldn't use that word. Combatants were heroes; that's what this story was about.

"And this is the prize," Grayson said to the camera, picking up the ear tag. "This is the hundred thousand dollar lottery ticket. And you can get just as many of these as you like, right? There's no limit?"

"Yes, but your opponent must be dead first."

"And you'll know that because ― ?"

"See?" the director turned the ear tag to show Brian the opaque button, black against the orange of the tag. "This receives a signal from the heart-monitor. When the combatant is alive, his heart is beating, this will be green. When he is dead, the signal will cease, and this will turn black. Only then can you take this from him. If it's not black when you return it to the gate, then ― no money. No prize."

"Your opponent must be dead before your prize can be won," Grayson said smoothly, and picked up the next part of the story, putting his hand to the small microphone in his ear. "I'm told the next combatant is preparing to cross through the gate onto the island." He watched as the monitor ran a replay of the long shot of the second combatant walking across the grass from the induction center to the inside gate in the wall.

A big, heavy man carrying a long spear in one hand, hefting his backpack over his shoulder, his shaved head wrapped in a black bandana. A couple of the security men and one of the technicians accompanied him. Ahead, a technician keyed the code into the inner gate, which opened at his touch. The second combatant, with his weapons and equipment, stepped inside, and the gate closed behind him.

The Wall, eight feet wide and twenty-five feet high, cut across the peninsula at the southwest end of Savage Island, dividing the administrative area from the designated combat zone. On either end of the wall were hundred-foot overhanging cliffs that extended along the edges of the killing field, until the Island began to widen where the jungle began.

Three gates, actually tunnels through the Wall, gave access to the killing ground. Ten minutes before his scheduled release, the combatant entered the six-foot square concrete holding area between the two gates, alone. A steel-mesh gate reinforced with steel bars closed the area at either end. The gate behind him, back the admin building and the clinic, could be unlocked from the inside. A combatant could choose to turn back at anytime, without charge or penalty, and leave the Island.

The air in the holding area was hot and stuffy, but Manny didn't notice. He tried to look out of the tiny holes in the steel mesh, and see if an opponent waited for him, but the mesh was too close together.

Above the gate onto the killing field a large digital clock counted down the time in red numbers. Not the time on the island, because that didn't matter, but the number of minutes and seconds before the gate opened automatically, releasing him onto the Island. Manny sheathed the tiger claw and the sword. He put on his backpack. He picked up his long, heavy spear and hefted it. Then he drew the tiger claw knife again, just to be a surprise if his opponent got past his spear. Fifteen seconds. He positioned himself a few feet back from the gate. He was ready. Manny smiled. The digital clock reached zero, and the gate in front of him clicked open.

In the studio, Grayson announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, here we have ― Jaguar Warrior."

The Jaguar Warrior charged obliquely through the gate the moment it opened, and took a position near the wall, spear poised, cat's claw at the ready in his right hand, while he took in the whole of the barren sandy killing ground, and saw that it was empty. His red and gold body armor glinted in the sun. The short cape on his shoulders caught the breeze. A jaguar skin covered his helmet in the back; the front was a snarling jaguar mask. He looked like a warrior from a fantasy.

"Wow – ow!" Grayson exclaimed. "That's – beautiful!"

"Not very practical," the Colonel added dourly. But his eyes gleamed.

Then the Jaguar Warrior hefted his spear in his hand, and trotted across the arena toward the jungle.

"He's going after him!" Grayson shouted. "He's going after him!" One of Grayson's best assets was that he really cared about whatever sport he was watching. "The Jaguar Warrior is on the trail of the Scorpion! How soon are we going to see them fight? Let's look at the big map," he remembered to add, before Dawes could suggest it.

"As you can see the Scorpion has taken the trail that will lead him up to the ridge, the highest point of the Island."

The monitor gave them several long shots of the Scorpion loping along the path through the jungle. Prior to the opening of the contest, many trails had been laid through the foliage, and small clearings widened, to offer the greatest possible variety of settings for combatant's fights. Monitors showed him coming and going, close shots and long shots, and Dr. Mukhtar in the control room nodded in satisfaction.

"The Scorpion is pretty far ahead," Grayson observed in the studio.

"Almost two miles," Dawes agreed. "These two warriors aren't going to meet anytime soon."

"But Jaguar Warrior is right on his trail! If Scorpion turns back ― "

"Jaguar Warrior could find himself between on enemy in front, and another enemy coming along behind him," Dawes pointed out.

"And that would be trouble."

"Real trouble. But it may mean that we'll see a really great fight."

"We're sure to see great fights today. I'm really looking forward to it. Let's find out more about the Jaguar Warrior's choices of weapons. We'll find out who he is, where he came from, and what brought him here, to Savage Island." Grayson stared at the camera with an intrigued smile until the light went out. In his ear mike, Richard Farley, his producer, told him, "We're giving you fifteen. First the retro on number two, and then we'll go into your interview with Mr. Van Allan. By then number three should be on, and something should be happening . . . "

Grayson didn't wait for more. He peeled off his ear mike and headed for his dressing room.

He conducted the interview less than twelve hours after reaching Savage Island. Jules Van Allan invited him to his office in the admin building, on the top floor overlooking the Wall. Unlike most of the architecture on the Island that was in various stages of completion, Van Allan's office was finished with antique paneling, dark wood bookshelves, and native works of art from Indonesia, the South Sea Islands, and various parts of Africa. Masks stared down at James from a high shelf near the ceiling. A pair of French doors led out onto a terrace with a view of the harbor as well as the Wall and the area beyond.

Grayson had been given a précis on his employer prior to leaving Los Angeles. He read that Van Allan was a Dutch native of Indonesia, and a successful businessman there, like his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather before him. The name Van Allan seemed familiar to him, and he called a former producer to find out if, perhaps, Grayson had ever had Van Allan as a guest on his show, but the answer was negative. Van Allan was very wealthy, with a fortune estimated in the billions of dollars. He had homes in Los Angeles, in Jakarta, in New York, in Hong Kong, and had been rumored to own a private island, which the world now knew to be true. It was thought to be located in the Asian Pacific, but Grayson was not yet sure of that.

Van Allan had been married once, and had two children who were deceased. The producer told Grayson that in the aftermath of his children's loss, he'd been on just about every talk show in the country, but Grayson had never hosted him. Grayson did not want to greet Van Allan without knowing whether they'd ever met before.

The man who came forward to shake his hand did seem familiar. Squarely built, with a wide face, high cheekbones and vivid blue eyes. Jules Van Allan was in his late fifties, with blond hair still showing among the gray. He was dressed casually in light-weight cotton slacks, a short-sleeved shirt, and hand-made Spanish sandals. The cut and quality of his clothing gave him an air of polished elegance, but it was his sense of suppressed energy that Grayson found intriguing, almost as though Van Allan himself were about to become one of the combatants on Savage Island.

His greeting could not have been more welcoming, or better calculated to put Grayson at his ease. "Mr. James Grayson! How pleased I am that you are joining us. I must say I often watched your show when I was living in Los Angeles. And now you are here! I hope your journey was not too fatiguing? Welcome to my island!"

"Thank you, sir," Grayson replied, returning the firm handshake. Still stuporous after his long flight, he turned on his charisma with a conscious effort, and summoned his reserves to project attention and interest. James was determined to do the kind of job on this interview he used to when he was young and hungry and on his way up.

When James had admired his office, and commented on the view of the Wall, the two were arranged and lit sitting in comfortable chairs, with the bookshelves full of leather-bound volumes and exotic curios as the background. Richard Farley, the producer, oversaw every detail of lighting, light make-up and camera placement, but he made no attempt to influence how Grayson conducted the interview.

But there was no need. Grayson intended that this interview would be a success. It was his job to allow Van Allan to present his case for creating Savage Island in the best possible light. And that was only fair, since Grayson was his employee. The TV company that was producing and distributing the Savage Island broadcasts was owned, though indirectly, by Mr. Van Allan. There was nothing on Savage Island, James had already begun to realize, that was not under Jules Van Allan's control.

"Mr. Van Allan," he began, "You own this entire island?"

"Yes," Van Allan spoke easily, ignoring the two cameras, the technicians, the sound men, the producer and his assistant, as though he were simply speaking intimately to a friend. James took note and mentally cut all the questions he'd planned to put Van Allan at his ease. His excitement rose over his exhaustion; this was going to go well.

Van Allan told him, "It was my good fortune, many years ago, to indulge myself in this kind of dream. It is a common dream, is it not, for a man to have an island all his own?"

"It sure is," Grayson agreed. "But you're not going to tell me where it is? I mean, I came all this way, but I have no idea where we are."

"That's right," Van Allan agreed. "In the present circumstances, the location of what I am now calling Savage Island must remain completely secret."

"But you bought it originally for your family?"

"Yes. That's right. My wife, my wife at the time ― we're divorced now ― we built a house here as a means of getting away from the noise of civilization, and to have a completely secure retreat to enjoy with our children, and our friends. But that was many years ago."

"Can you tell us, how you came to have the idea for Savage Island? How did it occur to you to use this place to reinvent the most savage sport in history? Men fighting men ― to the death?"

That was Van Allan's cue, and he gave his answer into the camera with an assurance and conviction that James admired. "Throughout history, James, for thousands of years, young men of extraordinary courage and daring have had an outlet for the ― the aggression that enabled the human race to get as far as we have. Every country still has these young men in their populations. In the past, they would have been heroes, brave warriors, defenders of the land. They would have had the opportunity to win fame and fortune and advancement by their courage. But we live in a decadent age. Now these young men are hooligans, vandals, thugs, or at the worst ― insurgents, or terrorists. And also, the traditional forms of courage have been set aside."

"You'd think, with all the wars going on these days, and the military always trying to recruit more soldiers, that there's lots of outlets for that kind of energy."

Van Allan reared up in his seat, an angry glint in his eyes. "Pshaw!" He shook his head. "You can't think that these are real wars? Wars such as men fought in the past? Where armies marched towards their foes, carrying their bayonets fixed on their rifles? Or earlier, where men carried swords, or rode horses with lances straight at their foes? No."

Grayson felt that clutch of excitement that always happened when someone he was interviewing said something he knew would drive the next round or two of the news cycle. He almost forgot to breathe. But Van Allan needed no encouragement or leading questions to continue.

"Today's wars are the actions of all-powerful bullies, exerting their tyranny over hapless civilians. This is not war, this is slaughter and thievery. Today's military fights only when the odds are overwhelmingly in its favor. Even then, it does its fighting from a distance, killing from miles, even thousands of miles away. Is this the action of a man of courage? I think not."

Grayson knew the case already, he had heard it when he'd sat down with the producer about this job. He realized now that Van Allan was no longer making a reasoned argument. Passion crept into his voice now, when he began to talk of courage.

"It used to be that when a man fought another man to the death, he had to be close enough to look him in the eye. Certainly in any form of what was considered to be honorable combat, the duel, the tournament, even in war, you faced your opponent. You put yourself in danger to work your will upon your foe. But now, now, blowing up an unarmed foe from a distance, fighting men by pushing buttons . . . " Van Allan shook his head, let out his breath.

"So, the men who fight here won't be fighting with guns?"

"No." Van Allan stated. "There are no guns on Savage Island."

"Bows and arrows? Crossbows? Slingshots?"

Van Allan smiled, recognizing that Grayson was clowning in order to change his tone. "They will not be available from our catalog. If you feel you must fight a man, for it to be an act of courage, you must be in equal danger when you strike at him."

"And may the best man win!" Grayson intoned.

"And may the best man win," Van Allan agreed. "What I am doing here, James, is bringing back what was one of the noblest traditions of manhood. I am reintroducing the values of courage, of honorable combat, and I am making it worth the while of heroes from all over the world to come here and prove themselves. I am offering a prize for every kill, as you know, of one hundred thousand American dollars . That's a fortune in most countries."

"That's a fortune in every country," Grayson said.

"But I am also offering a prize for any man who has the courage to step out onto Savage Island, to risk combat, and survive ― without having to kill anyone ― and for this I will pay each man five thousand dollars a day." Van Allan looked directly into the camera. "I call upon the courageous men of the world. You men know who you are. You who should have been warriors and heroes in another age. Come to Savage Island, and show the world what you are. Chance everything upon your strength, your cunning and your courage. And live, wealthy and renowned, forever afterward."

### Chapter Two

Far away across the seas the District Attorney for Los Angeles County left the courthouse to be intercepted on the steps by his former assistant, now the manager of his political campaign for governor of the state of California. "Dave!" he called genially. "What's up?"

Dave came up close to him before he spoke, not wanting to raise his voice in a public place, especially not where everyone knew the D.A., and they might be overheard. "Hello, John. I just came to tell you. He's done it. It's started."

The D.A.'s brows rose. He looked exactly like a man destined for high office. Tall and fit, with a square jaw and rugged good looks, he was smart and ambitious, and his wife was rich. He shot a look around him and then continued down the steps. "'Savage Island?' Live and in color?"

"That's right."

"And he's really going to let people kill each other?" John stopped at the corner and turned to face Dave Thornton, who had been his friend for many years.

"I don't know," Dave admitted. "Nothing's happened yet, but it certainly looks as though that's what he means to do."

His boss glanced casually up and down the street, and then asked in a low voice, "Anyone made the connection yet?"

Dave shook his head. "Not to my knowledge. You don't think it's a coincidence, do you? Van Allan coming up with this just when you've announced for the governor's race?"

"Not a chance. Look, you're monitoring the situation, right?"

Dave smiled grimly. "Not me. My son. He bought tickets to the starting day four months ago. He's at the Coliseum now, with his whole squash club."

"Well, call me if anything actually happens."

"You mean if someone dies."

"Right. That's the point at which I'll have to make a statement." The light changed and the two of them started across the street, Dave hurrying to keep up.

"Can't we just ignore it?" Dave asked. "Let the whole thing go by? I mean, it's far away, it's not in your jurisdiction."

"You think so?" John regarded him with that ironically raised brow that always made Thornton cringe. "Van Allan is still a resident of Los Angeles. I checked. He files his taxes from here. And considering his personal fortune, do you think for a minute that that's a coincidence?"

Dave shook his head. "You're right."

"I am right. Just you wait." John looked past him. "Whoops. Time to make my exit." He stepped to the curve just as his driver pulled his car up, and let himself into the back just as a reporter ran up.

"Mr. Savage! Mr. Savage!"

Dave stepped between the reporter and the car as it pulled away. The disappointed reporter turned to Thornton and asked, "Mr. Thornton, is there any truth to the rumor that Jules Van Allan named his island after the District Attorney?"

Thornton looked straight at him and said, "I'm very sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."

Out in the combat zone on Savage Island, Scorpion emerged from the jungle and climbed the trail to the top of the ridge. Up here a cool breeze brought brought a little relief from the heat. Certain that no one was close behind him, he paused to take his first view of the whole island.

It was larger than he'd thought. He'd come about two and a half miles, and he was just about halfway to the northern end. He stood on the higher of the two ridges, this one above the tree line. The second one, separated by a deep canyon, ran parallel to his right, covered with trees right to the top. To his left, the western shore was pocked with cliffs, boulders, and rocks far out into the surf. He saw a couple of rocky outcrops that made additional little islets offshore. He looked back toward the Wall to trace the cliffs to the right where they broke into a jumble of huge rocks, and then leveled out to a white gleaming beach that continued until it went out of his sight behind the second ridge. Ahead, both ridges fell away in a series of stony meadows, copses of trees, and a long stony beach at the north end of the island.

Back the way he came he traced the whole length of the Wall, with all three gates in view. He could see the L-shaped peninsula that lay behind the Wall. Some of the administration buildings were visible, the landing strip, the warehouses above the little harbor at the foot of the cliffs. He thought he recognized the building where he'd slept in a tiny, Spartan room for the past four nights, one of hundreds in the combatants' dormitory.

By now, his first opponent was somewhere behind him. The third combatant would soon follow, and after him, the twenty-one others that would be released before nightfall to hunt one another. He felt a pleasant thrill at the thought. Whoever they were, some of them were going to learn that the Scorpion was not easy to find, and was even harder to kill. The Scorpion was elusive, he was wary. The Scorpion was hardly ever seen. Ahead of him the trail lay along the edge of the ridge, with no cover for about a quarter of a mile. Just because he couldn't see to the Wall from here didn't mean there wasn't a position where the ridge was visible. Scorpion turned back down the trail, heading into the trees.

Grayson, back in the studio and on the air, listened to the voice in his ear and turned to the computerized map on the wall. "I am told ― yes, you can see it on your screens now ― Scorpion, our first combatant, has turned, he's turned back and is now going in the direction of Jaguar Warrior, our second combatant, and they could meet any minute . . . " He turned to the Colonel, beside him. "Colonel, why do you think the Scorpion turned back? Is he planning to fight? Wasn't he much safer keeping ahead of his opposition?"

The Colonel, who had spent the past week walking every path on the island , was able to look wise and knowing. "I think if you take a look at that ridge trail ― if we could get a good shot of it ― " The producer obligingly gave them the shot he wanted, and it came up on the monitor. "You can see that when you get to the top of the ridge, the trail becomes steep and narrow, and there is no cover at all for over a hundred yards."

Grayson replied, "But isn't that just the sort of defensive setup you want? Someplace where you're sure to see anyone coming up behind you?"

"Yes, but you've got to be sure to get there first, remember. Scorpion doesn't know how far behind his next opponent might be. And the last thing he wants is to be caught in a place like that ridge trail, with no room to maneuver, and no place to go. I think it was a tactical decision on his part, and I think it was the right one, for the time being."

"So he can meet Jaguar Warrior on better ground?"

"That's right. I think you're going to find, Jim, that choosing your ground is half the battle out there."

"All right," Grayson replied, reminding himself to tell the Colonel that he was never to be called 'Jim.' "And now we go to the Wall where the third combatant is about to enter through gate three."

Death sauntered to the gate in the Wall, his eyes calm. He wore black body armor in the style of the late middle ages, and a Norse-style winged helmet with a grating over his face. He wore a long sword at his left side, and a short sword at his right, and in his hand he carried a short spear with a long steel point, a cutting edge, a cross-piece, and a butt spike. There were knives in each of the leather vambraces clasping his forearms, and smaller knives in each of his long black boots. According to his specifications, the spear, the hilts and sheaths of his weapons, were black.

He wore a backpack – also black – with only the required supplies of food, water and first aid. Death traveled light, and that was part of his plan. It was also because almost all of his equipment points had been spent on his titanium body armor and helmet. His armor would give him the edge he needed to close with an opponent and kill him without getting hurt himself. His weapons skill, his years of training, and his experience, would do the rest. He was here to win, and win big. His opponents were here to meet – Death.

The inner gate in the Wall opened. The technicians escorting him wished him well. He ignored them, already in a world of his own. He stepped inside the narrow room, the gate behind clanged shut, and he waited patiently for the seconds to tick down, before the gate to the outside opened. When the seconds reached zero, the gate opened with a click and swung wide of its own accord. He stayed where he was, listened a moment, felt the air, and then stepped through, sweeping the open area with a glance. After a moment, it closed behind him. Death walked along the Wall to his left, looking at the ground. In front of the center gate he found the footsteps of one of the men who had preceded him, and following them at one side, headed for the trees.

"He's tracking him! He's tracking him!" Grayson told his viewers excitedly. "Did you see that? Brian, let's look at that again ―" Farley, obligingly re-ran the shot of Death glancing down at his predecessor's tracks before following them across the arena.

Grayson turned to the Colonel. "Here is one combatant who is eager for blood. He's gone after the Scorpion. Colonel, how soon before some of these combatants meet? Let's look at the map."

The map of the island appeared on the screen, with the new black light visible near the wall.

"There's Scorpion and Lone Eagle on different paths in the jungle, but these paths cross several times. How far apart do you think they are?"

This was information the technicians could bring up on their computers, but the Colonel offered his estimate nonetheless. "Probably three quarters of a mile. These trails do meet –

"And how far behind them is . . . Death," Grayson asked, reveling in the new name, "stalking them?"

The Colonel smiled. "About a mile. We still have a while before these guys meet."

"But that could happen any time," Grayson said, speaking with excitement.

The Colonel broke in. "There are twenty-one more combatants lined up to be released today. I don't think anyone needs to worry that there's not going to be plenty of action before too long. Mr. Van Allan is going to release as many fighters as this island can hold –"

"Combatants," Grayson corrected quietly.

"― and he's going to replace them when needed. It's just a matter of time."

"You're right, Colonel." He turned to look at the map, where the black light had just crossed from the arena and into the trees. "It looks like Death is going after the Scorpion."

"Yeah, but that guy's a ways ahead of him."

"But he's turned back. He's heading this way."

"For the time being. We'll have to see where he gets to."

"I can't wait," Grayson confided.

"Me, too," Dawes admitted with an unwilling grin.

Grayson looked at the camera. "In just a few minutes, the fourth combatant will enter into the killing zone, but meanwhile, Lucy, what can you tell us of the man who calls himself 'Death?'"

He sat back as Lucy appeared on the monitor, standing on the practice field on Savage Island.

Behind her a tall, slender man dressed in black sweat pants and a soaked black tee shirt performed a slow sword exercise against the sunset on the western horizon. Grayson, who hadn't seen this clip before, had to give it up to Lucy for a beautiful shot.

Jules Van Allan stood on the terrace outside his office and looked out over the Wall. He saw Death cross the sandy killing ground and enter the woods, an action mirrored on the large television screen inside his office. A bank of monitors on the same wall gave him rotating shots of all the combatants out on the island. Another monitor accessed shots from the cameras in the induction center. In addition, a computer on his desk allowed him to call up every camera on the Island.

When Death disappeared into the trees, Van Allen went back into his office. He poured himself a drink of juice from pitcher. He stood looking at the framed pictures of his children on his desk. Frozen in moments of joy, of accomplishment, bright youth and happiness. He raised his glass to them and spoke their names. He had planned this day for a long time. Out there somewhere, across the ocean and far away, District Attorney John Savage would by now have heard of Savage Island. When he had heard, he would start to sweat. And he'd feel the heat more and more, as events on the Island unfolded.

Grayson took the grand tour of the administrative complex the day he arrived on Savage Island. Jules Van Allan's special assistant, Ken Frize, conducted the tour, together with and his producer, Richard Farley, Shang-zu, the cameraman, who'd been with him on the helicopter that morning, came alone, carrying his hand-held and shooting as they went. They were shown the induction center, where combatants were implanted with a tiny tracking device and pulse monitor, and had their ear-tag affixed. Frize explained things to Grayson, who asked all the questions that viewers would want answered, while Shang-zu filmed.

Frize showed Grayson, and the camera, the Savage Island catalog, which contained every weapon, offensive and defensive, every piece of equipment and clothing available to the combatants, and detailed the point system which rendered every combatant equal at the start.

"You see," Ken Frize explained to Grayson and the viewers, "this is not just a contest of strength and courage and fighting skill. When each man chooses his equipment, his weapons, he is making tactical choices that will determine whether he lives or dies, whether he is in a position to win or if he will lose. Thus, a man who, out of his points, spends a hundred and seventy-five on a sleeping bag may be at a disadvantage to a man who spends hundreds of points on a pair of night-vision goggles."

"What determines the number of points each item costs?" Grayson asked.

He liked Ken Frize for his effectiveness. His slender, olive-skinned good looks, his expressive dark eyes, his British-accented English made him attractive on camera. He was articulate without being too wordy, and he responded to Grayson's interest and excitement. Grayson threw him questions at every opportunity, certain that they were shooting great material.

Frize answered, "The point system is something that Mr. Van Allan worked on for a number of years, while Savage Island was in development. He has a team of computer programmers who, for months, worked on how many points each man should have, and what a point is worth, and what it should buy him. Do you know they ran computer sims of combat for almost a year, while this place was being built? Some of the programmers are here, in the control room ― I'll introduce you."

"That would be great," Grayson said, thinking about putting together a documentary on "The Making of Savage Island." If this thing took off, and he was sure it would, they'd want one. But for now, "Tell us about the points," he guided Ken back to the question at hand.

"Each man gets a thousand points to spend from the catalog. In addition, he's issued three days' rations, water, water purifying tablets, and a first aid kit. For additional items, the general rule is, the more high-tech the object, the most it will cost. Night vision goggles cost four hundred and fifty points. A sword costs about a hundred, depending on what kind it is, and what you want done to it. Everything you take through that gate, clothes, shoes, even your underwear, you have to buy with your points. And, any additional modifications you want to your weapons, armor or equipment will cost you points as well."

"What if you want something that's not in the catalog?"

"Ah. Then it goes to arbitration. If it is allowed, the point value is calculated in comparison to everything else, and it is added to the catalog. The catalog is on line, on our website," Ken pointed out. "Anyone can access it. Anyone can go through and assemble a kit, and think about what they would take out there. There's a little sim where you can try out the equipment you choose against randomly generated opponents."

"And in this whole catalog," Grayson flipped the pages, "there's not a single gun."

"No," Ken said, with that same certainty as Van Allan. "No guns on Savage Island. This is about standing up to your foe, and facing him when you kill him."

"And will you be going out there?" Grayson asked, just to see what he'd say.

Ken grinned. "Don't think I haven't asked myself that. I think every man must ask himself that, once he knows about Savage Island. We are all descended from the kind of men who fought like this, and not too long ago. It's in our blood."

"But you won't be going out there?"

Ken said, deadpan, "I'm going to try and contain myself."

"Right." Grayson grinned back at him.

"And will you be going out there?" Ken asked.

Grayson felt a surge of excitement. Because you couldn't watch football without thinking about playing football, about thinking what it would feel like to throw the ball, to catch it, to try and stop that man, now, before he made the goal line. "I'm not a fighter," he heard himself say with regret.

"Yes," Ken agreed. "There was a time when every man trained for this his whole life. I read history at Durham University," he explained.

"I won't hold it against you," Grayson said. He showed him one of the weapons pages in the catalog. "A sword is a hundred points, but here, a machete is only twenty-five. Why so cheap?"

Frize shrugged. "Mr. Van Allan wants contestants to choose a machete." He grinned suddenly, exposing very white teeth. "It's a jungle out there." He was obviously pleased to get to use this line. Later, when he and Farley were editing the segment, Grayson cut it. After all, he was the star, and the star always gets the good lines.

Next they toured the equipment warehouse. Charles Gordon, the Master Armorer, met them at the door, with his assistant, Tom Biondi, beside him. Gordon showed them the rows of dozens of tables set up on the warehouse floor. On each table, the equipment for one combatant was in the process of being assembled from Biondi's master lists. Grayson was delighted. He had Shang-zu pan over one table bristling with medieval-style weapons, another dominated by a complete set of 16th century Japanese armor, one with piles of camping equipment, one with what looked like scuba gear.

James narrated on the spot for the camera, "Each one of these tables represents a gamble by a combatant, that his choice of weapons and equipment will enable him to emerge victorious over his equally-prepared foes. How will this play out? Which strategy will prove the most effective? We'll soon know more, on the first day of combat . . . on Savage Island."

"That's great," Farley told him. "I love how you always know just the right thing to say."

Grayson smiled, pleased. He was on an unknown island, twenty-two hours' travel time from Los Angeles. It was already going really well.

They met Lucy Tran when they went into the armory where the weapons were assembled, or created, or customized, under the direction of the Master Armorer. Shang-zu filmed Grayson watching a smith and his assistant make a specially-weighted sword blade, when Ken Frize came up to him and said, "And this is your associate, Lucy Tran."

That was the moment Grayson learned that he was to have a co-host. He took one look at her, noted her exotic beauty, her youth ― she must be in her late twenties ― and decided on the spot she must be sleeping with someone. He'd never seen or heard of her. She was probably a complete novice. He despised her instantly, and felt his snap opinion was borne out when she hardly looked at him, said almost nothing to him, and excused herself almost immediately. Grayson decided she was a cold, ambitious, conniving, and probably a narcissistic bitch.

Grayson had not seen Lucy Tran since that first meeting, but now, just a few minutes after Death had come out of his gate, and with three combatants nowhere near confronting one another in the next few minutes, he was grateful to hear Farley say in his ear, "Lucy's coming on. She's going to introduce this next clip."

"Is she?" he replied non-committally.

"We don't have much on this guy," Farley told him. "But Lucy did manage to talk to him."

Half an hour was a long time, on screen. Until there were enough combatants on the Island so that conflict was almost always either happening or just about to happen, the long minutes before the next opponent was released were going to lag. Rather than trying to jazz up excitement with the Colonel, letting Lucy carry some of that time was a great idea. Especially if she was boring. That would show everyone their relative worth.

"Great," he told Farley. "That's just what we need."

They were broadcasting the clip he'd made with Ken Frize about the catalog when Lucy came in. He pretended not to notice as she greeted Colonel Dawes, then walked behind him and took a seat on his left. A technician adjusted the lights, the sound tech adjusted her microphone. Grayson looked over at her and greeted her abruptly, with a big smile, "Hi. How you doing? You ready to go?" just as Farley counted them down.

When the camera light came on, Grayson turned to her. "Lucy," he asked, "what can you tell us about the combatant who calls himself 'Death?'"

To his surprise, Lucy's face lost its closed expression. As she replied, Lucy screwed up her face in self-deprecation. Not a lot of time on camera, Grayson noticed automatically.

"We don't know a lot about Death," Lucy told him. "I know from his application that he comes from Vancouver, in Canada, but that he's an American citizen, and that he flew here from San Francisco. You saw the clip of him practicing. He's been very focused since he got to Savage Island. Our Master Armorer, Charles Gorden, tells me he took each one of his weapons out into the field to practice with, separately, and then ordered a few slight adjustments. You know that weapons, though chosen from the catalog, are customized for each combatant, if that's the way they want to spend their points."

Lucy's commentary was all over the map. Grayson brought her back into focus. "Did you get a chance to talk to 'Death?'"

Again, Lucy's face screwed up. Grayson, considering the effect objectively, decided that she looked absolutely charming.

"I asked him if he would do an interview with me," she told the camera, "just so the viewers can get to know him. He told me he can't afford to compromise his concentration by giving away pieces of himself. And I respect that, James, really. So I asked him if it was okay just to film his workouts. And this is what we got."

The clip was already queued up; Grayson approved. It showed Death from various angles, with various weapons, working out on the practice field. They had shot in the morning, with the sun over the ocean backlighting him. In some shots he was simply a dark silhouette against the sky. He moved with beauty and precision, sometimes so slowly it looked like the clip had been filmed in slow motion, and sometimes so swiftly, his movements blurred. It was a three-minute clip underscored with trendy New Age music. James leaned closer while the tape ran, covering his microphone with his hand.

"That's nice work," he told her.

Her smile surprised him. Her expression changed to one of disarming sweetness. "Thanks!" she said. "That means a lot, coming from you."

Grayson felt his resentment against her lessen. She really was very attractive, slender and lithe, her clothes chosen for just a hint of the exotic, to set off her enigmatic expression; her make-up a little over-emphatic, to highlight her Asian features. Today she wore a high-collared white linen shirt with small gold buttons down one side, and a tight black skirt and black low-heeled shoes.

"Number four coming up," Farley said in his ear. "Two minutes."

As the camera light came on Grayson told the viewers, "We've got Scorpion making his way inland, we've got Jaguar Warrior heading, it looks like, for the beach, and unbeknownst to the two of them, Death is at their heels." He dropped his voice a touch, and intensified his gaze. "Death -- is stalking them."

The monitors showed shots of the combatant who called himself Death, moving quickly through the trees, his spear at the ready, pausing now and again to check the ground for tracks. Ahead of him, other cameras showed Jaguar Warrior moving slowly along the same trail, pausing to crouch and listen, then moving ahead again. Scorpion, far ahead of them both, had left the trail and was edging his way through the jungle, climbing around the bases of trees, pushing his way between the undergrowth, lost from sight to the cameras except by the slight movement of the foliage, and then in view again, crawling across a log over a gorge.

"These three combatants are on a collision course with fate, with destiny, perhaps to victory and riches, or perhaps to defeat, and death," Grayson intoned. He was really enjoying himself. "And now, behind them, comes another challenger, another brave man willing to place his life on the line to prove his courage and win his reward." Because she was there, and because she had been gracious to him, he threw the lead to her. "Lucy, tell us about combatant number four."

Lucy answered easily, without looking down at her notes on the table in front of her. "James, this is Lin Kim. He's from Daejeon, South Korea. He's twenty-five years old, just finishing a doctorate in philosophy at Chungnam University."

The monitor showed a long shot of a figure in full kendo armor being escorted to the Wall by a group of technicians. The armor was blood red, and the face of his helmet was painted in black and gold with the aspect of a demon. He looked, from a distance, larger than life and very impressive.

"That guy looks dangerous!" Grayson exclaimed.

Lucy smiled, responding to his energy, "Lin has been studying martial arts all his life. He is a world champion in kendo, but he also holds a second-degree black belt in tae-kwon-do. He told me that he is descended from a long line of Korean warriors, and hopes to prove himself worthy of their name."

"What's his fighting name?" Grayson asked.

"He calls himself 'Ghost Soldier.'"

"'Ghost Soldier.'" Grayson tried out the words. "Interesting name."

Colonel Dawes interjected, "It may be that in Korean it has additional connotations."

"It may be," Grayson agreed. "Lucy, tell me what he's carrying."

Lucy replied again without glancing at her notes. Much as he was inclined to resent her, Grayson had to respect her professionalism. She said, "'Ghost Soldier' is armed with the Ssangdo, the twin swords that are a tradition of Korean sword fighting. In addition he carries the great moon blade, the danwoldo, and a small knife in his belt."

"What's the danwoldo?" Dawes asked, surprised.

Lucy's face crinkled again self-deprecatingly as she tried to explain. As she did, the monitor replayed Lin Tan's walk to the holding cell in the Wall from another angle, with a close shot of the pole weapon he carried on one shoulder. As the Ghost Soldier stepped into the tunnel under the wall and the gate closed behind him, the technicians escorting him applauded and shouted good wishes to him. Grayson wondered if he was getting this send-off because some of the technicians were Korean. He made a note to ask about the nationality of the various workers on the island when he got the chance. For one thing, it might give him a clue about where in the world he was.

Lucy made shapes in the air with her hands, to explain the great moon blade. "It's a curved blade at the end of a six foot spear. It's a traditional infantry weapon in South Korea."

"Interestingly," Dawes added, "the double sword is a traditional Korean cavalry weapon."

Grayson felt pleased with the both of them. They were filling the minutes before Lin Tan would be released onto the Island with some interesting stuff. "That's the second guy who's taken out a spear as well as a sword," he remarked, throwing it back to them.

"Well," Dawes fielded his comment, "If I were facing a guy with a sword, I'd sure want something long and sharp to keep him off me, if possible."

"Will it work?"

"We'll have to see."

"Dueling spears," Lucy contemplated aloud. "That's going to be interesting." Both Grayson and Dawes looked at her. She hurried to explain. "You see, both of the spears, Death's spear, and Ghost Soldier's spear, are long and heavy. It's hot out there, and they are both wearing armor. In a fight with two heavy spears, strength and stamina are going to matter a lot."

"What's going to matter the most is courage," Dawes put in. "Having the guts to face down a guy pointing a six-foot spear at you."

"Or a great moon blade," Grayson agreed, and put in, at exactly the right moment, "and we are at five, four, three, two, one ―"

On the screen, the center gate in the wall opened. For a long moment, nothing happened. No one emerged. Grayson, feeling the seconds pass was about to wonder aloud if the Korean had lost his nerve. But then there was an almighty scream, and Ghost Soldier charged onto the killing ground, sword in his left hand, and great moon-bladed spear in his right. He ran about thirty yards into the arena, and then spun around, checking every direction.

"Ladies and gentleman," Grayson intoned, "The Ghost Soldier has entered Savage Island."

"Wow!" said Lucy. "That was some yell!"

The Colonel, mindful of his job to offer his insight and analysis of the combatants' tactics, said, "That is one time when the best defense is a good offense – when you're coming through that gate. Before you can see what's out there, it's good to just assume – it could be bad."

The Ghost Soldier was still turning slowly, watching for any movement in the trees beyond the arena, listening for any sound of an approaching opponent.

Grayson said, "If he wants a piece of the action, he's going to have to go and find it."

As he spoke, the Ghost Soldier straightened up, and with a smooth and practiced motion, sheathed his sword. He walked to the northeastern edge of the arena, where the ground fell away into cliffs overlooking the sea, and headed toward the trees. He walked as though he were strolling through a garden, his movements full of grace and purpose.

"He's heading into the trees," Colonel Dawes observed. "There's a path there that follows the coastline. If he continues that way he may meet Jaguar Warrior in just a few minutes."

Farley's voice spoke in Grayson's earpiece. "Check out the map. Something's about to happen."

Grayson turned at once and saw that the black light representing Death and the red light representing the Scorpion's position had converged.

"Wait," he said excitedly. "What's happening up island? Death is about to meet the Scorpion. Let's have some shots of these guys."

The producer split the screen with shots of Death and Scorpion. They were broadcasting live to cable channels, sports channels, and a pay-per-view website, but they'd given themselves a twenty-minute lag, so if their first choice of shot proved inadequate, they had time to substitute a better one. This ensured that the best possible coverage. It also gave Grayson and his associates a safety net, so that if anything they said turned out to be stupid, or wrong, it would be cut before it was broadcast.

Colonel Dawes explained, "While we've been watching Ghost Soldier make his entrance, our friend Death has taken a fork in the trail. This has brought him within ― it looks like just fifty yards of the Scorpion."

"He's seen him! He's seen him!" Grayson shouted, as though at a great play in a tense football game. "There! Look!" The producer played back the distant shot of the Scorpion, in his camouflage, turning suddenly and sinking out of sight into the underbrush. It was amazing, the way he faded right into the jungle. That such a big man could suddenly fit between two trunks, under a branch and down into ground cover, was remarkable. The camera stayed on him, but he was hard to follow, and when he at last lay still, you had to remember that that bump there was his shoulder, and that smudge of green, part of his head. Though the camera had him in a straight shot, he was almost completely out of sight.

"Talk about going to ground," Dawes murmured in appreciation. "That was something."

"Here comes Death," Grayson said. "Up the trail and into our friend Scorpion's sights. What will happen next? Are they going to do it? Will they really do it?"

"That's what they're here for," Colonel Dawes opined grimly.

Lucy sat frozen. She seemed to have forgotten where she was, Grayson thought, in the tension of the moment.

On the monitor, Death crept down the trail, then paused to listen, to look, to read the ground for sign, then moved swiftly ahead again. On camera, it seemed as though the two of them were almost close enough to touch one another, though the map showed they were still yards apart.

"Has he seen him?" Grayson found that he was speaking quietly, as though not to disturb the concentration of the two combatants, far away and out of hearing though they were.

The Colonel also spoke quietly. "Not yet. Death still doesn't know that the Scorpion is just ahead. This would be a good moment ― while Death is completely unaware ― if he were to attack he would have a distinct advantage, a momentary edge over his opponent that could make all the difference."

"Sneaking up on Death," Grayson said happily. "This is what it looks like."

And then nobody spoke, as Death stepped a few paces past where the Scorpion crouched in hiding, and turned, so that his back was to his unseen enemy. All over the island, people standing in front of their monitors waited. Far away, in a stadium in Los Angeles, in a sport center in San Jose, and in New York's Covent Garden, where the smell of spilled beer was rank in the air, the crowd, for the first time that day, was almost hushed. Up in his office, Jules Van Allan and his assistant stood before the big screen monitor, and waited to see what might happen next.

### Chapter Three

Out in the jungle, Scorpion and Death crouched and stood so quietly that around them the birds and insects buzzed and chattered unconcerned. Arthur Baines remembered his old lessons. He didn't look directly at the guy in black on the trail fifteen feet away. If you looked directly at them, they could feel your attention. That was what made the hair on the back of their necks stand up; that was what let them know they were being watched. This guy was being careful. He was patient, and he was sharp. Arthur widened his focus. He saw the sunlight reflected on the leaves. He saw all the different shades of green, dark almost to blue-green, light almost to yellow, with highlights of silver where the sun was able to penetrate the canopy above. He sensed the movement of the birds. He smelled leaf rot and ozone. He felt his breath moving slowly through his throat. He heard his heart pounding, felt the old pain in his knee sharpen and the ache in his back as he crouched, unmoving, one hand resting on the hilt of his machete. He felt the tension, the excitement, in the man not far away, who suddenly backed off twenty paces down the trail, and turned away.

Arthur, together with several million other people, let out a long breath. On the couch, in their apartment in Oakland, Tricia Baines, wife of the Scorpion, let out a breath that was more like a sob, and clutched the leather pillow to her chest.

"What was that?" Grayson asked. He felt outraged. He felt cheated. There should have been a fight! These two warriors had come from the corners of the earth to face each other in combat, and one of them had ducked out. He said as much, but Dawes overrode him.

"He's taking a reasonable precaution, that's all," Colonel Dawes said. "You have to look at his position."

"Come on," said Grayson, "Scorpion had the guy cold. Death wasn't even looking at him. He could have killed him before he even turned around."

"I don't think so," Dawes argued. "He was easily fifteen feet away. And remember, Scorpion's got a machete, but Death has a spear. If Scorpion came out of that undergrowth, Death would have turned around, and could have killed him before Scorpion ever got near enough to take a swipe at him."

"Yeah," said Grayson, "but it was Death that backed off, not Scorpion."

Dawes nodded. "Death came out tracking whoever was ahead of him. But he knows that by now, there is someone behind him, someone who may be doing the same thing to him. If he really thought Scorpion was nearby, the last thing he wants to do is get in a position where there's somebody ahead of him, and somebody behind him. In that case, whoever he turns his back on is probably going to kill him."

"I see," said Grayson. "So basically these guys are just being very, very careful."

"With their lives on the line, can you blame them?" Dawes asked. "It's all or nothing out . At some point, somebody is going to make a big mistake, and he's going to pay the ultimate price for it. In this case, neither Death nor Scorpion made any mistake at all. Both of them are still alive."

"To fight another day," Grayson finished for him.

"To fight another day," Dawes agreed.

"All right, let's find out more about our latest combatant, Ghost Soldier. Lucy? What can you tell us?"

The light went out on the camera as Lucy's clip on Lin Kim came up on the monitor. It showed her dressed in light-weight slacks and a dark blue silk shirt, and long, silver earrings, talking with a slender young Asian man wearing traditional taekwondo uniform, a black jacket tied with frogs down the middle, white cuffs to the sleeves, and black cotton gi pants. Beside him on a table lay his blood red Japanese-style armor. His swords were next to it, in lacquer sheaths, resting on a wooden stand. He spoke to Lucy in Korean, and a voice-over translated for him. "I've always loved the martial arts. I got my black belt in taekwondo when I was thirteen. I picked up kendo when I was in high school. I was the national champion two years in a row. Last year I was the world champion as well." A quick shot of a kendo competition in a large venue; two unidentifiable men running at each other, screaming and slashing with their wooden swords. There was no way to tell whether that was in fact a shot of Lin in the national championships. Everyone who saw it would just assume that it was. James smiled and reached for his glass of water. He looked over at Lucy and winked, "Smart work."

She dropped her eyes. "Thanks."

Grayson found his resentment of her abating. She was doing a good job, and that would help to make him look good. And she wasn't pushing herself forward. She waited for him to throw her a line, and then carried it awhile. She gave it up and fed it back to him before he had been out of the conversation for more than a few seconds. Grayson was beginning to think she might be an asset to his show. He was also intrigued by the way she could be reserved one minute, and entrancingly enthusiastic the next, and the way her face crinkled up when she made that change. He expanded to include the Colonel in his praise.

"Really," he said, "both of you. That was great patter, Colonel."

The Colonel lifted a hand to him as he headed for the men's room. Grayson turned back to the monitor.

In a close shot, a handsome young Korean with sad eyes spoke to the camera, while an emotionless male voice translated for him. "I trained in martial arts all my life. Everything else I did, you know, school, parties, work . . . " Lin shrugged a few seconds ahead of the translation, "seemed empty. But until I heard about Savage Island, I didn't know what it was for." Pause. A slight smile. Lin nodded and spoke, and the voice-over translate; "Now I know."

Grayson smiled at Lucy, who broke into a grin in return. The monitor now showed the Ghost Soldier in his red armor, strolling along the edge of a cliff, his head turning constantly to watch for approaching foes.

Right on cue, Grayson cut in, "Ghost Soldier has begun his adventure of a lifetime. Coming up, the fifth combatant to wager his life on Savage Island. But first, we have a demonstration set up for you of just what Scorpion and Death are up against, if and when they face each other ― in a fight to the death."

The monitor showed the live shot of three martial artists out on the training field on Savage Island, one carrying a machete, the other a six-foot spear just like the one Death had. The Colonel, who had narrated this clip, explained the advantages and disadvantages of each weapon form, and what the best tactics would be with each one. James watched with interest until Lucy interrupted him.

"Do you think they're really going to do it?"

He turned to her, surprised. "Do what?"

"You know," she shrugged. "Fight. Fight to the death."

"Well," he said, not wanting to mock her, not now. "That's what it's all about, isn't it?"

Her face had that remote look, as she had when he first met her, and disliked her on sight. He thought she had suddenly gone cold towards him, and felt his annoyance rising, when he'd gone out of his way to be nice to her. He was about to say something cutting, but then he gave her one of his best smiles, instead, hoping to coax the lovely animation back into her face. "That was a great clip you did. You've done some good work."

To his delight, her face scrunched up again into an adorable grin. Her eyes filled with humor and happiness again. "Oh! Thank you. I really appreciate it – we worked so hard, David and me ― "

"Here we go," he said, cutting her short.

When the gate opened on the fifth combatant, what charged out onto the killing ground looked like a fireplug carrying wings. He went to ground about a hundred feet from the gate and then the man in heavy armor was hardly discernible under his two huge wrap-around shields. The mechanism causing the two shields to lock seemed to have stuck, and the combatant could be heard cursing as he kicked at one of the edges. But in a few moments the shields snapped together, and the combatant crouched there, protected on all sides. He rotated the whole construct as he took in the view from all sides.

"This is combatant number five, calling himself," Grayson checked his sheet, "Draco!" Then he couldn't help laughing. "What has he got there? This is amazing!"

"Oh, I know about this," Dawes leaned forward. "I met this guy last week and we got to talking. He designed those shields himself. He said the problem with facing edged weapons is the susceptibility of the human body, and he'd designed these interlocking shields to protect himself."

"They look like umbrellas," Grayson observed.

"But they function as shields. They've got battens of a lightweight metal alloy, to stop or turn a heavy blade. And the boss of each shield is an eighteen-inch spear point."

"So, his plan is to cover himself and then attack."

"He's got a lightweight spear, and a couple of short swords as well," Dawes said. "Whoops. He's dropped the spear."

Draco had gotten up, unsnapped the two shields, and started for the tree line. It could be seen then that he held each one by a handle fixed in the boss, from which protruded a narrow, shining blade. Draco turned back then to pick up his spear, which had dropped to the ground when he was fighting with the shields. He put one of the shields down to pick it up, revealing his head-to-toe plate armor and the two short swords on his belt. As he picked up the spear, a gust of wind grabbed the shield and blew it a few feet away. Draco charged after it.

"So, you don't just need to use traditional weapons," Grayson remarked. "You can design new ones?"

"Interlocking shields aren't new," Dawes corrected him. "It's call turtling, and the Romans were known to do it."

"Maybe he should be called Turtle?" Grayson suggested.

"If he is successful," Lucy Tran put in. Grayson had almost forgotten she was there. He reminded himself to throw her some lines, so that the audience didn't forget she was there.

Colonel Dawes explained, "Dr. Hicks ― I'm sorry, Draco ― has simply redesigned the turtling shield technique with modern materials and technology. It's not a bad idea. He's got a doctorate in engineering from MIT, but he teaches in Brazil."

Grayson looked a question over at Lucy, who shook her head; this is not one of the combatants for whom she'd gotten a video profile. So Grayson added the summation, "And now he is here, to try his courage and his expertise on Savage Island!"

Colonel Dawes, watching Draco's progress avidly, nodded in approval.

Draco had reached the tree line. The narrow opening onto the trail that other combatants had taken was not wide enough for his shields. He walked westward along the trees until he found one of the roads used by the maintenance and tech crews to access the Island, and started down it.

"What's his plan, do you think, Colonel?"

"I think he means to find a defensive position where he can make the best use of his shields."

"What would that be?"

"Well, he doesn't want open ground, where he can be attacked from more than one direction."

"Right. He's found himself a new road, one that others haven't taken."

"They all meet up eventually," Dawes replied happily.

"That's true." To fill the time, Grayson called up a map of the whole Island, showing the roads and paths from end to end, and identified where each of the other combatants were at present. He wondered what the plan was if these wandering guys never did accost each other, but then decided that wasn't his problem, and just did his best to make the present situation as exciting and interesting as he could.

In Tennessee, in the guard's room at Biological Developments, a secure bio lab facility outside of Memphis, closed for the weekend, Ronnie Schofield yelled at the television, "That is lame! That is so lame! I could so take that guy apart!" He watched Draco wrestle apart his shields, pick up his spear and head off for the tree line. A hundred thousand dollars. A hundred thousand dollars if he killed that guy, right there. And he could so kill that guy.

He'd heard about Savage Island, hadn't really believed what he'd heard, but the guy he'd relieved an hour ago had the TV tuned to the program, and Ronnie just hadn't been able to stop watching. He'd seen Death emerge, with his cool winged helmet and short spear. You'd want a long spear to fight a guy like that, and a short, heavy weapon, like an axe. Maybe an axe with a spike on the end. That would be cool. But this Draco guy, he could take him no problem. He couldn't remember being this excited since the time when he was sixteen and he and his cousin had picked up those three girls.

His cousin Georgie came in behind him and stood looking over his shoulder for a moment.

"What's that?"

"Savage Island."

"Oh yeah? It's real?"

"Seems to be."

Georgie sat down beside him, shoving his chair a little to one side. It was Ronnie's turn to go on rounds, but the two of them had figured out ages ago how to fake the card swipes at each of the checkpoints, so that was no problem. Usually it was more interesting to go walking around, trying doors, seeing if any of the staff had left anything lying around, rather than just sitting in the guard booth looking at monitors that never changed. But today, this was better.

On the screen, Grayson was reviewing where each of the combatants was, on the island, showing shots of their progress.

"Who's that?" Georgie exclaimed, when Jaguar Warrior's jaguar-headed helmet came into view. "That's awesome!" he went on, not waiting for Ronnie to tell him. "This rocks!"

"Yeah," Ronnie agreed. "I'm going."

"Me too," Georgie said. Ronnie knew he would. He turned the screen of the computer and showed his cousin where you could fill out an application form on line.

Down at the Wall the sixth combatant approached gate number two, the right-hand one, for his entrance onto the Island. He was escorted by the gate techs, and half a dozen or so of the workers from the Island. They ranged themselves on either sides of the gate, so that the combatant walked between them. The monitor showed the people clapping as he stepped into the ante room. They closed around the inner gate as it shut behind him, clapping and calling out in several different languages.

"Huh," the Colonel, who had rejoined them, grunted. "Quite a send off!"

"Our next combatant," Grayson noted for the viewers, "has already started his fan base. What can you tell us about him, Lucy? Who was he before he arrived here ― at Savage Island?"

A picture came up on the monitor, right on cue, Grayson thought admiringly. Richard Farley was really on the ball. It showed a handsome black man in army uniform, smiling slightly, but looking capable and self-assured.

Lucy said, "This is Craig Wells, who, as you see, was formerly a sergeant in the United States Army. He's from Chicago, where he was an amateur heavyweight boxer and has worked for the city as a bus driver for six years.. He is divorced, and has two children. On the Island, he has chosen to be known as 'Shadow.'"

Grayson nodded in approval. A good name. The seconds counted down.

"Lucy, why are so many of these combatants from the United States?" One eye on the clock, he listened to her answer, filling time before the next peak moment approached. He heard Lucy explain what he already knew, that the initial advertising campaign publicizing Savage Island, and seeking applications for combatants, had gone out on web sites and print media initially in North America, so that region had a two- or three-week head start on the rest of the world in discovering Savage Island. Men had applied from all over the world, but applications from North America had been processed first.

One eye on the clock, Grayson threw out another comment. "Maybe Mr. Van Allan thinks his message about manly courage needs to be heard there, in particular."

Lucy looked demure. "Perhaps."

Since she didn't look like she was going to say anything else, Grayson added, "We'll have to ask him," and with fifteen seconds to spare, segued into the countdown.

The gate opened, and the Shadow strode out onto Savage Island. A big man, his size was enhanced by a molded black breastplate with pointed fans on his spaulders, and a chainmail skirt. He wore long black boots, and a closed black morion helmet. He carried a large rectangular black shield, like that of a Roman soldier. He wore a long sword in a scabbard on his left hip, and a knife sheathed at his right side. In his right hand he carried a spiked metal ball on the end of a chain and a leather-covered wooden grip. As he walked out onto the island, a green light appeared on the computerized map, to signal his position on the killing ground.

The Shadow walked out a third of the way onto the killing ground and turned around slowly, looking for a possible foe. He saw no one. He then turned back to face the Wall. He unhitched a satchel from his right shoulder and dropped it on the ground behind him. Then he hitched his shield on his side, turned back toward the Wall, and simply stood.

"What's he doing?" Grayson asked.

Colonel Dawes leaned forward toward the monitor. His eyes were alight. "It looks like ― he's waiting."

"Waiting? For the next combatant?" Grayson asked.

"Yep," Dawes said happily. "Something like this was bound to happen, as soon as we got a contestant with enough nerve, enough courage, to just stand his ground in the one place he knows there are going to be more combatants ― in just half an hour." Dawes grinned at Grayson. "Contestant number seven is going to get a big surprise."

Grayson picked up the reins of the narrative. "That does seem to be the Shadow's plan. What's that weapon he's carrying?"

"The metal ball on a chain? That's a morningstar."

"How does that work?"

"You swing the ball like you would a flail, or whip." Dawes replied. "And you hope it doesn't swing around and hit you in the head."

"That can happen?"

"So I understand."

"That is certainly a killing weapon," Grayson commented.

"They all are," Dawes pointed out. "We've seen swords, knives, machetes, spears. Any one will do to kill a man. If you know what you're doing."

"And there he waits," Grayson pointed out. "The Shadow waits for whoever will be the next combatant here on Savage Island. Let's take a look at where our other combatants are at this time, numbers one through five, currently out of harm's way."

The monitor brought up various shots of each combatant as Grayson commented on their positions. Scorpion, only visible in long shots as he toiled through the undergrowth, was north of the central part of the island. The viewers could see that once he had topped one more height he would be overlooking the rocky promontory at the end of the island.

"He can run, but he can't hide," Grayson quipped. "Number two, Jaguar Warrior, is – yes, he's climbing a tree. Look at him go!"

Jaguar Warrior had leaned his spear against a bush, and climbed into the canopy of a tree on the side of a ridge. Some of the branches bent beneath his weight, but he shifted his weight from hand to foot to hand with practiced ease, climbing with surprising speed.

"That's not a bad plan," the Colonel pointed out. "One disadvantage on this island is not being able to spot a possible enemy. Getting some height so you can see around is one way to minimize that difficulty."

"Do we know, can he see anyone from there? Draco, still making his way up the main road. Ah, there's Death – Death is stalking the lower trails, it seems."

The black-clad warrior was seen standing quite still, listening for any disturbance in the jungle which would indicate his prey was near. Along the eastern shore, Ghost Soldier walked along the beach making solitary footprints in the pristine sand. It was as though he were on a contemplative journey around the island. His swords and his great curve-bladed spear may as well have been ornamental, for all the use he had to put them too.

"Sooner or later it's going to get crowded out there," Grayson promised.

"It's going to get crowded in the arena in about fifteen minutes," Dawes suggested.

The Shadow stood quite still, seemingly impervious to the sun beating down on his helmet. His shield was hitched against his side, the studded ball of the morning star rested at his feet, the stock of the weapon was ready in his hand.

Grayson relayed Farley's message as he received it through his earphone. "And now, Charles Gordon, our armorer, is going to demonstrate how a man might to use a morningstar."

Trish turned up the volume on the television as she went to answer the door. The announcer had just pointed out that Arthur could run, but not hide. She had an irrational belief that if she watched over him every moment, nothing bad would happen to him. She opened the door on the third ring, seeing the jungle behind her.

"Trish!" Lily swept into the room with her new boyfriend, Chase. "It's my fault, isn't it? It's all my fault he's gone to that island – " Lily joined her in front of the set. Chase put a laptop down on the table and started looking for a plug to liberate.

"I don't know what got into him," Tricia said. She liked Arthur's sister, but less so when she was on one of her wild emotional roller coasters, as she frequently was over her boyfriends, the escapades of her two children, or her unpayable debt to Arthur and Tricia. Lily had been diagnosed with cervical cancer five years previously. The insurance she had from her retail job had dropped her partway through her treatment, loss of her job had made additional benefits unattainable, and Arthur and Trish had paid for the surgery she'd needed from their savings. Lily was cancer-free and working again, but on her clerk salary, she was never going to be able to pay them back. Arthur and Trish made jokes about Lily someday marrying a rich guy, but Lily always seemed to date losers. Trish eyed Chase thoughtfully as he crawled along the wall, tracing the lamp cord to its socket to plug in his computer. Slender, well-groomed, and the owner of a laptop. Maybe this one would be a step up. Lily was capable of forgetting for months at a time the debt she owed them, but not when it allowed her to dramatize herself.

"It's under the end table," Trish helped him out.

Chase got up from plugging in his cord. "Thanks!" he said. "I couldn't believe it when Lily told me. Have you seen the Savage Island site? I'll bring it up."

"What did he tell you?" Lily asked. "It's my fault, isn't it? If you hadn't paid for my surgery ― "

"That was a long time ago," Tricia told her firmly. And anyway, she thought to herself, what choice did they have? Could they have lived with themselves if they hadn't done everything possible, when Lily's life was at stake?

"There he is!" Lily cried, as Arthur's picture flashed on the screen. He stood on a cliff overlooking the ocean at the far end of the island. As they watched, he turned and spotted the camera, and waved, moving his fingers. Lily laughed. "I know that one."

"You just hush," said Trish. She picked up the leather cushion from where it had fallen on the floor, and hugged it to her.

"Look at that guy," said Chase, as the next shot came up. The Shadow stood, unmoving, thirty feet from the gate. "He looks amazing."

In the studio Grayson looked doubtfully at the monitor that showed the Shadow waiting in the arena.

"We have an unexpected development ― or it will be unexpected for the next combatant to step out onto Savage Island. Lucy? What do we know about combatant number seven?"

"I hope," the Colonel said, "that he's prepared for what's waiting for him."

"'Expect the unexpected,'" Grayson quipped. "That will have to be our motto on Savage Island. Let's see if our next combatant is prepared for the challenges that he soon will face. Lucy?"

Kevin Hightower had a sit-down interview with Lucy Tran two days before his release as the sixth combatant onto Savage Island. He was twenty-six years old, from State College, Pennsylvania, a roofer who was captain of a local paintball team that had twice won an east coast league championship. Lucy had interspersed footage of paintballers sneaking through the woods, blasting each other dramatically with huge globs of colorful paint, crying out in competitive fury when they were "killed," and dying artfully for the camera. There had a still shot of Kevin with his five teammates, some still dripping with water-based gore, holding an impressively large trophy.

Tall, slender, with white-blond hair and green eyes, Kevin typified a natural athlete and a dedicated sportsman.

"I can handle myself," he said in response to Lucy's question about his preparedness for what he might face on Savage Island. "My Dad taught me to hunt, I've been out in the woods one way or another all my life."

They were walking in the garden in the central square behind the Island admin buildings. Lucy led the way to a bench and sat down with him, just as though the steady-cam operator didn't have them in his sights, along with, now, a couple million people.

"Have you ever had to defend yourself?" Lucy persisted, "Have you ever had to fight for your life?"

Kevin smiled a little. "Things happen. There's things you do that you can't talk about afterwards. Let's just say, like I said, I can handle myself."

Kevin had chosen half a dozen javelins, short throwing spears that he wore in a sheath at his back. He packed a pair of butterfly knives that were illegal in the United States. He wore a machete at his side, and was dressed in jungle camouflage, with a U.S. Army combat helmet on his head. He carried an army-issue backpack filled with an assortment of camping items, including a sleeping bag, matches, and extra rations. Obviously his plan included camping out in the jungle for a few days. Among his equipment he had a spool of fishing line, a waterproof tarp, and a knife usually used for flaying skins. His fighting name was Bandit One, a compliment to his paintball team back at home, who were known as the Bandits.

Now on the monitor he walked to the gate between two lines of people who applauded as he passed and wished him well. He smiled and waved to them. When the gate opened he stepped inside A few minutes later the outer gate opened.

The Shadow stood in front of the center gate, but he heard the first gate open and started over to the gate at his right hand, raising his morningstar as he moved.

Kevin ― Bandit One ― hadn't been able to see Shadow from inside the west-side gate. He came out at a run, ready for anything, a javelin in one hand, a butterfly knife in the other. He took in the Shadow coming toward him, veered away, threw his javelin ― which struck Shadow's shield harmlessly ― held out his butterfly knife to ward off his opponent while trying to free the machete from his belt.

Shadow struck from eight feet away, throwing a blow with the morningstar while keeping his shield between his body and Bandit One's blade. The head of the morningstar missed; the chain struck Bandit One on the helmet and jerked him sideways. Shadow stepped back and swung the morningstar again, this time against Bandit One's body, where the steel-studded head struck with a sickening thump, and Bandit One cried out and fell back, but Shadow followed him, choked up on the chain and struck once, twice, three times; Bandit One was still alive, with parts of him broken, bleeding, he was trying to crawl away but Shadow followed him. Shadow dropped the morningstar, tried to draw his sword, dropped his shield and then held his scabbard steady with his left hand, drew the sword, then followed Bandit One where he was still crawling away. Shadow turned him over with his foot, eliciting a cry and getting a smear of blood on his tall black boot. Shadow raised his sword, holding Bandit still with his foot.

Grayson, Dawes and Lucy Tran, sitting stunned before the monitor like everyone else in the world watching, heard the Shadow's voice distantly but distinctly over the camera mics.

"The victor of this contest, I send you to your Maker. Go with the winds!" And Shadow stabbed the point of his sword through Bandit One's body. Bandit convulsed with a cry. He grasped at the sword blade with his hands. Shadow, growing impatient, pulled the sword out and struck him again. "Go to your Maker! Go now, at my command! Go!"

In the control room, the gold light that had glinted briefly on the map, near to the Wall, beeped, blinked, and went dark.

"That's it," said Dr. Hari Mukhtar, the control room director. "That's our first dead combatant. The system is working perfectly." He nodded with satisfaction, because the eartags' response to a human death had not been something they could test adequately before combat began. Two of the technicians were grinning at one another. One of them just stared whitely at the monitor, which showed Brian Hightower, briefly Bandit One, lying splayed on the ground, soaked with his own gore.

Shadow finished wiping his sword on Brian's pants and then bent over his head, checked the eartag to make sure the light on it had gone black as he had been instructed in orientation, and then sheathed his sword and drew his knife and cut the tag from Brian's ear. He strode across the arena to the center gate. On the Wall beside each of the gates was a large red button, an automatic door opener, because a combatant could come in from Savage Island at any time.

In the guard's booth in the bio lab building, Georgie shook his cousin Ronnie's shoulder so hard his chair danced. "Awesome! That was so awesome!"

Ronnie watched the replay of the morningstar striking Bandit One, first jerking back his head as the chain caught on his helmet, and then striking his body like a cannonball, his clothes crumpling, the blood welling out, the body folding up. Georgie shouted again at the replay of Shadow's sword piercing Bandit One's stomach.

"Aww! That hurts!"

Ronnie watched while Bandit One died. His eyes were shining.

In the studio, James Grayson swallowed several times. He'd already planned what to say when he witnessed the first kill on Savage Island. It was there in his brain, but somehow his tongue couldn't reach it. He swallowed again. Like the rest of the world, he watched Shadow walk back to the gate. He found his voice, strained to excitement, but still sounding just like his own. "He's coming in? Look at that ― he's coming in!" He heard Farley in his ear, ordering Lucy down to the gate to talk to Shadow. He looked up again as the monitor showed the central gate opening. Shadow held up the eartag to the camera on the Wall. "That's one! For the Shadow!" He threw it inside the gate. Then he strode back out onto the arena.

"How do you like that?" Grayson said. He still didn't have control of his voice. He hadn't expect ― he'd never thought ― he'd never seen anyone die before. He'd never seen anyone murdered. But he had to keep talking. It was his job. "He isn't finished yet." Finding his groove, he continued. "He has shown the world the warrior hero, and now the Shadow has gone back to the arena. This isn't over yet, my friends. We have yet to see what will happen next ― on Savage Island."

The Shadow returned to the body of his slain foe.

"What's he doing now?" Grayson asked. He longed to wipe the sweat that felt clammy on his forehead, even under the hot lights, but the camera was on him, and he let it alone.

Dawes watched the monitor intently. "Did you notice Shadow took hardly any equipment with him onto the killing ground? I think this was his plan all along."

"How is it ―" Grayson swallowed and tried again, to make his voice sound more normal. "How is it that Bandit One was carry throwing spears? I thought we didn't have projectile weapons in the catalog."

"Well, see what they did for him," the Colonel commented.

"I understand that Mr. Van Allan had to approve the javelins himself," Lucy put in. "Mr. Van Allan said that since any spear can be thrown, there's no point in trying to forbid people from doing that, since you do what you have to in a fight. He allowed the javelins because you are disarming yourself as you used them. Also, he made them very expensive."

"That's right," Grayson spoke as he realized, "Bandit One wasn't carrying much else. I guess he thought the javelins would be enough."

In the arena Shadow could be seen wrestling Brian's pack off of his body. He picked it up, retrieved his own satchel where he had let it fall, and walked all the way across the killing field to the edge of the trees. He dumped both packs there, opened Brian's, took out one of his water bottles, and drank most of it down. He then walked in a leisurely way back to the body.

"Shouldn't he be more worried?" Grayson asked, "I mean, more careful? There are four other guys out there, ready to kill him on sight."

"But look at his position," Dawes replied, "he's got fifty yards of ground between him and any opponent. His weapon and shield are only a few feet away. He's not as careless as he seems to be."

"Just really cool," Grayson said. He was surprised to hear his voice sounded resentful, and wondered why. Wasn't this what it was all about? He cleared his throat.

"Really cool," Grayson said again, with conviction.

Shadow crouched by the corpse, drank some more water, and then did a surprising thing. He picked up a handful of dirt from the arena in his black-gloved hand, and sprinkled it over Brian's body. The microphones picked up Shadow's voice as he said, "You were a worthy foe. Rest in peace."

Grayson looked at Dawes in surprise, and then turned to the camera and said, "Shadow has laid his opponent to rest in more ways than one."

Shadow's respect for his dead foe did not prevent him from cleaning his knife on Bandit One's pant leg. Then he sheathed his knife, put on his shield, picked up his morningstar, and went to stand once again in the center of the arena, before the middle gate.

"There he goes," Grayson said. "He's gone to wait again."

"His tactic worked once," Dawes said, "and there's no reason not to use the same winning technique again."

"That's right. He's done it. He has killed his foe in armed combat, and he has won the prize. One hundred thousand dollars. And now he's going to risk himself again."

"He's certainly a brave man." Colonel Dawes added.

"I wonder who's coming out next," Grayson said, and made himself not add, "Poor bastard."

In his earphone, Farley said, "I'm running a piece on the application process. You're clear. Mr. Grayson, can you come to my office, please? Now?"

Huh. Grayson unclipped his microphone and laid it on the table. He'd been taken aback by the killing. Had it showed? Had it showed too much? He nodded to Dawes, who seemed to be listening to instructions of his own, and went out into the hall. Farley stood there, talking to one of the Asian techs, but he waved Grayson down the hall and opened a door at the end of it. Grayson stepped in to a room glowing with monitors, and a couple of computers on the desk. Behind him, Farley switched on the lights, and closed the door.

Grayson realized Farley was angry when the man walked behind his desk and sat down. Meeting Grayson's eyes he said, "Do not ever speculate on Mr. Van Allan's plans, thoughts or beliefs while on the air."

"What?" Grayson felt like he'd just been punched. When had he ― "I'm sorry, what did I do?"

Farley turned one of the monitors and tapped a key. Grayson saw himself ― he had a moment to register how well the lighting and make-up became him, and how good he looked ― as he said, "Maybe Mr. Van Allan thinks his message about manly courage needs to be heard there, in particular."

Lucy looked down at her hands at replied, "Perhaps."

"We'll have to ask him."

Farley touched a key and stopped the clip there.

"I'm sorry," Grayson said. "I don't understand. It's no secret that Mr. Van Allan is doing this for a reason, that his views on courage are the whole point of this whole set-up ―"

Farley leaned forward. "Yes. But any points that are to be made about the purpose of Savage Island will be made by Mr. Van Allan. They will not be speculated upon, or discussed, or cheapened in any way by anyone else on the air for this show."

"Yes," Grayson said. "I understand. It won't happen again." He added, because he was getting mad, "I didn't know. No one told me."

Farley relaxed a bit, now that Grayson had in essence rolled over and showed his belly. "Yes, all right. I know, we didn't have much of an orientation for you, and a lot of our policy is kind of coming along as we go. That note came right from the top, just so you know," and he glanced up at the ceiling, meaning Mr. Van Allan's office on the floor above.

"You can cut it, of course," Grayson said.

"Yes, of course we're going to cut it. It's done already. Mr. Van Allan sees the live feed though, you know."

"I see."

"Mr. Van Allan," Farley continued, in a friendly-reminder kind of way, "sees anything he wants to see. Everywhere on the Island."

"Okay. Thanks. I understand."

"Now," Farley said, rising, "I want you to get on upstairs and get Mr. Van Allan's comments on his first kill on Savage Island."

"Yes. Of course." The adrenalin from watching Shadow kill a man, and from Farley's unexpected reaming out, dissipated. He felt as numb as he had been when we first got off the plane. "Can you give me a few minutes? Five minutes? I gotta ―"

"Yes, of course, but hurry. In ―" he checked the clock over his door "― seventeen more minutes we're going to have another fight."

When Grayson entered the men's room, two men he hadn't met, both Asian, were talking over each other about the fight they had just seen. Grayson rinsed his hands, trying not to hear again how Kevin Hightower had died. They left, one of them calling, "Nice work, Mr. Grayson," as though James had himself caused the event to happen, not simply commented on it as they all watched.

Kevin Hightower was dead. Most definitely dead. Grayson took a towel from the pile, dampened it, and carefully patted his face. Certain moments kept replaying themselves in Grayson's mind; the impact of the morningstar on Kevin's body, the welling blood, the sounds he'd made, the time it had taken for him to die. This was no television death, clean and simple with a single hole in the head, an artful draping of the corpse. This had been a slaughter. Quite simply, he had seen a brutal murder committed before his eyes. And moreover, he was part of an ongoing event that promised more such murders before very long.

His rational mind began immediately to argue. He wetted the towel again and pressed it to his eyes. All of these men were volunteers. They knew what they were getting into.

But had they? When Kevin Hightower came out of that gate, with his javelin and his butterfly knife, had he expected a man in armor, in a helmet, with a shield that covered most of his body?

Kevin certainly had not been expecting the Shadow.

But he could have! He should have! He had seen the catalog. Hadn't he considered what other men might choose? What he might find himself facing in the way of weaponry and armor?

He should have been given more warning, Grayson thought lamely. The men who came after, the men who saw the show before they applied, before they volunteered, they would have a better idea of what they might be up against.

He used the urinal, rinsed his hands again, dried them on a clean towel and dropped both in the bin. Perhaps, after today there would be no more volunteers. Or too few to sustain this crazy game. He'd lose his job. James Grayson looked at himself in the mirror. His fair hair was still golden. His face still held its youth. He made his eyes sympathetic, and then excited, and then winning. He still had it. He, too, could play this game.

He was met at the door of the men's room by one of Farley's assistants who had come looking for him. Together they ran up the stairs.

"Just a few questions, Mr. Van Allan, your reactions at this point in the broadcast, that sort of thing." Grayson seated himself in the chair across from Van Allan, checked his angle, checked that everyone was ready. He'd been wary when he came in. Farley's reaming out had been second hand. The orders ― the complaint ― had come from Van Allan.

But the proprietor of Savage Island greeted him affably, and took the seat he was directed to. "Of course."

"Level check, please," the sound man said in heavily accented English.

"I'm so glad to be here," Grayson said obligingly, "I'm so glad to be here, I'm so glad to ―"

"Thank you," the sound tech said. "Mr. Van Allan? Sir, if you could please say a few words."

Van Allan spoke in a language that Grayson didn't know, and kept speaking until suddenly the sound man, the camera man, the lighting tech, and Mr. Farley's assistant all burst out laughing. Grayson smiled, hoping the joke was not on him, but none of them were looking at him.

"Thank you, Mr. Van Allan," from the sound man.

"Rolling," the cameraman said.

Grayson look down for a moment, brought up his excitement level, raised his head, smiled, and began. "Mr. Van Allan, we have all just seen the first man to die ― to be killed ― on Savage Island. Can you tell us what you were thinking when it happened?"

There was a pause while Van Allan collected his thoughts. "What I was thinking? I don't know that I was thinking anything. I was ― certainly, I was admiring their courage. We rarely see, in this day and age, the kind of courage exhibited by both of those men as they gambled with their lives for fame and fortune."

"Is that what they were doing?" Grayson found himself asking.

Van Allan looked at him hard. "Of course. That is what this place is designed for. It is an opportunity for those men of ardent and violent souls, the men who were the heroes of our kind throughout the ages, and who today have no outlet for their nature."

"You don't consider what we saw to be a murder?"

"No," Van Allan said shortly.

"That Shadow murdered Kevin Hightower."

"No. I do not." Van Allan's blue eyes hardened as he leaned back, clasping his hands easily. "Mr. Hightower came here of his own accord. . He chose his fate."

"So here in Savage Island, any man can act out his murderous impulses, and risk death ― or find his death. Don't you think this is a waste?"

"No, I don't. Kevin Hightower met his end as a man of courage. There are fewer gifts you can give to your fellow man more useful than to end your life as a good example."

James Grayson didn't know what got into him when he heard himself say, "Maybe his family will have a different response."

Van Allan answered smoothly, "I'm sure they might. But men like Kevin will always go their own way. That, too, is in their nature."

"How many men do you think will die here, on Savage Island?"

"I have no idea. Does it matter? You know as well as I do, that one resource this planet can provide plenty of, is brave and brutal young men." He turned to the cameraman, then and raised his hand. "And that is all for now, I believe."

Grayson stood up. "Yes, of course. Thank you, sir. That's all we have time for anyway. The next combatant will be coming out shortly."

"Mr. Grayson," Van Allan stopped him. "Are you disturbed?"

Grayson stopped himself from blurting his first reply, thought for a moment, and said, "Yes. Yes, I am." He ran a hand through his hand. "I just saw a man killed, brutally killed. I don't think anyone can watch that without . . . "

Van Allan nodded. "Good. They are real to you, these men. I hope it stays so for you."

When Grayson had gone, Jules Van Allan sat down before the monitor that showed Kevin Hightower's body lying splayed on the ground, soaked in blood, sprinkled in dirt, his eyes open to the careless sky. A second monitor showed the Shadow standing before the central gate, waiting the few minutes more before his next opponent was delivered up to face him.

Light flared behind him as the door to the terrace opened. In the next room, a breakfast had been laid out for a few friends Van Allan had invited out for this event. A lean form in a white shirt, Lars Vanderijn came over and leaned on the edge of the desk. He held a Bloody Mary, probably the only breakfast he would have.

"What are you up to? Are you trying to kill every violent man in the world? You won't succeed."

"Of course not," Jules told him. "We will never be at a loss for violent men."

They watched the replay of Bandit One's death as it replayed on one of the monitors.

"You won't bring them back, you know," Lars said quietly.

"I know," Jules replied.

"Then why ―"

"And how are your daughters," Jules asked him. "Anna and Margaret? They are well? And your grandchildren? How many do you have now?"

On the screen, Kevin Hightower died again. After a moment Lars laid a light hand on Jules's shoulder, and went back outside.

Van Allan stayed where he was. He had no intention of trying to explain Far, far away there was a man who knew that an extremely bloody gage had just been thrown at his feet. Whether he responded, or ignored it, the effect would be the same. And he, Jules Van Allan, was looking forward to the coming battle. His battle, on his terms. Once more he watched the replay of the Shadow striking down Bandit One. Once more he saw the morningstar strike home. He saw the sword pierce the dying body, and the sand scattered over the fallen corpse. And Jules Van Allan saw that it was good, and he smiled.

### Chapter Four

Phoenix lasted only twenty-seven seconds from the moment the gate opened before him, letting him out onto the island. He emerged with a whoop, brandishing twin machetes, protected by a chain mail coat that went to his knees and made a jingle-swish sound as he ran. He wore an opened-faced 16th century-style Japanese helmet, and carried a fairly large backpack, with supplies for a lengthy and comfortable stay on the island, including a waterproof sleeping bag.

He ran out onto the arena out of the eastern gate, caught a movement to one side and swerved away as he saw Shadow bearing down on him, the morningstar already in motion, swinging in an accelerating figure eight. Phoenix charged in, trying to get in range of Shadow where he could strike him with his machetes before the deadly morningstar found its mark. But a shield can also be a weapon, and the eleven pound weight of Shadow's Roman-style shield struck him across the body as he closed. Phoenix staggered back and the chain of the morningstar caught him across the shoulder. Shadow pulled the chain tight and swung; the morningstar whipped round and caught Phoenix in the side of the head. He hung a moment in the air and then went down. Shadow dropped the morningstar and followed him, kicked him hard in the gut with a steel-toed boot, drew his dagger, dropped a knee onto Phoenix's body and knifed him in the side of the throat. Blood spewed. Phoenix died a few seconds later.

Shadow stood back to avoid some of the blood, then bent forward to examine the eartag. When the telltale went black, Shadow used his knife to remove the tag, then wiped his knife fastidiously on the leg of Phoenix's trousers.

Once again he strode over to the nearest gate, held up the eartag to the camera above it, and tossed it on the ground. He said, loud and clear, "That makes two ― two for the Shadow. Hey, that one was easy. What have you got for me now?" He grinned, his wide smile visible through the bars of his helmet, together with the sweat and streaks of Phoenix's blood. Or perhaps it was Bandit One's blood. He went back out to the arena, turned Phoenix over, stripped off his pack, took out one of his bottles of water, and drank half of it. He leaned over and poured the rest of it down the back of his neck.

He raised the empty bottle in salute to the nearest camera. "Bring it on!" he shouted, his voice a deep bass. "I'm ready." He looked around. "Hey, where are the other guys, the first four guys? Are they still alive? Are they dead? Tell any one of them who's alive to get his butt down here because this is my day. This is my hour, I am the lord of all I survey, and anyone alive has to face me, and then he will be dead. You tell them that."

He went back to Phoenix's body, looked around carefully, and knelt down beside him. He bent his head for a moment, then picked up a handful of sand, sprinkled it over the corpse. "You must have been in a hurry to die, you went so fast. Go to your Maker, and tell him that I, the Shadow, sent you. Go now."

He brushed off his black-gloved hands, and then pulled off Phoenix's pack and glanced through it. He then carried it across the killing ground to the tree line and dumped it next to Bandit One's effects.

Shadow went to pick up his shield and his morningstar, and then stood again in his place before the three gates, and waited.

Grayson called the event by simply allowing his mouth to run on, and his voice to rise with excitement, while part of his mind stayed coldly remote, watching dispassionately as Phoenix was killed. It was less shocking than the first time to see the impact the morningstar had on Phoenix's body. It helped that he couldn't see Phoenix's face when he was killed. But it was even more appalling to see a second corpse lying on the dirt in the arena, shrouded in his own blood. Grayson just kept talking, and this time it didn't take long.

It was perhaps easier this time because Grayson had not seen the clip on who Phoenix really was, or where he lived, or the life that had just been summarily ended. To Grayson, he was just Phoenix, a simulacrum, rather than a human being.

When it was over, Farley said in his ear, "Keep talking, we've just got a very short clip on this next guy."

Grayson said, "Get Dr. Mukhtar down here, and let him explain about waste control."

"Waste control?"

"The bodies. What do they do with the bodies? They don't just leave them out there, right?"

"Right. Great idea! I'll send him down right away. Meanwhile – "

But Grayson had already turned to Colonel Dawes, "Colonel, two men have now gone down before the superior weapon combination chosen by Shadow. What, in your opinion, is the right weapon with which to combat a morningstar?"

Dawes leaned forward to make his point. He seemed as excited as if he had just won a fight to the death himself. "It's about whatever works, James. In part, it's choice of weapon, but largely its tactics. The morningstar is a distance weapon. The person using it has to stay at a certain distance away from his opponent, or he can't swing it so it will do any harm. To fight it, what you want to do, is get in real close."

"But that's what Bandit One tried to do."

"And that's where body armor and a solid shield back up the choice of a distance weapon like the morningstar," the Colonel said.

"This is looking a lot like a game of rock, paper, scissors," Grayson opined. "You either want to be really close, or really far away. A guy with a long spear would do well."

"He might. But then there's ways of getting past a long spear."

Grayson was about to ask him about that, but Dr. Mukhtar arrived in the studio and took the chair vacated by Lucy. He explained that a maintenance crew, in orange jerseys to mark them as noncombatants, could be dropped by helicopter in any part of the island, and would bring the dead back in body bags. Those right outside the gate would be retrieved as soon as any combatants were far enough away that the retrieval of the bodies wouldn't interfere with their combat readiness.

"Does that mean," Grayson quipped, "that the maintenance crew will be far enough away from any combatant to ensure that they are not attacked?"

"Well, of course, that too is a concern," Dr. Mukhtar allowed.

Grayson recapped the position of all the other combatants on the island, using the computer map, where the five lights glowed steadily – the newest one, glowing green, still right near the wall ― and various camera shots from different parts of the island.

In the north, Scorpion was making his way uphill along a fast-running stream that fell from the highest peak of the island. The cameras had a long shot of him moving with assurance, stopping every few feet to look around him. Dawes pointed out that the sound of the water would veil the approach of an enemy, thus his frequent pauses were an indication of good training and readiness.

Jaguar Warrior, on the lower slope of the first ridge, had climbed another tree. He'd left his pack at its foot as well as his spear this time. He seemed to be enjoying climbing as high as he could.

Death had reached the eastern road, put in for vehicles crisscrossing the island to set up cameras and microphones to survey every vantage point. As Dawes pointed out, having walked that road earlier in the week himself, it was covered with the footprints of the technicians, his own among them, and Death may well be under the impression that quite a few opponents were ahead of him somewhere.

Ghost Soldier had stopped to climb a rock overlooking the sea. He had taken off his helmet, and was eating breakfast while contemplating the view.

"He's pretty cool about his situation," Grayson said. He found his voice to be unusually sharp, and made himself smile and relax, to help soften it.

"But he's gotten himself into a very good position, see?" Dawes pointed out. "No one can approach him along the beach without being seen, and no one can climb down the cliff behind him without some special equipment, and he has plenty of time to spot them too. And on top of that rock, he's in a very defensible position."

"Why doesn't he just stay there, then?" Grayson asked. He flattened his hands on the table in front of him, and added more quietly, "wouldn't that be a good plan?"

"You haven't been outside yet this morning."

"Right," said Grayson, remembering, and let himself chuckle.

"Right," Dawes agreed. "It's already eighty-eight degrees out there. He's going to be awfully hot on that rock after awhile. And he's got a limited amount of water."

On the western road, Draco had stopped to take off his shields, and then his pack, and then his helmet, to drink some water. A grizzle-haired man with a narrow, foxy face was revealed, his color a little too red for good health.

"What happens if he gets heat-stroke?" Grayson asked.

Dawes shrugged. "You're out there to take your chances."

"Fair enough," Grayson said. Draco put the water bottle away in his pack and began putting on his equipment again. "All right," Grayson segued, "we've got a clip here on our next combatant, the next man to meet the Shadow in a contest whose outcome may well be life or death for one or the other."

The clip ran. Grayson sat back and wiped his face. The make-up technician ran out, handed him a towel, and then repaired the damage to his face and hair. Grayson watched the monitor as it showed the rugged face of a friendly-looking ruffian.

Mark Holmes was a cement contractor, a 38-year old divorced father of three from St. Paul, Minnesota, where he was a founding member of a Viking-history recreation group. On the island he would be known as Hrolf Bloodaxe.

Lucy had caught him at the armorer, standing over the table that held his equipment, including a suit of scale armor, a pointed helmet with a nasal and decorative goggles, a large leather-bound shield with a running horse design and a center grip, and a large axe, from which he took his name.

Mark Holmes was tall, heavily built, with long, bushy dirty-blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and a heavy beard and mustache.

Lucy only got to ask him one question, which was why the clip was so short. Mark Holmes, soon to be Hrolf Bloodaxe before all the watching world, told her, "All my life I have wanted to go a-viking like my forefathers. This is the only chance I've ever had. If I live, I'll be rich and famous, and if I die, I'll do it in battle the way a man should, and I'll be carried to the halls of Wodin All-Father to dwell in feasting and fighting in the hall of the heroes, until Ragnarok." He grinned, showing a gap between his two front teeth. "That's probably not something that couldn't happen to me at home."

Far away in Los Angeles, California, the District Attorney was in a lunch meeting when he felt his phone vibrate. He looked at the number, then excused himself from the table and stepped out back to the parking lot to take the call.

"Dave? What's up."

"It's happened."

"Someone's been killed?"

"Someone's been murdered," his campaign manager said. "Two people, in fact. And it looks like there's going to be another one real soon."

John Fowler Savage swore under his breath. His face began to redden, as it generally did under the pressure of his suppressed rage. "Right," he said. "Have my staff meet me in my office in ― " he checked his watch, "an hour and a half. If I'm not there, have them get started. We've got to get a statement ready for tomorrow morning."

Dave's voice asked cautiously, "You don't want to wait to be asked?"

"No!" Savage declared, then turned away from a startled couple of customers exiting out the back, realizing he had used his courtroom voice. "No," he repeated more softly. "I should be seen to be awake and alert and aware on this as on every issue. Don't you think?" He didn't wait for a reply, but closed his phone and headed back inside, saying to himself, "Damn Van Allan. Damn him!"

In his office on Savage Island, Jules Van Allan watched the gate open for the ninth combatant to enter his domain. He knew perfectly well that in Los Angeles, John Savage would be fuming over these events. He also knew that there was absolutely nothing the District Attorney could do to stop him. Every avenue of attack had been foreseen. John Savage didn't know this yet, but he would soon learn. The next combatant emerged, and Shadow strode toward him like inevitable death. Van Allan smiled.

Hrolf Bloodaxe saw the gate open before him, and the friendly cheers and applause of the crowd that had escorted him to the gate and wished him well faded immediately from his consciousness. He saw movement to his left; he saw the armored figure start toward him, and his blood began to sing in his veins, and his heart rose with it. He started forward, gauging speed, gauging the morningstar that his opponent lifted now from the ground and began to swing. Bloodaxe took in the shape of his opponent's helmet, visible above his shield, and noted subconsciously that as he stepped forward on his right leg, his shield dropped about two inches, revealing his open-faced helm, and his eyes. Conrad lifted his axe from his shoulder and moved obliquely to his right, matching Shadow's speed, getting himself away from the Wall and into the open. He had time to see that no other enemy was in view. Part of him ― the part that was still Mark Holmes ―caught a scent that took his breath away, and he noticed the two still forms strewn on the ground. He gulped at the evidence that this was not a game, this was real, and anything, even the unthinkable, could happen now. He put the thought aside. Hrolf Bloodaxe, still safely out of range, moving to the right to ground that was clear of blood and bodies, was as thrilled as he had ever been in his life.

Shadow called to him, but Bloodaxe did not listen. Shadow was talking about the victories he had won, and how he was planning to add one more corpse to the pile, one more tag to his trove. Bloodaxe noted that Shadow was only slightly taller than he, but that the morningstar would give him about three feet of extra range, which meant ―

Grayson, in spite of himself, leaned toward the monitor, watching the two men circling. "What's Shadow saying?" he asked excitedly.

The technicians were already adjusting the pickup on the microphones out in the killing ground, and soon they could hear the words,

"Come and die, for I have brought you your death here in the morning. Come and be the third hero to lie in gore at my feet. I am the champion, I am the giver of death, and your life too will wink out under the crash of my weapons of destruction."

Dawes commented over the sound, "That's a common technique in single combat, to try and get at your foe before you engage, to try and get him to see that he's going to die."

"Does it work?"

"Oh, yeah," Dawes said. "It sure can. All you've got to do it get the other guy thinking, and the fight's over ― "

"What are they doing?

"Circling for position. Since Shadow's got the reach on Bloodaxe – "

"There he goes!" Grayson cried.

Bloodaxe timed his attack for the instant that the morningstar whipped past him and started its backswing. He charged into Shadow's shield like a linebacker, trying to knock him down, trying to knock him over, trying to disrupt the momentum of the deadly spiked ball ― he crashed into Shadow's shield and felt Shadow turn and deflect him so he was unbalanced and falling onto his right foot, turning around Shadow's body as he swung his great axe and felt it hack into Shadow's shield. He turned as he felt Shadow's movement as Shadow pulled hard on the morningstar and whipped it around its circumference at three times its previous speed. Hrolf felt a surge of fear and ducked and felt the chain clunk against his helmet and then glance off as he struck again and again for Shadow's head. The axe crashed against the edge of Shadow's shield and the splinters flew. Shadow flung him off and stepped back and pulled once again on the morningstar, moving back and sideways to get Bloodaxe exactly into his optimal range. Bloodaxe raised his shield and struck at the morningstar as it swung towards him and heard his foeman's roar as the spiked metal ball struck the roundshield and stuck. Then it was yanked back and Bloodaxe followed up and charged again to strike Shadow's body and bore him back. But Shadow turned and as he came in, too fast to stop, Bloodaxe saw him bring down the haft of the morningstar and he struck Hrolf in the face, once, twice, three times, four, while Hrolf struck again and again with his axe and only at the last moment did the big black shield rise up and interpose itself blocking off his sight of the heavy dark helmet, and Bloodaxe stepped back, and Shadow stepped back also.

They stood out of range, glaring at each other, gasping for breath. Hrolf stepped back a few more paces, to give himself room to quickly glance at the perimeter of the arena, to make sure they wouldn't be blindsided by any newly arriving opponent. Nothing moved except the leaves of the foliage, trembling in the wind off the sea. There was a growing aching soreness on his face, and a wetness; he shook his head to keep it from his eyes. He smelled fresh blood, and the tang of salt and sweat and the damp leather of his armor. He eyed his opponent, not yet ready to start again, but ready if Shadow moved to beat him back once more.

"This is amazing," Grayson said, completely drawn in to the fight, his voice high with unassumed excitement. "This is...is just amazing."

"They are a well-matched pair," Dawes intoned.

"What are they going to do next ― what can they do?"

"Neither of them has the option of turning his back and walking away at this point," Dawes said. "They're too close together."

"Neither of them can probably run very fast with all that armor on," Grayson suggested.

"Certainly not fast enough to outdistance the other."

"How long are they going to stand there?" Grayson asked rhetorically. "What is Shadow doing?"

Shadow wound the chain of his weapon around the stock and then made a loop through which he dropped the spiked morningstar, thus changing its range from eight or nine feet to three or four. He hefted his shield and started into Bloodaxe's range once again. Bloodaxe raised his axe and shield.

Bloodaxe struck again for Shadow's head as Shadow closed, splintering his shield further, striking again and felt the axe connect not with the edge of the shield but with the helmet, and with a surge of excitement he raised his axe once more. Shadow's arm had swung forward, and Bloodaxe punched at it with his shield, stopping the blow, and the metal ball flailed wildly. It came again. Bloodaxe raised his shield, striking with his axe, but Shadow had moved, and there was no reassuring contact of the weapon against his shield but an instant of wild uncertainty of where that thing was ― and then he felt the blow on his back, only an impact, the pain began later, and the morningstar flew again, and desperately Bloodaxe lifted his shield, felt the strike, felt his shield yanked hard ― Bloodaxe's shield jerked once again and he realized that spikes of the morningstar had imbedded in the wood and were not coming loose this time and he leaped toward Shadow's body, swinging the axe. He struck the back of his foe's helmet, and Shadow was thrown forward, and Bloodaxe pushed him off, raising his axe to strike another blow and Shadow's shield struck him in the face and he stepped back and then felt his shield jerked down and he saw Shadow with a sword in his hand standing on the stock of the morningstar, stepping on the chain that pulled his shield down further, held him in place as Shadow's black-gloved hand came up and the point of the sword struck him just below his collar bone and he struggled to drop the shield, and the point of the sword struck his neck and as he felt it pierce his skin he struck out with all his might but already he was rising up and back with the pressure of the blow and his last vision was the bright blue sky, swept with wisps of cloud as the arrow of pain increased and enveloped him and with a strangled cry he entered the smothering blackness.

Shadow struck him again after he fell, whether out of anger at the terrible fight, or just to make sure his opponent wouldn't rise again, or because he couldn't stop until he knew his opponent was dead, no one could tell, and Shadow least of all. Shadow staggered as he withdrew his sword. He was still breathing raggedly. His head ached. He forgot about that as he knelt to pull his opponent's helmet off, and check his ear tag. He dropped his splintered shield, fumbled with the helmet buckle. He had to wipe his eyes, and then he had to wipe down Bloodaxe's neck where the blood had gouted freely, and the smell of the blood seemed to choke him as he struggled with the buckle, and then tried to pull the helmet off and away, and then had to drop his sword and feel for the loose end of the strap with one hand, feel for the buckle with the other, and the blood smeared the fingers of both his gloves, but at last he pulled it free, pulled off the helmet, to reveal the bloodied face and open eyes of his third dead opponent. The telltale in the eartag was already black. He reached for his knife and cut it free.

He held it up to the nearest camera. Then he sat back on his heels, still breathing hard. He scratched up the sand beside him and sprinkled some over the body. "My worthy foe. You are free now. I release you. Go in peace."

He turned suddenly to look at the gates. He'd lost track of time. At any moment, the gate might open once more, another man would emerge, would come to challenge him. Shadow got to his feet. Something was pushing at his consciousness. He gave it his attention and the pain of his headache suddenly became enormous. He dropped his gloves, reached for the strap on his helmet, but before he could unbuckle it he leaned over, retching, and vomited. He got his helmet off, finally, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and brought his sleeve away covered with blood. He explored his face with his hand and found the source of the wetness, a deep scratch welling with blood beside his brow. He looked up at the camera.

"It's only fun until someone gets poked in the eye." He picked up his sword, slowly and heavily, wiped it on Bloodaxe's pant leg and sheathed it. He picked up the stock of his morningstar and tried to free it from Bloodaxe's shield. Then he picked up Bloodaxe's shield as well as his own, and his helmet by the strap. He looked around, still moving awkwardly, found his pack that he'd dropped to the ground when he emerged through the wall, picked it up, and headed off into the trees.

"He's definitely injured," Dawes was saying. "Some kind of head injury, perhaps concussion – "

"He's not coming in," Grayson exclaimed. "He's moving away from the arena – "

"He's got a first aid kit among his gear, of course," Dawes went right on talking. "He's probably just going to ground, going to dress his wounds, drink some water, eat something. That man has done some awesome fighting today, just amazing, and he could use a rest."

"Why doesn't he drop his new tag inside?" Grayson queried as Shadow left the arena and a new monitor picked him up among the trees.

"He may be confused," Dawes said, "he may just have forgotten –"

"Forgotten a hundred thousand dollars?"

"― or he may have some other plan."

As the Shadow disappeared into the trees, the middle gate in the wall opened and half a dozen men in bright orange vests, carrying the only guns allowed on the island, ran onto the killing ground. James glanced up and saw them. "The clean-up crew, having a clear field, have emerged into the arena. You see those guns their carrying?" he asked rhetorically. "They're tranquilizer guns. Mr. Van Allan is very much against having firearms on the Island. And since it is his island . . . "

As he narrated, the orange-clad men, with large black stencils on the front and back of their orange vests reading "NON-COMBATANT CREW," formed a perimeter around the fallen men, and six stretcher bearers ran out and with the ease of practice, rolled the corpses onto the stretchers, heaved them up and doubled-timed back inside the Wall. The gunmen fell back after them, and followed them inside and the gate closed behind them. The entire exercise had taken less than two minutes.

"What do they do with the remains?" Dawes asked helpfully.

"We have a cemetery and a crematorium on the island," Grayson replied. "They'll be laid to rest here, unless they left special instructions about being returned to their families."

"They've thought of everything," Dawes commented.

"So far," Grayson agreed.

Richard Farley, the producer, said in his ear just then, "James, great work, listen, we're going to run a couple of clips ― the one on the topology of the island, and one on the choice of weapons. Why don't you go downstairs and get a bite? Be back in ― twenty-five minutes. All right?"

"No, I'm fine," Grayson answered. "Bring me up some black coffee and a sandwich here ― anything's fine, mustard, no mayo, all right? ― and I'll just keep going. We've got another combatant coming out in a couple of minutes, don't we?"

Farley repeated, "But the field is clear. We'd like to give you a break when we can. Why don't you go on downstairs?"

Beside him, Dawes, obedient to his own orders was heading out the door. Grayson, still psyched from the recent fight, and pleased that his reaction to the last fight had been more what he'd expected, excitement and exhilaration, instead of shock and repulsion at witnessing violence and death. He was over it now, he was ready to go on.

"No, really," he said. "I'm fine. Just have them send up ―"

"There's no one to bring you a sandwich, James," Farley sounded apologetic. "You'll have to go and get it yourself."

Through the open door, as the Colonel stepped through it, James could see a couple of techs passing by. This was strange. Fifty people working here, and no one could bring the talent a sandwich? What was going on?

"James?" Farley said. "Can you come to my office? I need to talk to you."

James felt his stomach clench. What had he done now? "Sure," he said. "I'll be right in." He unclipped his mike and put it on the desk. As he got up, he saw on the monitor that the left-hand gate was opening. No crowd had accompanied this combatant to the gate. Lucy was back in the control room; there was no clip to announce who this was. Grayson wondered if he should stay a few minutes and give them something to go with.

He put his mike back on and sat down. "Here is combatant number ten," Grayson said. "Who will he be? What kind of weapons and equipment will he be carrying? What is his strategy? What are his plans? And what will be his fate – here on Savage Island?"

"James – " said Farley, in his ear.

"What is this man's fighting name?" Grayson asked. No one answered him.

Through the gate emerged a slender form clad in long blue cotton trousers, a button-down white shirt, a big wicker basket strapped to his back as a big backpack, two more bags slung over his shoulders, and in his arms, several large sacks. On his head he wore a wide straw hat. He had on sunglasses, and carried a machete at his belt. That was the only weapon he seemed to possess.

"This is," Farley said in his ear, "uh..."

Grayson watched the new combatant slog his way into the arena. The man looked around, which caused him to drop a couple of his sacks. He bent over to pick them up, causing an avalanche to fall out of his basket. He crouched down, slung off his two shoulder bags, slung off his basket, and piled stuff back into it. The last item, Grayson saw, was a propane camping stove.

"This guy has come to stay!" he announced happily.

An Asian man, not young; Grayson didn't venture to guess his age, as he could be anywhere in his late thirties to fifties. He was slight. Probably one of those mythic martial arts guys who'd been studying since early childhood and would disappear among the trees and not be seen for years.

"He calls himself," Farley said in his ear, "Double Fortune Man."

"All right," Grayson announced. "This is Double Fortune Man, which translates as, Super Lucky Guy."

Super Lucky Guy packed all his stuff on again, and wandered off across the killing field. He caught sight of the equipment that Shadow had piled at one end of the arena and veered over to examine it. This brought him past the spot where Bloodaxe had recently lain. Grayson heard the exclamation as Lucky Guy noticed the spot. He looked around again, slowly. Then he went over, bent down and touched the blood that still stained the sand. Bending caused the stuff in his basket to overbalance once again, and he had to take off his bags, unsling his pack, pick up the stuff, and pack it once again. He stopped and smelled one of the bags that had landed on the stained ground. Lucky Guy looked around carefully, then quickly packed up and slung his stuff, and headed into the trees.

Grayson, watching this charade, laughed as he narrated an amused commentary. But part of him was thinking very hard.

When Super Lucky Guy had found a path into the jungle and headed down it, Grayson asked the room at large, "Mr. Farley, do you still need to talk to me?"

After a pause, he heard Farley's voice in his ear. "Uh, no, thank you."

Grayson stood up. "I think I'll go and have that sandwich, then." No one answered him. He went out. When the elevator doors opened, a couple of techies surged out, almost running in to him. They carried plates of sandwiches, fruit and cookies for the control room team. They greeted him with respect, which pleased him. When they invited him to join them for lunch in the control room, he turned them down. He took the elevator down to the ground floor alone, thinking hard. Farley had wanted him out of the room when Super Lucky Guy came out the gate. Who was Super Lucky Guy that he was treated differently, on Savage Island?

Scorpion clambered along the side of a gully that held a fast-moving creek. He knew that by now there were other combatants on the island, and he felt more secure in an area where there didn't seem to be any trails. The water drowned out the sound of anyone approaching, but it would drown the noise of his movements as well. He was looking for a place to go to ground, a safe, defensible location where he could wait out the fifteen days that he planned to stay on the island. He would need a source of water. This creek was a good starting point to looking for a place to camp.

The humidity was intense. His clothes were soaked. He felt a quiet exhilaration, something ancient that he hadn't felt before, about providing for his family with his hands and sweat, protecting their well-being with his strength, and if necessary, with his blood. Something in him sang with a fierce pride. This was what manhood meant. He had never known it before.

He found what he was looking for two thirds of the way up the rocky hillside. An opening between two trees led to a small clearing that back against the sheer wall of the hillside. A rock overhang provided shelter, while above and to the sides the jungle was too thick to allow access. The small clear area was covered with rocks; the fall that had created the overhang had created this clearing as well. Scorpion took off his pack and removed a camouflage net. He scoped out the way he'd come in, looking back toward his clearing and then chose a place to hang the net that would shield him from anyone moving along the gorge. Then he got out the two empty collapsible five-gallon plastic containers, made his way back to the stream and filled them from a pool. When he returned, he set them under the overhang next to his pack.

He spent some time picking up stones from the clearing and piling them by the overhang. Then he got out a bottle of water and some nuts and raisins, sat and leaned back against the wall. This would do. He was out of sight of everyone, here. Probably even the cameras. All he had to do now was stay put.

After wandering down the west-side road for awhile, where it skirted the central ridges of the island, Draco turned eastward along a wide path. He reached the east-side road without meeting anyone and sat down there for a bit in a place where he could see down all three tracks, while he took off his helmet and drank off one of his water bottles. It was hot. It was quiet, except for the birds and some buzzing insects, and the sound of the surf in the distance.

To the north, the east-side road led uphill, and the trees thinned out. To the right, the road was level and shady. It occurred to him that since he was only the fifth combatant released today, that rather than search this whole island, which was turning out to be rather bigger than he expected, he would be more likely to find someone to test his shields on back closer to the Wall. He'd already thought of a few modifications he should make. He worked them out as he started back down the eastern road, spear poised.

The shields ought to nest together so he could carry them both in one hand. He hadn't considered that he'd be carrying all his gear mile after mile in the heat. If they snapped together and he had a strap to carry them over one shoulder, he'd still have time to pull them apart and deploy them whenever he saw someone.

The small man came quietly down the trail, looking as unassuming as a gardener from his grandmother's neighborhood back home. He was loaded down with sacks and bags and carried a big open-topped pack on his back. He wore a floppy straw hat and dark glasses. Draco didn't even notice him for several moments after he came in sight walking along the trail toward him, he was so unprepossessing, He caught sight of Draco, stopped and spoke to him.

Draco didn't understand him. The guy was polite, not threatening. He thought this guy must be one of the technicians from the island ― except he didn't wear the orange jacket with the stencil he had been shown in orientation. In fact, he could see plainly that this man was wearing an eartag, and the eartag meant he was a combatant.

Draco's excitement surged. Small guy, carrying lots of junk, the only weapon he had seemed to be a machete hanging from his belt. Draco at once realized one disadvantage to his shields. They were defensive. Against an opponent with so little armor, and almost no weapons, probably his helmet and body armor were enough to protect him. And besides, he had a distance weapon. Draco dropped his shields and grasped his spear.

Lucky Guy spoke to him again. It sounded like he was asking a question. But this was no time for questions, this was the time to fight and kill. Draco held the spear in both hands and charged at Super Lucky Guy.

Super Lucky Guy saw the man in the helmet and metal armor coming at him at full tilt. He dropped his sacks and ran.

In the studio, Grayson exclaimed out loud as Super Lucky Guy charged down the road, and then cut into a clearing and dodged around a bush with Draco after him. They ran around the bush twice, Draco shouting, Lucky Guy shouting too, but not in the same way, and then Draco, growing frustrated, paused and struck with his spear right through the bush. Lucky Guy felt his pack stick on something and shrugged his way out of it in mid run. He came around the bush and saw Draco ahead of him, probing the bush with his spear, trying to hit his prey again. This gave Lucky Guy a moment to draw his machete from his belt. Draco tried to pull free his spear and caught sight of Lucky bearing down on him, holding his machete. Draco twisted, trying to get behind his spear to ward off the machete and Super Lucky Guy struck at him in the one place he was not covered with armor; his butt. There was a moment of shock as Draco felt the impact,and then like a gathering wave the pain seized him. Draco screamed.

"Oh my god, oh my god," Grayson exclaimed. "He's hit! Draco is hit!" He nodded as Dawes took his seat and continued, "We are about to see another hero born on Savage Island, as Super Lucky Guy ― Super Lucky Guy ― what is he doing?"

Draco staggered back, dragging his spear with him. Then the pain in his buttocks took his legs out from under him and he fell. He had the presence of mind to hold on to his spear and keep it between him and the Asian guy shouting and slashing at him with the machete. Draco pulled himself along the ground on one hip, the one that didn't hurt as much, leaving a smear of blood on the dirt. Part of him thought about germs, while the rest of him wondered where the next blow would fall. He struck out at the Asian with his spear, but from the ground he didn't have much reach and the man avoided his attacks easily.

He wasn't able to watch where he was going. When he banged into a rock on the ground he arched in pain and for a moment lost his grip on the spear. Super Lucky Guy reached out and plucked the drooping spear away from him. Draco made a grab for it, and then forgot completely about the pain as the Asian guy reversed the spear.

Draco backed away as hard as he could into a little stand of trees and used them to leverage himself to his feet. He just about buckled as his weight came on to his legs. But he had remembered the short swords at his side. He drew one as the Asian guy approached him, brandishing the spear. He wrestled the second one out, nearly dropped it, bent unconsciously to grab it and lurched as the pain in his buttocks muscles overcame him. He fell against the trees and braced himself there, holding the swords out to keep off his attacker. He stared at the spear aimed at his belly. The Asian guy was several feet out of his reach. Unless he could hack the spear point out of the way before it struck him, he was going to be skewered. He braced himself to block the spear but the strike didn't come.

"This is unexpected," said Grayson, "Is there anything in the rules about offering mercy?"

"That may not be what he's doing," Dawes opined. "He might be offering a quick, clean death."

"Or a truce?" Grayson suggested, as Lucky Guy continued to hold Death at spear-point and shout at him.

A full shot of the pair showed Draco leaning all his weight on the group of slim trees. His hip was gory with blood from his wound.

"How badly do you think he's hurt?" he asked Dawes.

"It depends on how deep that cut is. If it's cut a bunch of muscles, he could be in real trouble."

"He is in real trouble," Grayson stated the obvious. "The question is, can he get out of it? Can he survive? Why is Lucky Guy hesitating, do you think?"

"Draco is well armored. Maybe he thinks if he doesn't get a killing blow, Draco's going to lunge at him with those short swords."

"What would be a killing blow?"

"The throat is the best choice, but it's a small target, and as you can see, Draco's helmet . . . whoops."

"Yeah," Grayson agreed. "Whoops."

On the monitor they could see Draco slump and begin to slide down the tree. He caught himself, but dropped one of his short swords in the process."

"Is he fainting? Is it loss of blood?" Grayson asked.

"That could be," Dawes agreed.

"Draco . . . " Grayson quipped, "has fallen asleep on the job."

"He should kill him now," Dawes said, as Draco fell to the ground and lay there, still.

"He might already be dead. Wait. What's he doing now?"

Lucky Guy, still holding the spear at the ready, backed away from Draco's still form and proceeded to gather his stuff and pack it in his basket. He wiped the machete on a handful of grass and stuck it in his belt, shouldered the basket, picked up his bags and sacks, and picked up the spear again. And then, without turning his back until he was out of sight of the man who had run at him and threatened him, he hurried off down the path, toward the center of the island.

"What was that?" Grayson asked of anybody. "What the heck was that?"

"It is possible," Dawes said, "that having entered mortal combat for the first time, Lucky Guy found he didn't have the nerve to make the kill."

"But he had a spear! And Draco is probably unconscious! He might be dead already!" After all, Draco still hadn't moved since Lucky Guy left.

"That's true. But sometimes, when you're in a firefight for the first time ― "

"This was no firefight."

" ― you can find yourself acting on instinct, forgetting orders, forgetting training, forgetting completely what you're really there to do. You can't judge a man when he's just been in that situation for the first time."

"Sure you can!" Grayson shot back.

"And remember, these guys go into a combat situation without any training besides what they might have picked up over the course of their lives. That's what makes this situation so volatile. Anything can happen."

Grayson shook his head. He thought, but had the prudence not to say aloud, "It's as though someone didn't tell Lucky Guy the rules."

Far away in Los Angeles, John Fowler Savage, District Attorney for Los Angeles, and Republican candidate for governor of California, walked into a meeting of his closest advisers.

"Hey, folks. Dave. What have you got for me?" He pulled up a chair, exuding the warmth and energy that made him an excellent candidate in the election for governor next fall.

Dave Thornton, his campaign manager, pushed over a legal pad. "Your statement."

He put on his reading glasses and looked it over.

"Sir ― "

He looked up. Margaret Aguirre, his publicity director, gave him the long, measured stare that so intimidated her cohorts. Savage deflected it with his usual grace by smiling at her. "What do you think, Maggie?"

She smiled quellingly at the nickname. "No statement. I don't think you should come out in front on this."

"He's got to take a stand," Thornton argued. "He's got to go on the attack. He can't be seen as being victimized by this manipulative bastard ―"

Maggie turned her gaze on Thornton. "Jules Van Allan is trying for a reaction. He has made the attack, he will expect us to come out swinging. You'll find he already has his next move in hand ― "

"And what's that?" Savage asked quickly, before Thornton could respond.

She shrugged. "Probably some kind of grandstanding in the press. A graveside visit, a documentary on the old case ― "

Thornton put in, "All of which we can control if we get ahead of the curve now. If you make a statement ― "

"And what should I say?" Savage asked him. "If I bring up the case, I'll look culpable. Maggie's right. It's better if we appear to have no idea of the connection."

"Sir," Cory Applegard, Thornton's assistant suggested tentatively, "You're going to have to take some kind of stand on the killings ― "

"How many?" John Savage looked at Thornton.

"Three," Dave said. "And one assault. All this afternoon." He shoved over a paper summarizing action on the island so far that day.

Savage glanced down the three brief paragraphs. "All three murders by one guy," he noted. "Shadow?"

"A.k.a. Craig Wells, bus driver from Chicago," Thornton informed him.

"Well," Savage said, "at least he's not from California."

"Someone will be," Margaret murmured. "If not today, then soon."

"There's a guy from Oakland on the Island right now," Thornton said, checking his paper. "The first one out."

Savage pushed the paper away. "And this is all being broadcast? Live?"

"We don't know if it's live," Cory replied. "There's no way of telling. But he's certainly broadcasting. He's got a twenty-four hour satellite feed going for the first couple days, though after that what he's syndicated is a three-hour show of highlights from the day's actions. But for the time being, it's going on twenty-four hours on that new cable sports channel."

"He's rented out stadiums in New York, Dallas, and here in Los Angeles," Thornton told him. "They're watching a big-screen live feed of the first six hours. They're sold out; he practically gave the tickets away."

"And it's on TV right now," Cory added. "And there's a website, with a live feed."

"And people are watching?" Savage looked around.

"Oh, yeah," Cory said.

"Do you have any numbers on that?"

"Not hard numbers . . . "

"Estimates?" Savage insisted.

Cory's eyes slid away. "Millions."

"Tens of millions," Thornton corrected.

Cory nodded.

"Tens of . . . " Savage pushed away from the table and got up. "Right. And you think I shouldn't take any notice? And that won't make me look stupid?"

"You could say," a slight cough came from down the table. Savage's secretary for the past ten years, Deanna McFarlen, looked up from the notes she was taking, "at this point, that you're looking in to what laws, if any, have been broken, and will promise the people of Los Angeles to bring any charges that are pertinent." Deanna shrugged apologetically, "That's what you'd do for any other crime. Right? Look into it, and come up with charges."

"Thornton?" Savage asked.

Thornton looked over at Margaret Aguirre and caught her nod. He glanced around the table and gathered everyone's agreement. "Let's do that," he agreed.

"Right," said Savage, pushing the pad back to Thornton. "Thank you, Deanna." He got up from the table. "That's what we'll do. Cory, start looking in to possible charges. Thank you all. Dave?"

They crossed the hall from the conference room and John Savage shut the door to his own office.

"That won't stop him," Dave said. "Van Allan is out to get you, John."

"I know," Savage said, walking over to his desk. "We've got to find a way to get to him, first."

"Yes, but how? There he sits, out there in the middle of who-knows-where, on his own island ― "

"Sovereignty," Savage said suddenly. "That's the place to start. Find out where this island is. Find out what country it belongs to ― and then we can find the right lever to pry him out of his hole."

Thornton nodded. That was the thing about Savage. If you put a problem to him, once he had all the pieces in front of him, he could always see his way to the solution. That was why Thornton wanted to put John Fowler Savage in the governor's mansion. And that was just the beginning. Savage was the best candidate for office that Thornton had ever worked for. He wasn't going to see the campaign undercut now. "I'll get Cory and Deanna on it," he said. "If it exists ― outside of a TV sound stage ― we'll find it. And even if it doesn't. Don't worry. Jules Van Allan is going to find out he's perpetrated a multimillion dollar mistake."

### Chapter Five

Behind gate number three, Brian Longworth lit a bundle of sage. He had drawn the war sign on his cheeks and forehead. He had tied up his hair as his great-uncle taught him. Now he knelt on the concrete floor, smelled the sage that reminded him of home, of good days and hard days, of dances, ceremonies and hunts, and readied himself for war.

He thought of turning back, the way you watched a departing lover get on a plane that you weren't taking. In six minutes the gate would open. His pack lay before him. He was dressed. His weapons were ready. When the time came, he would go.

Brian Longworth had been left in foster care in the town of Bishop when his mom and dad's relationship disintegrated. It was a couple of years before he'd been tracked down by his maternal grandmother from Tucson, who took him home and did her best to raise the silent, angry hell-raiser that her grandson had become. When he was fourteen, and picked up and jailed for joyriding for the second time, she didn't come for him. She sent her brother instead. Only then did Brian learn that he was one-eighth Apache Indian. His great uncle, Paul Singer, took him into the desert on a summer-long camping trip, and Brian entered into his heritage. He learned to hunt, trap and forage, he learned the ways of the desert, and to be one with the open spaces and the beauty of the land. At the end of the summer, Paul Singer prepared and sent him on a vision quest, from which he returned with his new name, his warrior name, Lone Eagle.

He came back, tanned, fit, and far-sighted, to live again with his grandmother, who kept a tight rein on his behavior from then on by threatening to tell Paul anything that didn't please her. Brian lived for the weekends when Paul came to take him off and teach him something new. Skills that gave Brian a connection with the people who had come before him, who, partly by blood, but more by adoption, he thought of as his own. He was seven-eighths white, but in his heart he was entirely a Jicarilla Apache.

Paul Singer died of heart failure the winter before Brian graduated from high school, and before he'd succeeded in enrolling Brian officially in the tribe. Brian went to Arizona State and studied Cultural Anthropology for two years, before dropping out to take a job driving a truck. His grandmother was proud of him. But it was Paul Singer's spirit to whom Brian reached out, when he lit his sage bundle and sought the power within him that connected him to his ancestors.

He closed his eyes now and let the smell of the smoke focus his mind and heighten all his senses. He left Brian Longworth behind, and entered into his true self. He was Lone Eagle, and this was his time.

It had begun to rain. The smell of the jungle changed, and its sounds were muted under the onslaught of the downpour, striking the leaves and the ground. Draco heard the sound as though from a distance. He felt the water drip on his face through the faceplate of his helmet. He was not dead. He was in pain. Astonishing how a cut to his rear could hurt so much. But the muscles in his butt connected to his legs and to his lower back. He wondered if he were crippled. He wondered if he was going to bleed out. Except he hadn't bled out yet, so perhaps he wasn't going to. In any case, if he wanted to live, there was only one thing to do.

He looked around without moving. He listened. He could hear no one. The skinny Asian guy with the machete must have gone off. And taken his spear! He saw one of his short swords lying by his hand and reached for it. Using it as a crutch he levered himself to his knees. The other one had fallen too far away. He hauled himself up holding on to a couple of saplings. Oh, how he hurt! His whole right hip was burning, knotting into even more pain whenever he moved his right leg. But he couldn't stay here. No one was going to save him. He had to save himself.

Just before the rain began, Jaguar Warrior reached the top of the ridge and looked back toward the Wall in time to see, far in the distance, like tiny dolls, a man in black armor strike down a guy in camo on the sandy field. He saw what looked like another body lying nearby. He could hear nothing up here but the sound of surf, the screech of birds and insects. Obviously he was missing the party. He hadn't seen anyone since he'd started out. He realized that if he wanted someone to fight, all he had to do was stay down near the Wall. He should have thought of that before.

The black-armored guy was bending over the dead guy's head. Ear tag! He was going to cut off the guy's ear tag! Well, he was going to get himself some of that.

The Jaguar Warrior hefted his spear and headed back down the ridge trail toward the killing field.

Shadow came back into the killing field in the pouring rain and took up his stance once again before the center gate. He had rested in a clearing not far into the tree line. He'd taken off his helmet, cleaned and bandaged the cut over his eye. He'd drunk some water, eaten some food, sat against the trunk of a tree and closed his eyes. When he entered the arena he held his morning star in his hand, its chain full length once more, and carried Bloodaxe's round shield. His own had been discarded in the woods, the corner knocked off.

"We have a proximity alert," Farley's voice said in Grayson's ear. Grayson glanced over at the big map of the island. They were seconds away from the release of the next combatant, Lucy had the infirmary doctor on camera for him to interview, and the Shadow had just taken up his position again in the killing field in front of the center gate. He spared a glance for the big map that showed all the combatants' positions.

And it was true, two of the colored lights were converging on one of the interior paths.

Jaguar Warrior's blue light showed he was on his way back from the ridge trail toward the Wall. And ― there it was. His path would come out just ahead of where Draco slowly lurched along the trail, leaning heavily on a stick he'd cut for himself. They just might come in sight of one another.

"How badly hurt is Draco?" Grayson asked. Lucy picked up his question on her earphone and repeated it to Dr. Nagina Bannerjee in the infirmary.

"Well, it very much depends," Dr. Bannerjee pushed her glasses up on her nose and leaned toward the camera. Someone off camera gave her a direction and she straightened up and backed off. "Oh. Sorry. Obviously the blade did not hit an artery or he would not still be walking." She put her hands on her own small rear. "The buttocks has three sets of muscles, as you know, and all of them are engaged when one is walking. It should not be life-threatening . . . except that it is difficult to walk with such a wound. And more difficult to run. And he is out there . . . " she shook her head.

"Thank you, Dr. Bannerjee. I'm sure all the combatants are glad to know that there is a fully qualified wound surgeon on call twenty-four seven ― and there goes Lone Eagle!" Grayson segued quickly as the left-hand gate opened and Lone Eagle charged out onto the killing field.

Shadow turned and started for the gate as it opened. Lone Eagle charged out, spear in one hand, small round shield in the other. He swerved away as he saw the large black-armored foeman bearing down on him, the morning star swinging over his head.

"What was he thinking?" Grayson yelled. "No armor ― no clothes!"

"What you're thinking," Colonel Dawes answered promptly, "is due to the fact that you've seen the other combatants come on to the island. And because you've seen what the Shadow can do. Lone Eagle chose his weapons and equipment without knowing what he would face. That's one thing about this combat set-up that's so interesting, tactically speaking. You don't know what you're going to face until it's in front of you, and you'd better have prepared for everything."

"Oh my god ― " Grayson found himself actually getting upset, and swallowed his passion. "This isn't going to be a fight," he said levelly. "It's going to be a slaughter."

"We'll have to see," Dawes agreed.

The deerskin pants had cost so little in points Lone Eagle had leaped at the opportunity to get them. They were 'way too expensive back home. The leather moccasin boots were beautiful and custom-made. He had not, however, reckoned on the rain. The headband kept strands of hair from his eyes, so that was all right. His long spear looked like a lucky choice when he saw the black-armored guy coming at him, because it would help to keep him out of range of his swinging spiked ball of metal. He wasn't sure how he could get past the guy's big round shield, or his helmet and armor. His war axe might be heavy enough to impact a joint at least, or the neck, if he could get to it. He had a knife as well, but the guy would have to fall down for that to be of any use. The swinging ball looked like murder. He charged away from the armored man, and that was the other thing he had. He could run. Dismay changed to excitement. Never in his life had he felt so free.

He loped along the edge of the cliff that bounded the killing field on the west, making for the trees. Shadow, unable to catch him, headed diagonally for the treeline, trying to cut him off and drive him back toward the wall.

The rain pounded down harder. The trees ahead looked thick; Lone Eagle couldn't see a break in them that would let him through. He didn't want to get backed up against them. He changed direction and headed back toward the Wall, running for the other end of the field.

At the Coliseum in San Jose, you couldn't hear yourself think for the shouting. Some men howled directions to Lone Eagle to help him find the path away from the killing field. Some shouted for him to stand and fight. Voices could be heard rooting for the Shadow to kill again, kill him now!

After the first death, some people had left the Coliseum, while others had decided that it was all fake, it was cooked up, and proceeded to explain to anyone who would listen how you could tell that it wasn't real. But there was something about the thunk of the morningstar into Bandit One's body, how they'd seen it over and over from half a dozen angles in replay, how the blood had welled up, what it had done to his body the next three times it struck, and the whole messy killing that followed . . . there was no way to fake that. And anyway, there was no reason to fake that. But still, some men were emphatically certain it was fake. Perhaps because they needed to believe it to go on watching.

Now the crowd roared for someone else's blood.

Lone Eagle zagged again, counting on his speed to gain him some more distance from the armored guy. He thought he'd made it and had a clear shot for the woods, and the trail he could see opening up there when he heard the pounding behind him ― he had no idea a guy could run that fast wearing that much armor. He ducked instinctively and his heart clutched as he saw the metal ball pass by his head, close enough to see the spikes. Lone Eagle spun away, raising his spear, and that was all that saved him as the chain of the morningstar caught it and yanked it from his hand. The Shadow came to a halt to pick up the spear and disentangle it, and Lone Eagle charged for the trees ― and stopped. Another man in armor came towards him, short sword in one hand, staff in the other. Lone Eagle backed away.

"That's Draco!" Grayson shouted. "Draco has made it back to the killing ground in time to stop Lone Eagle's escape!"

The proximity alert had lit, but in the excitement of Lone Eagle running out and meeting Shadow, Grayson had forgotten about it, and Farley, watching from the director's booth, had let him. Farther up the trail, dimly through the pouring rain, Jaguar Warrior saw the shape far ahead of him, dressed in armor, limping away from him. Jaguar Warrior took a long moment to look around, to see if anyone else was nearby, but when he turned back, the figure had moved out of sight. Confident that he couldn't have gone far, Jaguar Warrior put his hand on the haft of one of his twin swords, hefted his boar spear, and jogged down the trail. Under the trees the rain was much less intense, except every now and then an avalanche building up in the leaves above would let fall. He didn't mind. The water wasn't cold. The rain obscured any tracks, however. He had to check every opening onto the trail to be sure that his prey had not headed off that way. But the guy had been moving pretty slowly. He was sure to catch him before long.

Shadow saw Lone Eagle stop, saw the armored figure standing in the gap in the trees, and made a split-second decision. He moved to the right, came around, and charged at Lone Eagle, so that he had no choice except to stand and fight ― and he wasn't going to stand and fight, half-naked as he was ― or run for the far side of the arena.

Lone Eagle, who'd lost track of where Shadow was in the moment he caught sight of Draco, stood hesitating, with some wild plan of knocking the guy over and getting out of here in his mind, when he felt and heard the movement on his right, and holy shit the big black-armored dude was bearing down on him from a different direction. He ran like hell for the west side of the killing ground.

Shadow chased him for twenty yards or so, and then turned back. The armored figure had come forward only a few steps. He was still among the trees, which wasn't a good place to swing the morningstar. But he carried only a short sword and a staff. Shadow dropped the morningstar and drew his broadsword. He bore down on Draco, gaining speed as he went.

All thought of pain was gone. Draco raised his staff like a shield, raised his short sword and braced himself on his good leg. Now, he realized, he had the perfect conditions to try out his interlocking shields. And where were they? He'd lost his chance with them when he'd wandered into the jungle. He was in deep shit. Unless he could knock the guy over. Unless he could get inside his guard somehow. His engineering mind took up the problem, but as the problem closed in on him, the back brain he inherited from all his ancestors, down to the little weasel that hid in holes when the dinosaurs thundered by, told his body what to do. He stepped into the trees, pushing his way in far enough that the guy couldn't swing the sword, and so he had something to help hold him up. His best shot would be to punch at the helmet with his staff, and when the shield went up, to drop down and try to strike upward, or at least cut the guy's legs. He might manage a couple of cuts and even the odds.

Shadow was marking in his head how much time he had before the young man behind him came back at him with the spear to his back. This guy had to go down first, because chasing the other guy might take some time. He charged in, pushing back foliage with his shield, thrusting with his sword between the trees, but he missed, and the man was gone. He hopped back and saw the short sword come up at his thighs and stabbed downward, and struck something, and the guy screamed and scrambled back, still on the ground, and Shadow followed him into the trees.

"He is so fast!" Grayson exclaimed, not for the first time. "How can he move that way, wearing all that armor ― oh, he's got him, oh ― "

"He's cut Draco's arm," Dawes added, sounding at least in control of himself. But his eyes blazed, and his hands clenched unconsciously as Shadow struck again and again. "It's not like carrying a seventy-pound bag, you know. The armor is distributed over his body, and it's made to move with him, the articulated joints, the ― ah! Good one!"

Draco had stopped scrambling back, twisted, and taken a flying stab at Shadow's foot with his short sword. It stuck in Shadow's boot. Shadow kicked him away and ran backward a few steps. Then, inexplicably, he turned and ran back to the killing ground ― just in time to come upon Lone Eagle, bending to pick up his morningstar.

Since Shadow was already moving, Lone Eagle had to straighten before he could start to back away and run. Shadow ran right into him shield first and knocked him back and off his feet. Lone Eagle rolled away as the sword strike followed, turning as it missed his body, the sword whipping around so fast that on the camera it was a blur, and striking again for Lone Eagle's head. Lone Eagle got his little round shield up just in time, and caught the sword blow on the edge and stopped the blade. He didn't think, he yanked hard, pulling Shadow off balance, then let go the shield, got up and ran, heading for the far corner of the killing field.

Shadow let him go. He put his foot on the round shield and pulled his sword free. He glanced at Lone Eagle, calculating how far away he was. He picked up Lone Eagle's spear, and recovered his morningstar, dumping both of them at the edge of the trees as he started again down the path where Draco had levered himself to his feet once again and stood beside a tree waiting for him.

He came at Draco at a trot, his sword overhead, meaning to knock into him before he could make another strike with the short sword. He raised his shield and struck out, and once again Draco vanished beneath him.

Draco screamed, convulsing. Shadow saw the spear lodged in Draco's back, and the camo-clad warrior wearing the jaguar-headed helmet standing over him. Jaguar Warrior dropped the huge long spear, and drew a pair of short swords. In the close space of the jungle trail he whirled them in his hands, making blurring figure-eights, and he stepped forward to take on the Shadow.

"What a fight, oh my god what a fight," Grayson cried, as the Shadow backed away down the path from the whirling twin blades. "And we can't count Draco out yet ― " he added, as Jaguar Warrior stepped on the body and stumbled slightly, allowing Shadow to gain a little more ground. Shadow backed down the trail full-tilt, holding his shield high in front of him, and his sword up at his left side as an auxiliary shield against Jaguar Warrior's second spinning sword.

"Draco is dead," Richard Farley said in Grayson's ear. Grayson ignored him. There was no reason to give that information yet, since it would lower the excitement level for this fight. Not that it wasn't already thrilling enough ―

"This is certainly what I would have paid to see. Great warriors, fighting their best with their chosen weapon forms," Dawes mused, as Shadow burst back into the killing field, backward, and veered to one side.

Shadow spared a glance to see where Lone Eagle had gotten himself ― nowhere in view, that he could see ― ah, there he was, moving along the far edge of the field, close by the Wall.

He jinked to one side as he stepped over the discarded spear, sheathed his sword and bent to pick up his morningstar. He continued to back away from the opening in the path, and set the morningstar to whirling.

Jaguar Warrior trotted out of the trees whipping his swords so fast they were a blur, caught sight of the Shadow's shield held up high against him and ran toward it. And then the shield dropped a little and from around it came a missile moving so fast he had a split second to try and duck or block it, and he did both, and the chain of the morningstar struck his arm as he raised it to block, and the heavy metal-studded head struck him in the side of the helmet.

"Oh!" Grayson and Dawes cried out together.

Jaguar Warrior turned, holding out his right-hand sword to hold off the Shadow, as he'd dropped the left one. But everyone who was watching could see he was seriously damaged. The left side of his helmet was caved in, and under it a mass of gore was visible. Grayson's brain tried to complete the shape he was seeing; a misshapen jaw, hanging skin, teeth angled the wrong way. The blood welled, streaking the jaguar skin with scarlet.

The Shadow yanked back the morningstar and dropped it behind him. He drew his sword and stalked toward the Jaguar Warrior, who turned his right side toward him and whirled his sword. It didn't whirl properly. After a moment it dropped from Jaguar Warrior's hand. The massive blow to his head had begun signaling itself in a red roaring pain. Jaguar Warrior looked down for his sword lying in the sand. He saw the long sword enter his body. He felt it rasp against his bones. It held him up for a moment, and then in a scream of pain, his scream, his pain, it was withdrawn. Jaguar Warrior clutched at it, but his fingers missed it in passing as he fell to the ground.

"Jaguar Warrior is down! What a fight! What a fight!" Grayson heard himself saying. The crushed face and mutilated jaw had affected him as no other violence that day had. "Standing up to Shadow, with one sword left ―"

"He was probably dead on his feet already," Dawes put in, "but that was a hell of a fight."

"He didn't know that Shadow had a morningstar," Grayson noted, his voice dropping as the bile rose in his throat.

"You have to expect anything out there," Dawes said. "That's what makes a great warrior."

"Expect the unexpected," Grayson quipped hollowly, "on Savage Island. And that leaves only Lone Eagle," he added, as Shadow looked around for his remaining foe.

The camera picked up Lone Eagle as he walked toward a gate in the Wall. He seemed to be nursing his wrist.

"Looks like he's going in," Dawes observed. "He must have gotten hurt. He sure found he'd bitten off more than he was equipped to defend himself with, with his spear and shield and tomahawk." He added, without thinking. "That's how the West was won."

Listening with half an ear, trying not to vomit right there in the studio, Grayson thought they were certainly going to cut that comment out before they broadcast. "Oh, no," he said, looking up at the clock. "Lone Eagle is about to get a really bad surprise."

Lone Eagle, cradling his left wrist, reached for the big red button that would open the western gate. He'd discarded his shield. His war axe still hung from his belt. But he was empty-handed when the gate opened in front of him, and the fighter who called himself Sol Invictus charged right at him.

His golden muscle armor glinting, Sol Invictus charged out of the gate brandishing hoplite spear and Spartan shield, his short sword on a lanyard hanging from his wrist, and only at the last moment caught sight of the half-naked man who leaped back as it opened. Sol Invictus had already seen Shadow starting toward him, his morningstar in motion. But he had a moment or two, and the man in front of him had no weapon in its hands, but very obviously an orange eartag. Sol Invictus turned his spear on Lone Eagle.

Lone Eagle backed away, too close to turn and run. He fumbled with one hand for the tomahawk at his side, dodged the first thrust and batted Sol's spear out of the way with his good hand. The spear thrust out again and Lone Eagle barked in pain as the point caught him in the chest. He twisted away as Sol Invictus struck again, and then ran back away from the gate, blood pouring from his wounds. Sol Invictus, about to follow up and make his first kill, saw Shadow almost upon him, and turned to meet him.

"He's hit! Lone Eagle is hit!" Grayson's nausea had gone away in the excitement of the action, he was pleased to note. "What's he going to do?"

Lone Eagle had not run for the gate, as Grayson expected. He had finally drawn his tomahawk and stood, clutching his bleeding chest with his left hand, holding the weapon in his right.

"I thought it would have to get a lot more crowded before we got situations like this," Dawes exclaimed. "This is amazing."

Grayson, watching a close shot of Lone Eagle on the monitor, said, "Look at that! He's thinking about attacking."

"Well, he hasn't gotten a lick in yet," Dawes said. "But the problem is, if he takes out one of them, the other one will still be standing, and look at him ― he doesn't stand a chance against either one of them."

Lone Eagle glanced down at his chest, and the blood welling over his hand. He swayed and started again for the nearest gate. He punched the large red button, the the outer gate swung open, and let him in.

"The first man to go out onto Savage Island, and face his foes, and return alive," Grayson intoned. Then he segued over to the other fight in progress. "That long spear seems to be the right weapon to fight a morningstar."

"It looks like Shadow has met his match," Dawes commented. "He's certainly slower than he was this morning."

"Let's not forget that he's taken a hit or two himself."

Grayson followed the moves and counter-moves, exclaiming as he reacted, until after just a few minutes Shadow had Sol Invictus on the ground, pinned him there with his foot, and swung the morningstar into his head. The scream of the man on the ground struck Grayson as though he'd been shocked awake from a nightmare. The man was dying, was being beaten to death before his eyes, and he was ― talking about it. He sat back, figuratively, watching himself. He picked up his glass, and noticed that his hand was steady as he raised it to his lips. Dawes remarked on the fact that Sol was still moving, and approved when Shadow drew his sword to finish him off. Sol, his head crushed, was still trying to move away when Shadow drove his sword through the man's throat. A small geyser of blood shot up the blade; there was a horrible choking, gurgling sound, and Sol Invictus shuddered and died.

Grayson took another drink of water. What the fuck. What the fuck was this all about?

Farley was talking in his ear about sending Lucy down to interview Lone Eagle, who was in the infirmary.

"No," said Grayson, getting up, "I'll do it. I need a break."

He wanted out of this room, he wanted away from the hot lights and the inexorable eye of the camera. He wanted to see the reality of what was going on here. He wanted to see if the wounds were real, or just some horrible figment of his and everybody's imagination. He wanted to know what the hell they were all doing here.

He headed downstairs as though he were in a hurry. A cameraman, who introduced himself as Su Ling, met him on the ground floor. It was pouring outside, and a couple of techs were there with big red umbrellas for them. Grayson, mindful that if his suit got wet he'd have to change before he went on camera, held his carefully as they crossed the gravel path to the next building.

"I've seen your show," Ling said over the sound of the rain, "In L.A. You're great, man. Glad to have you here."

Grayson gave him his practiced, easy smile. "Thanks, man."

Lucy met them inside the induction building, which also housed the infirmary. She introduced a small Asian woman who hooked up a cable from the boom mike she carried to Ling's camera, as Amy Phan. Amy nodded shyly at Grayson though she seemed well known to Ling. Grayson felt dismayed at the sight of Lucy, thinking for a moment that they would have to fight it out over who was going to do this interview, but she indicated the way as he approached, and followed after him saying, "I hope you don't mind . . . "

"I'm doing the interview," he said.

"Yes, of course," she said, from behind his shoulder. "I just tagged along with my friend Amy here. Would it be all right if I watched you do it?"

Grayson wondered briefly if she was putting it on to flatter him, but after all, what did he care? She was gorgeous, in any case. It wasn't hard to have her around.

"Not at all. Where is the infirmary?"

"Thank you. It's through here."

The induction building held a maze of offices, laboratories and examination rooms. The largest building on the island, it had been built with security in mind. Combatants were to have as little contact as possible with one another before they crossed through the Wall onto the killing ground. And combatants coming back through the wall, for medical treatment, additional supplies, or because they'd had enough, were segregated completely. To get to the emergency ward, they were buzzed through two heavy secure doors. As soon as they entered the infirmary, they could hear the noise of the wounded man being treated.

"Ow – ow – ow – no! Shit! That hurts! Son of a bitch – goddamn it! OW!"

Grayson came through the doorway, Lucy behind him, and saw Lone Eagle stretched out on a bed while a doctor cleaned his wounds. Two big male nurses held him down. Dr. Bannerjee, overseeing the procedure, saw them and came over.

"How is he, doctor?" Grayson asked.

"Oh, he'll be fine, barring infection. He has two puncture wounds from the spearhead in his chest that struck the bone. No organs damaged."

"Aaaaggggh!" Lone Eagle screamed.

"Disinfectant," Dr. Bannerjee murmured. "Hurts very much."

"I see," Grayson said.

"We gave him a local anesthetic, but it doesn't mask pain of that kind, I'm afraid."

"Of course."

"He has a bad sprain in his left wrist as well, but that's not dangerous. We'll wrap it when we've got him cleaned up and bandaged."

Su Ling pressed past Grayson and started shooting. Lone Eagle looked over and saw the camera pointed at him. "No way, man – fuck that, turn it off – I mean it man, I'll kill you!"

Grayson followed Ling over. He was pretty sure that Brian Longworth wasn't in any kind of shape to kill anyone just now. And besides, there were two burly men in white coats standing on either side of him that looked a lot more like "security" than "nurse." He went forward to the bed holding out a hand. He was going to clasp Longworth's right hand where it lay pinned to the bed, but he saw that there was blood on it, so he refrained.

"Hi. James Grayson. I'm the sportscaster for Savage Island. That was some adventure you had out there. How does it feel to be the first man to step out onto Savage Island, and return alive?"

Lone Eagle gasped as the doctor applied pressure to his wound. "Shit! How do you think I feel? Look at me, I got fucked out there ― Aggh agggh!" He broke off as the doctor poured disinfectant into the smaller of the two puncture wounds.

Grayson looked. He'd followed enough stretchers into locker rooms to know what damaged bodies looked like. But this – this was a war wound, not a sports injury. The spear point had split open the skin of his chest down to his bone in two places, one of them just half an inch from the lower part of his throat. His chest was covered with blood, and blood soaked his leather trousers.

"Wow," he said with complete sympathy, "that's got to hurt."

"You got that right, man," Lone Eagle answered.

"Now, Mr. Longworth, we must pack the wound in order to stop the bleeding. And then we will dress it, and you will be feeling much better."

"All right, let go of me, then. I can – ah ah ah! Fuck! Fuck! Aah!"

The two nurses had not let go, so he was not able to thrash around enough to stop the doctor from his work. The doctor made soothing noises, and kept on.

When the difficult part was over, and one of the nurses sponged the blood from his body while the other bandaged his wounds, Grayson motioned Amy, with the boom mike, closer.

"Is there anything you'd like to say," Grayson ask the bloody combatant, "to the men out there who are hoping for a chance to step out onto Savage Island? Or to the men who wouldn't, for a moment, dare to go, but wish that they did?"

Lone Eagle, more relaxed now that the worst was over, considered this. His face was drawn in pain, the angles highlighted by the bright infirmary lights. His war paint smeared, his body still streaked with blood; Grayson thought he looked great.

At last Brian looked straight at the camera and said, "It's brutal. And it's scary. And it's the first time in my life I've really felt alive. I guess my choice of weapons just weren't up to what, what those other guys brought. But I'm still glad I did it. I'm glad I went out there. I was true to my people. And I know myself better now."

Grayson thought, God that couldn't be better if I'd cast the guy and scripted this. "Thanks! That was great. Any other messages for the folks back home?"

Lone Eagle looked almost shy for a moment. "I've got a girl in Bisbee. Can I say hi?"

"Sure!" Grayson encouraged him.

"Hi, Sue. Did you see me out there? I love you. If I come back from this ― I swear, I'll marry you. That's a promise."

The doctor gave Longworth another sedative and indicated that he would be moved now to a hospital room, washed and undressed. Grayson thanked Longworth warmly and then everyone else, and told Shang-zu that their producer would be waiting for the film in the editing room immediately. They split the umbrellas and Li and Amy Phan went off together, while he headed back to the studio, holding the umbrella so that it shielded both himself and Lucy beside him.

"It's really coming down," he remarked.

She didn't seem to hear, or perhaps she had missed his remark over the sound of the rain. "How did you do that?" she asked him.

"Do what?" Walking slowly to stay in step with her, he was running the interview over in his mind, mentally editing the final tape himself, making sure that there was enough material to make a coherent narrative of twenty seconds or so. He couldn't help being aware of her so close to him.

Lucy reached up as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and took his arm. "Get him from absolutely belligerent to eating out of your hand in five seconds? How did you?"

He was intensely aware of her hand on his arm. He tried smiling his non-commital smile, prepared to use some line about "trade secrets," or "that would be telling." But the expression on her face was thoughtful. She, too, was running the interview through her mind to work out how the final cut might play. So he told her quite seriously, "Well, you know what position you want your subject to take, right? So you frame the question so he has to answer according to what you've laid down. What did I say to him? You've had a great adventure, and you're the first man to do it, how does it feel? What else can he say back to me ― except how he feels, and in the context of being so brave, and so great. And that's just what we needed from him, in his own words."

She nodded. They'd reached the door to the admin building, and stopped under the overhang. He put the umbrella down and closed it. Her flattering smile was gone, and Grayson found he liked her contemplative expression even better. It was as though he was looking behind her mask, seeing the person she really was. He felt pleased he had been allowed to see something of her that was too personal for public use.

"Of course," he added, genuinely trying to be helpful now, "it's important to make them feel that you look up to them. It's a lot easier to turn people to the way you want them to see things, if you put them on a pedestal first." He smiled back as Lucy's face broke into a gamine grin. A few tendrils of her hair had gotten damp and escaped across her face. He had to keep himself from touching them. No, in fact, he liked her smile best after all.

The doorbell had been ringing all day. Arthur's half-sister Zunia arrived at lunch time, and then stayed on, calling in sick. Zunia despised Lily because of what she had done to Arthur and Trish (as Zunia put it), so Lily and Chase left soon after she arrived, but Zunia called her husband, Pete, and he came by soon after with his younger brother Loco-Jay, and Jay's girlfriend Tyanna, bringing groceries and beer. They all halted in front of the television, where Trish was still glued.

"Where's he at now?" Pete asked, but the television was showing for the ninth time a commercial for a lawn mower that looked like a little tractor.

Trish didn't bother to answer. Zunia, taking the food and beer from Pete, and leading Tyanna into the kitchen, informed them, "He's been out of sight for over an hour. The television man said, the way he was loaded, he's probably just gone there to lie low."

"Aw, man," said Loco-Jay, "What's he want to do that for? He should kick some butt while he's there, show them how it's done."

"He's being smart," Pete said. He sat down in the best chair. A big man, with large shoulders and a gut left over from being a linebacker in college, he was accustomed to weighing in on every subject with complete authority. "He's not there to get himself killed, I know that."

At this, Trish stirred, and turned on him. "You knew about this?"

Pete backed down at once. "That's not what I'm saying ―"

"No, he didn't know about this," Zunia said, bringing in a big bowl of chips. "Nobody knew about this except Arthur himself. He's just saying ―"

"I'm just saying that laying low is smart," Pete said. "It's what I'd do."

Loco-Jay, perched on the arm of a chair, reached for the chips and dug in. "Not me," he told them. "I'd take a long spear and one of those maces, and I'd take out any guy I saw before he can get close to me, right near the gate, and be inside again in thirty-five minutes, no sweat."

Zunia laughed pityingly. "Oh, yeah? We just saw what happened to three of those guys ― and the last one to come out with a spear is dead."

"Oh, hush," said Trish. She looked up from the television as Tyanna came in from the kitchen, carrying two plates of chicken wings she had heated up. "What is this? You come over to watch TV like it's some game or something? Arthur ― Arthur is out there risking his life, and you want to eat chicken wings?"

"Now you hush," said Zunia. "It's on. Look ― that's the map of the island. And that's Arthur, there," she pointed to the little red light that shone still and steady in the upper inland part of the island. "We saw him climbing, and we saw him crawling between some trees, and he's been right there ever since. He's just going to wait them out, Trish. That's all he's going to do."

"That's stupid!" Ronnie said. "You don't get anything for just sitting there."

"You get five thousand dollars a day," Zunia reminded him.

"Five thousand a day," Ronnie, who had never made anywhere near that much in a year, sneered. "That's chicken shit, when every guy on the island is worth a hundred grand dead. He should just ―"

"What did he take out with him?" Pete asked, cutting his brother off.

Trish said, "He's got a machete. We saw that. He's got a backpack. He's in camouflage."

"They said he took nets with him, and lots of extra food," Zunia added. "So you see, he's just going to sit there. Like camping out. In a couple of nights, he can just walk back in and he'll be fine."

"No he won't," Trish said, in a dead cold voice. "When he gets home, I'm going to kill him."

Chapter Six

Grayson didn't go directly back to the studio. He'd like to have retreated to his dressing room or his trailer, but neither of these had yet been provided for him. This was one more indication that they hadn't planned to have a sportscaster for Savage Island. What did they think they were doing? They'd sold hours of broadcast time to a cable channel in the U.S., and various other stations internationally. Did they really think they could do without someone to call the event?

His agent hadn't thought to ask for a trailer, because of course they'd assumed there would be a dressing room. Grayson's bungalow was just a few minutes walk away, but he didn't want to be that far from the studio just now, in case something happened.

Grayson took the stairs down to the first floor, thinking to find the room where the coffee and snacks were kept. The coffee they'd serve that morning was some of the best he'd ever had. He passed the glass front door and noticed that the rain had stopped, at least for the time being. He slipped out and walked along the side of the building, toward the Wall. What the fuck was he doing here? This wasn't a sport. Was it? This was just a bunch of guys murdering one another. Visions of the morningstar smashing home on Bandit One's body, crushing Sol's helmet, the sword piercing Hrolf Bloodaxe's body, came unbidden to his mind. The damage it could do, the way those men died . . .

Around the corner from the induction center he came to the grass corridor he'd seen several times that morning on the monitor; the walkway that led to each of the three gates. A handful of off-duty techs had gathered along the path that led to the center gate. Grayson realized that it must be about ten minutes before the next combatant came through. To his right, another group of people gathered at the eastern gate. He saw the men in orange vests that marked them as the waste detail. The first stretcher came through the gate, the bearers moving quickly and purposefully, followed by the second and third stretchers and the inner door of the gate clanged shut. One of the women began to wail. She trotted along beside the first stretcher, touching the gray body bag, and weeping as though she had lost a lover. A couple other women then hurried to the second and third stretchers. They didn't touch the bodies, but they each started up a wail of their own.

A side door into the induction center clicked open as the stretcher bearers approached. The morgue must be that way, Grayson realized. They'd told him about the morgue and the crematorium, during his long and muzzy first day. The stretchers were taken inside, the women were left outside. The wailing ceased. They hugged one another, and then dispersed.

Grayson got the feeling that they were enjoying their performance quite a lot. And it was all just a performance, wasn't it? And hadn't this sport always existed, for the excitement of the masses, and, as Van Allan willed, as an outlet for deadly and dangerous men? And he had a part in it, too. Which, grossness aside, violence aside, he was not ready to relinquish. He could think about it later. Right now, he'd better get his ass back up in his seat, before someone else grabbed it. He envisioned arriving back in the studio to find Lucy in his place, and the pleasure with which he would lift her bodily out of the chair and chuck her out of the room. But the fact was, she would probably be holding the chair for him, with that admiring look on her face . . . Grayson hurried back to the studio, to announce the advent of the next combatant.

After killing his sixth combatant, Shadow removed the dead man's ear tag, and then his pack. After he'd drunk down one of Sol Invictus's water bottles, he straightened his dead foe's limbs. Then he took a handful of sand and sifted it over Sol's corpse.

"Go, my brother. My worthy foe. Go in peace. They will sing songs of you in Valhalla. You are a warrior."

Visibly tired, Shadow picked up his morningstar and the round shield, and Sol's spear as well, and headed for the treeline. He looked around carefully and stood listening for awhile, and then pulled apart Jaguar Warrior's bashed up gory helmet, and cut the tag from Jaguar Warrior's ear. He stopped and listened again before taking off Draco's helmet, and removing his ear tag as well. He put them with the other one inside his left-hand glove.

The rain stopped, though every leaf and branch still dripped, and the ground was soaked. He hauled all the gear he had gathered to the clearing he had used for his siesta. He sat back against his tree as before, his sword at his side. He could see anyone coming for a ways, and they'd have to make noise in the trees to get to him. He put back his head.

"Is he planning to stay all day?" Grayson asked. "Why didn't he bring these ear tags inside like he did the other ones?"

"This man has fought half a dozen epic fights since he came out," Dawes chided him. "Fights like no man has fought for hundreds of years. It's probable that crossing the killing field again just looked like too long a walk. Not to mention what just happened to Lone Eagle."

Grayson laughed, remembering. "I don't know which of them was more surprised."

Dawes chuckled as well. "Expect the unexpected! On Savage Island!"

Shadow lay so still Grayson said he thought he had gone to sleep.

Dawes agreed. "Fighting is exhausting. You've no idea. And a fight like the last one? Doesn't surprise me at all."

Thus it was that three more combatants emerged onto Savage Island and wandered into the jungle without meeting a soul.

"It can't be Indonesia," David Thornton told Cory Applegard flatly. "The time difference isn't right. Indonesia is – what – fourteen hours ahead of Los Angeles?"

Deanna, looking up from her computer, nodded.

Thornton was conducting a meeting of John Savage's campaign team in the conference room of their campaign offices. He was annoyed that they were wasting time on this issue when they should be working on election strategy. He was annoyed at Cory Applegard, who was in his late twenties, but looked younger, looked, in fact, like an eager puppy who needed to be kicked over and over until he understood his place, which was well behind and below that of David Thornton. He insisted, "It's night here, it's morning there – "

"Early afternoon," Applegard corrected.

"It's not fourteen hours ahead," Thornton replied, with more heat than necessary. "It's not Indonesia."

"But they can configure their broadcasts in anyway they please," Applegard insisted. "They don't have to do a live feed – "

"It says they're doing a live feed," Thornton contradicted him.

"Van Allan's business empire originated in Jakarta," Applegard slid a folder in front of Thornton. "His original contacts are there, and he is a close personal friend of the President's family. There are thousands of islands in Indonesia. Van Allan did buy one of them about ten years ago."

"Yes," Deanna put in. "He built a house there. It was featured in the cover story that the Times did on him when he opened his new headquarters in Los Angeles."

Thornton leafed through the folder. It was a comprehensive overview of Jules Van Allan, his background, his business, his holdings, his contacts. Applegard had put it together in just a few hours. He conceded reluctantly, "So, they could in fact be feeding the broadcast at any delay they choose."

"That's right," said Applegard.

"All right," Thornton said. "Find that island. See who we can talk to in Jakarta. Find out about the conditions of sale, and if he told anyone what he would be doing with it ― find out ― " He stopped as John Savage came into the room and handed Cory back the folder. "Get on it."

"Right," said Applegard.

Savage came over to them. "I just got off the phone with the attorney general. Six dead and one wounded. Is that right?" He looked at Deanna, who nodded.

"That's right, sir."

"He wants it stopped," Savage said. "He wants it stopped now. And so do I."

Thornton drew John Savage away to a corner of the long table, out of hearing of the others. He did this largely to make the point that this was the senior partners' meeting, and he and John were in this, and the others were not. Keeping ambitious runts like Applegard in their place was something he liked to do thoroughly.

He asked Savage, "Does he have any ideas?"

"No, it was just his bluster, as usual. Now he can tell the governor he met with me, and we're exploring all possible options against Savage Island. What's new here?"

"Jules Van Allan purchased an island from the government of Indonesia about fifteen years ago. He built a house there. We think we might be able to apply pressure through contacts in Jakarta."

"Do we have any contacts in Jakarta?"

"We're looking into that now." Thornton looked up at his friend. "You know why he's doing this?"

John nodded. "There can only be one reason."

"Yeah," Dave said. "That's what I thought."

In the afternoon another combatant, calling himself Sting, also came up with the strategy of simply waiting on the killing ground for the next man to come out. He wore a Roman-style helmet and armor, and carried two swords; a long saber in his right hand, and a short, Roman-style sword in his left. Sting spent the half-hour of his wait prowling the edge of the woods, watching and listening to see if anyone else was out there. Grayson voiced everyone's anticipation that Sting was going to see into the trees and find Shadow sleeping out there, and kill him without a fight, and win for himself one heck of a jackpot, for Shadow still carried three eartags on his person. Far away across the world, in three giant sold-out stadiums full of men larded with liquor and greasy food, every step Sting made in Shadow's direction raised a moan that rose to a roar. But each time, Sting walked back toward the arena, unaware of the prize that lay so close.

Sting's opponent emerged from the Wall after thirty minutes, armed with a two-handed sword, a short-axe and a mace resting in sheaths at his side. This combatant, from Nova Scotia, called himself Manslayer. The two proceeded to stand around out of range, posturing, calling insults, and feigning attacks that nonetheless did not bring them close enough to strike at one another. This went on for half an hour.

Out in the stadiums, the shouts of the audience rose so high the guards began to shift on their feet in concern, finger their radios and think about backup. There'd been half a dozen fist fights in the corridors already, a guard who tried to interfere had been injured, and a couple of arrests had been made.

Dawes, watching and commenting with Grayson said, "Well, this is a chicken-shit piece of action. What are these guys doing? They're just playing around, that's what. They should get in there and fight, or get the fuck off the island. That's what I say."

"Strong words, Colonel Dawes," Grayson reminded him lightly.

Dawes' glanced up at the camera, remembering where he was. "Oh. Right. Sorry."

"We've got lag time before we go out live, Colonel," Grayson told him. "Don't worry about it. Look ― here we go."

The gate opened, and the seventeenth combatant walked out of the east gate. He was dressed in a white shirt and beige pants, a big broad-brimmed straw hat, sandals and sunglasses. He carried a large duffel back slung over his shoulder, so heavy that it sagged at both ends. He had a machete sheathed at his side. He came out onto the ground and stopped when he saw the two men facing off. He stood there in surprise. Sting turned his head to look at him, and at that moment Manslayer charged him, and the two pivoted over and over, each trying to make the other stand and fight with his back to the other combatant.

While they were thus engaged, the seventeenth combatant crept away along the wall, and then walked along the far edge of the cliffs toward the trees.

"Who is this guy?" Dawes said, as the monitor showed a shot of the man with the duffel bag just as he reached the trees, "And what does he think he's playing at?"

Grayson looked down at the card in front of him. "This is ― Mr. Happy," he said, deciding on the instant to read the name with a straight face. "And he does seem pretty happy to be out of that scrap ―"

"Oh, look what's coming," said Dawes with relish.

Through the trees and onto the killing ground came the Shadow. He came without stealth, still carrying Bloodaxe's battered shield. He began to swing the morningstar when he left the trees. The two fighters paused, not sure whether to face the third man or continue the fight they were in. Sting started to back away, and Manslayer at that moment turned and swung his greatsword, striking him hard on the helmet. Sting staggered under the blow. Manslayer backed away from Shadow and toward Sting to finish him off, but he had lost track of Shadow for one crucial moment, and Shadow closed the distance at a run. Just as Manslayer turned back to track Shadow, the morningstar flew past his head, wrapped around his neck, and Shadow sprang back and jerked him off his feet.

Grayson and Dawes commented excitedly, sometimes talking over each other, as Shadow finished off first Manslayer, and then Sting.

"There!" Dawes cried, "What was I telling you? That's how to do it. That's the way it's done. And Shadow ― "

"Shadow now has seven kills to his name ― and eight eartags ―"

"Eight hundred thousand dollars, not bad for a day's work," Dawes exulted. "What a warrior that guy is, what a man!"

Grayson felt his gorge rise as he watched Shadow pull off Sting's helmet and cut off his eartag. He repressed it, telling himself he would get used to the bloodiness of this sport, the same way a butcher got used to his job.

"And Mr. Happy," Grayson made himself say, "is a happy man today."

Out on Savage Island, contestant number nine, whose moniker translated as Super Lucky Guy, had found a spring. It seeped from a high rock face and gathered in a rock pool that had been carved out over the centuries, and then trickled away across the glade and went to ground in a bog. Here he unloaded his basket and his two satchels, and the twenty pound sack of rice he had carried all that way over his shoulder. On the monitors he could be seen setting up a canvas awning over part of the little clearing beside the spring. He got out the little camp stove he carried, primed it with propane, and washed a pan of rice and set it to cook. He hung a rope hammock on a pair of stout trees, and stowed his goods neatly under the awning against the rock face.

In the control room, one of the technicians watching the monitor commented that Lucky Guy looked for all the world like he was just out there camping. He'd even left his machete, which seemed to be his only weapon, leaning carelessly against the rock face.

No too long after that, a proximity alert sounded, and several monitors in the room showed that the fourth combatant, Ghost Soldier, still wandering the island without having met anyone, was close enough to Lucky's camp that a confrontation seemed likely. Thus, most of the technicians were watching when Lucky Guy startled as Ghost Soldier came into sight, and grabbed his machete.

Ghost Soldier stopped. He made no move to level his great moon spear, or draw either of his twin swords.

Lucky Guy shook his machete and shouted at Ghost Soldier. Ghost Soldier just stood there.

"Maybe he's some kind of martial arts superman," Noel Rawlins, the technician, commented to Anna Chan, the woman at the next terminal.

"Which one?" she asked.

"Right," Rawlins laughed. "What if they're both martial arts supermen?"

Ghost Soldier, without saying a word, bowed to Lucky Guy. Lucky Guy stopped yelling. Ghost Soldier bowed again. Lucky Guy, after a moment, lowered his weapon and bowed slightly. Ghost Soldier continued along the path, walking within spear range of Lucky Guy, but without threatening him. He walked passed, turning his back on Lucky Guy, and continued down the trail

"Huh!" said Rawlins. "What the hell was that?"

Lucky Guy watched Ghost Soldier out of sight, and then sat down again by his stove. He put his machete down too, but within easy reach this time.

"You have to understand," Dawes explained to Grayson, and the rest of the listening world, "that not everyone wants to fight. Even in an environment like the one created out there, where everyone is fair game, and everyone has come prepared to fight, you don't necessarily want to at any minute."

Grayson—who had been wondering all day, as he watched the men go out, wander around, fight, and die, if he would be able to stand up for five seconds in a fight like one of those he had seen—could only listen and try to understand. "Ghost Soldier has a different kind of point to make, then," he said.

"I can't say that he's actually making any point at all, except he met a foe, a guy not heavily armored, just sitting down to his lunch, and he decided not to engage him."

"There's no doubt he would have won," Grayson added.

"With that big spear? And all that armor? I don't know what damage Lucky Guy could have done with a machete before Ghost Soldier cut him down. If he ever reached him. That spear is a distance weapon."

"Right. So Ghost Soldier didn't think he was up to his weight, so to speak."

"Could be."

"But all the eartags are worth the same."

"Well," Dawes allowed, "if Ghost Soldier comes back in alive, I'd sure like to ask him what that was all about."

Richard Farley called over and sent both James Grayson and Colonel Dawes out on their lunch break. Lucy met them in the hallway to escort them to the staff canteen. The Colonel went to join the armorer by prior appointment, and Lucy asked Grayson, a little breathlessly, if she could join him . Grayson, gratified, was pleased to agree.

Thus it was that the tech crew on duty were the first to see the next encounter on Savage Island. And it was not what any of them expected.

The combatant called Mr. Happy, as heavily laden as Lucky had been, tramped down the path to Lucky Guy's camp, limping slightly on stiff legs. Lucky, when he heard the approach of an intruder, picked up the machete and stood, b. this time he uttered no threats. When he saw Happy, he called out and waved his machete.

"What is he doing?" Rawlins asked, and hit the button to alert the producer that a confrontation between two combatants was imminent.

Richard Farley watched on one of his monitors as Super Lucky Guy and Mr. Happy met in Lucky's little clearing. Happy called out excitedly and dropped his duffel bag. The two met, and then they embraced, and then holding one another by the arms, stood talking a few moments. Then Lucky Guy gestured toward his encampment, and went with Happy to help carry his duffel bag under the awning. The two of them chattered away while they sorted equipment, and Lucky lifted the lid of his cooking pot and prodded the rice.

Rawlins punched through to Richard Farley and said, "I guess these two won't be fighting."

"I guess not," Farley answered shortly.

"Why not?" Rawlins asked. "I mean, didn't they get told – don't they know – "

He was interrupted by a voice behind him. The director, Dr. Hari Mukhtar, who monitored everything the technicians watched, was looking at his screen over his shoulder. "Every combatant on the island knows exactly what his purpose here is. Obviously, these two are in collusion of some kind."

Rawlins ducked involuntarily. "Uh – is that supposed to happen?"

"It is unfortunate," Mukhtar pronounced, "but not unforeseen. Ganging up like packs of dogs is not unusual when men are reduced to their most uncivilized state."

Rawlins watched Lucky Guy scoop out rice into a bowl and hand it to Happy, who took it and fell to. Lucky took a spoon and ate from the rice pot. "Right," he said to Dr. Mukhtar. 'Uncivilized' was exactly what he would have called what he was seeing. After all, as he told Anna later, and made her laugh, neither of them had even a shred of a napkin.

The staff canteen stood in the island's town center, across a well-kept garden on the far side of the admin center from the Wall. Grayson and Lucy's progress was interrupted several times by island staff stopping to congratulate Grayson, and sometimes Lucy as well, for their programming. Sometimes they had to recap their favorite fight. Shadow, James realized, had already become a legend.

Grayson and Lucy were bumped to the front of the line to choose from sandwiches, hot dishes, soup and fruit salad, coffee, tea and cakes. Lucy filled her plate with more food than James thought he could eat in a day. He looked away so she wouldn't think he was watching her.

When their island identity cards had been swiped by way of payment, Lucy led the way upstairs to a small dining room, and chose a table on a balcony looking out over one of the practice fields. James watched half a dozen men clad in the distinctive orange shirts that worn by the combatants on the island doing calisthenics, running the field, swinging a huge sword at a post, working slowly through a kota He found himself speculating on how they would present themselves on the other side of the Wall. He wondered how many of them would still be alive by this time next week. And he found himself enjoying the speculation.

"So," Lucy said around a mouthful of crab salad, "what do you think so far?" Despite the amount of food on her plate, Lucy ate daintily, and as though they had all the time in the world.

Grayson shook his head. "It's just mind-blowing! This whole set-up! The planning that's gone into it ―"

"The money," Lucy added.

"Of course."

"What do you think," Lucy, concentrating on her plate, spoke quietly, "you know, of the philosophy?"

"What philosophy?" Grayson countered, not wanting to be caught out.

"Oh, that true courage is demonstrated by men fighting face to face. That guns are cowardly, and that this whole set-up is one big worldwide demonstration of this idea." She looked up at him, so as not to miss the smallest nuance of his reply.

"I think it's a very interesting idea," Grayson said. He sensed her disappointment, so he added, "Of course, there's a lot more going on here than that."

"Why do you say that?"

He glanced behind him to see if anyone was in earshot, then replied quietly, "What do you think about Super Lucky Guy? And his pal, Mr. Happy?"

It was her turn to study him. She said carefully, "They certainly seem like they're on a different kind of trip than everyone else."

"Yeah," he said. "Or . . . "

"Or," she reached for another possibility, "maybe there's a language problem?"

He smiled. "Right. Maybe they don't actually know what they signed on for."

"But they're all supposed to be volunteers," she said wonderingly.

James smiled to himself at her tone of voice. That was a good trick, disguising a shrewd thought as an innocent question. He'd used it himself a thousand times. He was beginning to like Ms Tran. "Did you see the look on Lucky Guy's face when Lone Eagle charged him?"

"He did seem surprised," Lucy agreed.

"Do you know where these guys are from?"

"I can find out," she said, and then she made a self-deprecatory face as Grayson looked at her inquiringly. "I've met a few people around here. I can ask them what language they're speaking."

"Good," said Grayson. "I'd like to know."

After a moment's silence, Lucy said, "I've never seen anyone killed before. That I know of," she amended. "I thought it would be just like the movies, but it's not. The sounds they make. Seeing the weapons work. I had to leave. I had to go put my head down." She hunched her shoulders. "Was that unprofessional?"

"It's human," Grayson said. He was warming to her even more, since she'd opened herself to his criticism. Or it could be that's why she'd done it. "I was pretty shocked myself," he admitted. "But at the same time, I have to admit, it's the most exciting thing I've ever seen. And . . . I can't wait till the next fight."

"It is exciting . . . " she said. Her face scrunched up again. He found it endearing. "I hate to admit I like ― the parts that I like."

"What parts do you like?" The food was really good. Grayson finished his chicken-salad sandwich. Chalk up another point to Mr. Van Allan.

"The glory," Lucy said unexpectedly. "The idea of going out to fight to the death. Putting your life on the line to prove your strength and courage. That gets me every time. And I'm sorry, I'm sorry for the men who are dead. I met them, and talked to them. But that makes it seem more important. That I knew them a little, before they died."

"And it's not like they're doing anything that human beings haven't done for thousands of years." Grayson had been telling himself that all day.

"Even dinosaurs were doing it," Lucy agreed, with a wan smile. "Still . . . "

"It's hard when you haven't seen it before. They say on the battlefield it takes awhile to get hardened to, you know, the sight of men's insides coming out."

Lucy was looking, unseeing, at her plate. "Is that something we should get hardened to?"

"Don't we have to?" he said lightly. What he'd seen so far had been shocking, and he'd had some bad moments, but not enough to ask for his ticket home. Not on his first day!

He changed the subject. "Here's something interesting. They weren't planning on having a sportscaster for Savage Island until I tracked down the stateside producer and pleaded my case."

She looked at him, eyes wide. "How do you know?"

"What do you mean, how do I know? That box we're shooting in wasn't originally designed to be a studio. And there are no dressing rooms!"

"Oh," she said. "Of course."

He hoped she'd tell him more about the pre-production period, which she'd been involved in for several months, but instead she asked him about his accommodation, which he hadn't seen much of, truth be told, other than two exhausted night's sleep. Lucy didn't have a bungalow, he learned. She slept in what was essentially a staff dormitory, where everyone was allotted single rooms, with the men in two buildings, and women in another.

She had finished her crab salad, and now he watched as she wrapped up the two extra sandwiches, the plate of brownies, and a banana, in separate napkins, and stowed them in her bag. She blushed as she saw him watching her in surprise, but she didn't stop stashing the food. "I have food issues," she said, a little defensively. "I was born in a refugee camp. I like to be in control of my food supply. So I cache food whenever I can."

"I'm sorry," James said, but that didn't sound right. "Sounds like a good plan," he added. Then he launched into an amusing anecdote about walking into the locker room after covering a women's soccer match, and finished his coffee.

"We have a few minutes. Have you seen the garden yet?" she asked as they prepared to go.

"Should I?" Grayson didn't give a damn about gardens, but he had figured out that he was having lunch with probably the most beautiful woman on the island. He didn't mind the idea of promenading around with her so everyone would know. So they walked the red gravel paths among the extravagant foliage, ruthlessly trimmed and shaped until it seemed almost tame. They stopped at the large tiered fountain, with the rampant elephants spraying water into various pools. A winding stream flowed along a rocky bed to the ornamental pond. A stone warrior god stood stern-faced on a plinth overlooking the water where carp rose among the flowering water plants.

"What's that?" James asked.

"I think it's a statue of Alexander the Great," Lucy said.

"No," said James, who hadn't recognized the image, "that."

What looked like a pile of trash turned out to be a miscellany of offerings set at Alexander's feet. Flowers, small stones and coins predominated, but Grayson also saw a pen, a couple of photographs held down by rocks, a gold ring, a pack of cigarettes.

"They've been coming here and making offerings," Lucy told him.

"Who? The combatants?"

"Not all of them. A few."

"More than a few," James stood over the plinth and noticed a knife, and a couple of sodden envelopes among the offerings.

"Other people have been making offerings, to bring luck to their favorites."

"People have favorites? Already?"

"Oh, yes."She ducked under a branch weighed down with flowers.

"The technicians, the staff, they know these men may die. Some of them died today. So they've been picking, you know, their favorites. They do this to bring good luck to the ones they choose." Her eyes slid up to his. "I did a segment on it."

"Good for you," he told her. "For the next few days, until we get enough guys out there so that there's a proximity alert and maybe a fight every ten minutes, we're going to need filler. And that's a good one."

As they turned the corner to reach the studio door he lowered his voice and said to her, "Will you do me a favor?"

"Of course, Mr. Grayson!" she even blushed a little.

"James," he smiled at her. "Please."

"Thank you, James. What can I do for you?"

"Just . . . anything that seems a little odd to you, about this place, I'd like to know. Okay?" He flashed her his charming smile. "And I'll buy you lunch." This was a joke, when meals were a part of their salaries.

"Lunch?" she asked.

Well, thought James, why not go for it? "Or dinner? At my place?"

She smiled. Honestly, he was starting to get addicted to it. "I'd love to see your place!" she said.

Grayson felt his imagination stir at the possibilities that opened up. "Great!"

James held open the door to the studio for her, pleased with himself. From a possible adversary, he had turned her in to a possible ally, and his own set of eyes and ears on the island. And she seemed to know a whole lot about this place already.

At the doors to the elevator they were met by one of the techs who told Grayson that Farley wanted him in the studio right away. A proximity alert was in progress.

He felt excitement at the prospect of another fight, and was relieved. It was going to be all right. He was going to be good at this after all. He smiled down at Lucy. His delight rose when she grinned up at him in response. "The game's afoot!" he quoted. "Shall we go and call it?"

"Let's!"

James ushered her into the elevator.

Out on the Island, Death finally met his man. He had prowled the interior jungle paths for what seemed like hours, and finally emerged onto the rocky beach on the Island's west coast. He'd been walking since early morning, sweating like a pig all that time. He'd already gone through his water and he was beginning to think this whole exercise was one big joke on him. The joy of hunting other men had worn off as his heat exhaustion increased. When at last he saw a combatant ― a real combatant, dressed as fancifully and armed as dangerously as himself ― he was no longer in the mood to go out and kill the guy out of hand.

Ghost Soldier had taken a leisurely stroll up the shore to where the tip of the island disintegrated into a series of wave-swept atolls that were islands themselves at high tide. Here he chose a large rock, laid his weapons down around him, took off his helmet, and knelt looking out to sea while he ate another snack. After he drank and washed his hands, he knelt there awhile, certain that his senses would warn him of an approaching foe from any direction. He enjoyed imagining such a foe trying to sneak up on him, and being amazed to find him completely aware of his approach, and ready to take him on. He liked Zato Ichi movies. But no one came.

He listened to the waves, to the call of the birds and insects, and to the wind that stirred the leaves behind him on the island. A few times he thought he could hear in the noise of the waves the sound of steel impacting on metal or wood. Once he thought heard a man's shout from far away. Or perhaps it was just the voices of the water speaking to him.

In other places on the island, desperate battles were being fought, lives were ending or being changed forever. Here, the sea continued in its inexorable task of grinding this island into sand. And all was peace.

After some time, he packed his water and food, donned his helmet and weapons, and took the path along the western shore to see if anything was happening down that way. And there, at last, in late afternoon, he found himself facing a black-armored warrior with a winged helmet, a short spear, and a sword.

"What are they doing?" Grayson asked, sliding into his seat in the studio.

"They're facing off," Dawes said, glancing sideways over at him.

Grayson looked at the camera and smiled. They were rolling. He fixed his mike to his shirt collar. "How long do you think that will last?"

"Well, Death here has a short spear and a sword. Ghost Soldier has a great moon spear and two swords ― "

"The great moon spear, that's the curved-sword-on-a-stick?" Grayson asked.

"That's right."

"Great moon spear against short spear, who wins?"

"I don't know," Colonel Dawes said. "I can't wait to find out. And see, Ghost Soldier has his back to the sea, so that he can't really be approached by anyone else, should Death close in on him. But Death has that path to the interior at his back. He knows there may be up to two dozen guys out there. If he closes on Ghost Soldier, someone could come in behind him."

"And he'd be toast," Grayson heard himself say.

"Could be. Unless he's awfully good ―"

"Or lucky."

"Right," Dawes agreed. "So he's looking at Ghost Soldier, and he's wondering if he can take him fast. But that great spear probably means he can't."

"And Ghost Soldier?"

"He's probably thinking he's in a really good position, and he doesn't want to close on Death, because then he'd be giving that position up."

"And so there they stand," Grayson concluded, "facing off. Where's their courage now, Colonel?"

Dawes bristled. "Their courage, James, is evident, in that they're out there at all. They dare to stand face to face and if necessary fight to the death against their foe."

"But they're not fighting," Grayson pointed out.

"Just because they're brave doesn't mean they have to be stupid," Dawes said cuttingly.

"I see what you mean," Grayson admitted gravely. "What's Death doing now?"

The sun was setting into the sea. Ghost Soldier stood in the gathering twilight. But Death, on slightly higher ground, backlit against the horizon, was moving.

"It looks like he's changing ground."

"He's retreating," Grayson said, on a laugh. "He's definitely falling back ― "

"He's making a strategic ―"

"Yes, he doesn't like the look of the Ghost Soldier, so Death is definitely taking a holiday tonight ―"

"It doesn't mean he's afraid! There are a lot of long days ahead of these guys, a lot of chances ―"

"And when they don't like the odds, they can just fade back into the jungle, as we see Death is doing right now."

As the sun reached the horizon and the shadows grew dark amid the trees, as the sky flamed over Savage Island, a lonely lopsided long triangle of land in a remote corner of the sea, the last combatant of the day emerged onto the killing ground. He wore a suit of leather armor, a Roman-style helmet, and carried a trident in his right hand, and a net in his left. At his belt he wore a short wide-bladed sword.

James Grayson, grateful for the research that lay ready under his hand, spoke up, "And here, the last combatant of the day, number twenty-four, we have one of the weapons forms of the original Roman gladiators. A net and trident man. What were they called?"

The Colonel answered easily, "A retiarius. This is a style of professional gladiator from Ancient Rome ―"

"They weren't usually dressed in armor like that, were they?"

"No, the armor is later, it's a suit of leather plates hardened with wax. It makes surprisingly strong armor, but it's still light and even somewhat flexible."

"He's got a sword at his side as well."

"And it is a Roman sword, the short wide-bladed gladius that is both for cutting and stabbing."

James glanced down at his paper again. "And this combatant has taken the fighting name of Spartacus, after the Roman gladiator who led a slave rebellion against Rome. The most famous gladiator in history, wouldn't you say, Colonel?"

"Now what they used to do," the Colonel continued, "is pit these trident and net men against gladiators using sword and shield. And usually it was the trident man who won. So Spartacus may find himself with a big advantage here."

The proximity alert sounded. Grayson and Dawes exchanged a glance of excitement as they saw what was about to happen. The day couldn't have ended any better if it had been scripted, Grayson thought. Out of the trees, as the sun touched the ocean, came the day's undefeated champion, Shadow, holder of eight eartags, the first man to get a kill on Savage Island, who had gone on to win seven other fights to the death.

Shadow emerged steadfastly from the trees. He carried the battered round shield that he had taken from a dead foe, and his morningstar hung from his right hand. As he stepped onto the killing ground, he began to swing it in figure eights, the heavy weighted morningstar at the end of the chain flashing red and orange in the last of the day's light.

Spartacus moved further out onto the bare ground, and half a dozen cameras turned as he went, offering a terrific choice of shots. He was tall and lanky, with long legs, and the wiry build of a long-distance runner. He moved with swiftness and grace, angling toward his opponent, trailing the net behind him, the lead weights at the edges digging tiny trenches in the sand as he moved. He held the trident just past its fulcrum, its three lethal prongs pointed toward Shadow.

"This is, in actuality, Mike Hartman, a graduate student in history from Great Britain," James said, as the two men moved together across the wide stretch of ground. "Studying for his doctorate in Late Roman warfare at Lancaster University, he's had extensive experience with historic recreation groups, and as you can see, he really knows how to use these weapons."

Grayson had no doubt in his mind that Shadow would kill Mike Hartman. He was pleased to realize that he felt only anticipation at what was about to happen, and a little regret for the graduate student as, thirty feet from his opponent, Shadow broke into a run.

After a hard fight, Shadow brought his sword down hard on Spartacus's shoulder at the base of his neck. Spartacus fell to his knees, blood streaming. Shadow stepped back. As the sun slipped into the sea, Spartacus looked up at the last glimmer of light, wavering, and as it slipped away, he fell face forward onto the sand.

Shadow, leaning on his sword, looking around for any movement on the perimeter in the gathering twilight. Then he dropped down on his knees next to Spartacus' body. And then, as he had before, earlier in the day, after other such victories, he sprinkled a handful of sand over Spartacus' still-warm body, thanked his spirit aloud for a worthy fight, and bade it go its way toward the sunset. He knelt there, head bent for a few minutes. The last light faded. The hammering ache in his head that had receded during the fight was back again. He looked around his perimeter once more, but still nothing moved. He then drew off Spartacus' helmet, checked the telltale, and then sliced the eartag off with the edge of his sword.

He got up heavily, looked around once more, and then dropped his helmet on the sand by his weapons. With the last eartag in his hand, he walked toward the nearest gate in the Wall.

"He's coming in!" Grayson shouted. "The Shadow is coming in!"

"Don't be too sure of that," Dawes said. "This man is a warrior. Who is to say when he has had enough? Remember, he opened the gate earlier just to chuck his eartags in."

"He has left his weapons behind, he has done his day's work ―" Grayson continued, ignoring Dawes.

"Let's just wait and see ―"

On the monitor they could see Shadow reach the eastern gate. He held up the eartag he had just taken to the camera over the gate. Grayson saw that it still bore blood and bits of flesh from Spartacus's corpse. For a moment the bile in his throat broke through his exultation, but then he heard the Shadow speak.

"That's it," the man said hoarsely. He pulled off one glove and then the other, and shook out the eartags he had stashed there. "That makes nine for the Shadow. And I'm done. I want to come in. All right?" Then he pressed the large red button that opened the gate, and holding his trophies he passed inside, and the gate closed behind him.

In the studio, James commented, "This is a far cry from the flowery utterances we heard from Shadow this morning, praising his foemen as worthy adversaries, and sending their spirits on."

"That's war," Dawes told him, with a glaring eye that said more than his words of the difference between a man who had seen combat, and one who only talked about it. "You go out to war full of passion and idealism, singing songs and waving the flag. You come back tired, bloody, wounded, and that's when you know, whatever the reason, whatever the politics ― " he spat the word "― what you've been doing is killing men. Just like yourself. And you're just goddam lucky and goddam glad that you're one of the ones who made it home."

Grayson opened his mouth, but for once, he had nothing to add.

On the monitor, the inner gate opened. A crowd of people who had gathered there pressed forward, and as the Shadow emerged, they cheered and clapped and waved their hands. Shadow, without his helmet, revealed himself as a tall, heavy-set black man in his late thirties. He looked around slowly, weighted with exhaustion, streaked with blood, fresh blood from his recent kill over dried dark stains from earlier in the day. He held up his hands, and the clapping and cheering grew louder. Shadow's face cracked into a tired smile.

"And if you're lucky," Dawes continued quietly, "that's the welcome you get, when you come home. And that almost ― not completely, but almost ― makes all your pain and sacrifice, what you did, what you saw done, and what was done to you, worthwhile."

By the Wall a bank of lights snapped on. Grayson saw that Lucy, sharply lit, was down there, with a camera and microphone. Good for her, he thought wryly. She really had the uncanny knack of a great journalist to be at just the right place at just the right time.

"Mr. Wells," Lucy said, "Welcome back. How does it feel to be the first hero to emerge alive from Savage Island?"

"Am I the first?" he asked. The cut on his head seeped blood. He wiped a hand across it, winced, and looked down at it.

"Yes, sir," Lucy said, "you are. Not the first to come back," she amended with her gamin grin, "but the first to come back a hero. A hero eight times over."

Shadow shook his head. "Killing people, that's not heroic. I went out there, like it says, because there's only one way to prove to people that a man is brave. Brave is chancing your arm against whatever comes at you. Brave is taking on whatever they got, and giving back your best. And I did that."

"Yes, you did," Lucy agreed with fervor. "You certainly did."

Grayson, watching, reminded himself to compliment her on that bit. That was good work.

"And what do you plan to do," Lucy continued, "with the nine hundred thousand dollars that you have earned today?"

And then Mr. Wells's smile was huge. "I have some plans," he said. "But I don't want to talk about that until I really do have the money. Who's to say there isn't some fine print somewhere, right?"

James looked over at Richard Farley, who had just stepped into the room. That was a line that was going to be expurgated before the broadcast went out. Of that he was sure.

A surge of movement on the monitor and a flare of arc lights heralded the arrival of Jules Van Allan himself to greet the Shadow. And James found that detail very interesting indeed, that Jules Van Allan would want his picture associated with the first killer to emerge victorious from his crazy island's killing ground.

Van Allan shook Craig Wells's hand. Cameras flashed. He'd brought his own photographers.

"Mr. Wells, I am Jules Van Allan. I personally assure you that even at this moment, nine hundred thousand dollars has been transferred to the bank account that was set up for you when you arrived on this island. You'll remember signing the paperwork?"

Shadow nodded.

"In addition, an additional five thousand dollars is in your account, in acknowledgment that you spent a day on Savage Island, for a total of nine hundred and five thousand dollars.

Shadow said, "It's true, then? I really have the money?"

"You really have the money. And let me congratulate you sir," Van Allan said, shaking his hand again and turning toward the cameras, "It is an honor to shake the hand of one who has proved himself so overwhelmingly to be one of the world's most courageous men."

"If I really have the money ―" Mr. Wells began.

"No doubt of that, sir!" Van Allan proclaimed.

Craig Wells turned his face toward the lights. "I fought some worthy men today. I know the Island doesn't give you anything if you fail, if you fall. But I would like to give ten thousand dollars to the heirs of each of my fallen foes. They were brave too, and they deserve it. And since I'm the man that sent their spirits to the next world, which I hope is a good world, then I'm the one that should make sure they get buried right, and that their next of kin gets something for their trouble."

The audience cheered, Craig Wells, no longer the Shadow, raised his arms in the air, and the cheers and clapping increased. A couple of white-gowned medics arrived then and ushered Mr. Wells to the medical lab so that he could be checked out, and his wounds cared for. Jules Van Allan waved at the crowd and the cameras, and followed the man off screen.

In the Oakland apartment of Arthur Baines and his wife, Trish returned from the bathroom where she had retreated when the killing began again, to find her in-laws starting another round of beers, and Tyanna opening a new bag of chips.

"Nine hundred and five thousand dollars," Pete said, obviously for the fourth or fifth time. "Trish," he said, when he saw her, "what could you do with nine hundred and five thousand dollars?"

"He won, then."

Ronnie got up and acted out the fight between Shadow and Spartacus, with commentary and groans and mimed blood spurts thrown in, while Pete annotated the fights with any details he missed. Zunia sat down next to Trish and took her hand.

"Arthur still hasn't moved. Look – there he is now."

Trish glanced over at the television, where Zunia was pointing to Arthur's red light glowing steadily from the same position.

"See?" Zunia said, "He's not moving. He's going to be fine!" She said this, Trish thought, for the fortieth time.

"That fool!" Ronnie announced, brandishing a spoon for a sword and a plate for a shield, "if I was there I'd ―"

"You'd go down in seconds, like that guy with the two swords!"

"You'd probably have your helmet over your eyes, like that time –"

"Shut up!" Ronnie cried.

"You'd probably lose your way trying to get out of the gate," Tyanna said. Ronnie gave her a look.

"Damn," said Pete. "If I had nine hundred thousand dollars ―"

Trish stood up. With a frozen smile she thanked them all for coming over, and said she was fine now and appreciated their support. When she had spoken six or seven more lies they finally got the message, gathered up their things and filed out of her apartment.

"Call me," Zunia said, "if anything happens. If you hear anything."

Trish nodded.

"And if they want to talk about him," Pete put in, "you know, for the television, you have my number."

Trish nodded again, and closed the door.

Nine hundred ― and five ― thousand dollars was a whole hell of a lot of money, she thought, her back against the door. She walked to the set, where a commercial was playing, and turned it off. A moment later, she turned it back on. What was Arthur thinking?

In his little clearing deep in the heart of Savage Island, Arthur had settled down to an MRE just as night fell. He had set up alarms all around his encampment; tripwires and noise makers, to give him the seconds he would need to keep from being taken by surprise if anyone should find his hideout. He didn't think anyone would. He'd gone back over his trail, made sure his tracks passed on down the trail and didn't lead the way in. The foliage all around him was mostly too thick to pass through. He'd drawn rocks and brush and bushes over the only way in through the trees. The cliffs above him were sheer, and he was under the overhang out of sight. If anyone came that way, he would hear him before he was seen himself. But he didn't think anyone would.

He had filled the pair of 5 gallon collapsible water jugs he'd brought in his pack, and purified the water in them for drinking. He'd set up his bedroll in the darkest corner under the overhang, where he could see the whole clearing at a glance, but he would be difficult to find in the shadows.

He breathed in the fresh air, slowly and deeply. The jungle wasn't quiet, of course. The breeze moved an infinite number of leaves that made their own quiet sounds. Most of the birds were still, but the night shift for the frogs and insects was on the job, and the bats were out in force; you could occasionally see their darting movements overhead.

Scorpion smeared himself again with scentless bug repellant, and lay against the cliff, blinking calmly into the darkness, a little lonely, and a little pleased with himself. It was like death itself, being out here, away from loved ones, friends, one's real life. It was like walking toward death with a hand out, not unafraid, but not avoiding it either, the great mystery, the step to where anything might happen. When he'd done this before, he'd been young, and every hour had been stolen from his real life. The hard-won skills were now a gift to him, a second chance at a new life.

He thought of Trish. If he got back alive, she was going to kill him. He smiled. If he got back alive, he should be able to buy her appeasement. All he had to do was stay put, stay quiet, stay down, and wait. With a little luck, no one would even know he was there. And after all these difficult years, he must have a little luck coming.

As darkness fell, the remaining combatants on Savage Island prepared to face the night. Mansoor Firouz, in his Persian armor an conical helmet, had set up an ambush at the turn of the main road and guarded it with his madoo and spear. Ghost Soldier could be seen on camera sitting on a rock facing the sea, well-guarded by distance from any night-time attacker, his sword ready to hand.

An hour after dark, there was movement. Stalker, a white South African, the twenty-second combatant released onto the island, rose from his hiding place in the trees, and started quietly down one of the paths to the interior. He had seen and smelled the blood on the sand when he came through the gate. It was real, then. He was ready. He had always been a night hunter, but this, this was the best game of all. He walked slowly, quietly, listening for the sound that was not part of the jungle, breakage in the foliage, disturbed creatures, breathing, the scent of fear, the feeling of eyes watching . . . alive as he never was at home, all his senses straining into the darkness, Carl Luden, the Stalker, went hunting for men.

In their little camping place, Lucky and Happy sat late over their fire, as though they were the only men on the island, talking and drinking tea, and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes that Lucky had brought the fixings for. When it was late, Lucky got in his hammock, and Happy lay down on his blankets, and soon they were snoring as though nothing could happen to them.

Stalker came along the path and smelled the smoke of their smoldering fire. Like a shadow he drifted through the trees, coming closer. The cameras followed his movements, and the technicians on duty followed him too. He paused at the sound of snoring, then crept forward again, a little faster. His prey was not only sleeping, but advertising his whereabouts. Amateurs, Stalker thought with contempt. They deserved what they got. He had spotted the sleeper when he heard the second snore. He backed up so quickly he tripped over a root and fell, catching himself. The snores stopped. He heard one man call out to another. He saw one shape in a white shirt move in the darkness, holding a machete. The two voices continued to chatter to one another. Stalker got slowly and quietly to his feet, and slipped back among the underbrush away from the little camp.

Two men camping together – perhaps they were technicians? In any case, a group of men together was not the prey he sought. He was a different kind of hunter. He backtracked along the path and chose another. He would seek another victim for his skill.

In the control room the technicians hooted as Stalker headed up a trail toward the uninhabited northeastern part of the island. One, with a sound of disgust, handed over to the other a chit for a six-pack of beer.

James worked late into the night at the studio, doing commentary on combatants that had been the second, third and later choices of the producer when taping the "live" commentary. All this would be reedited into a single broadcast. It was going to seem, James thought, as though he was keeping up with everything that happened on the island, every daylight hour, even when they happened simultaneously.

He knocked off at last and headed for home. He'd missed the dinner service, not wanting to stop work, but had been promised that someone would be sent to his bungalow. He headed down the stairs, thinking over the night's work. It had been a long time since he had worked this hard. It felt good.

At the bottom of the stairs, Lucy sat waiting for him, holding a larger paper bag. She smiled and shifted from one foot to the other.

"You said you would show me your bungalow." She held up the bag. "I've got your dinner."

Three rows of bungalows stood on the cliffs over the sea on the eastern edge of the peninsula. James had one of the ones in a cul de sac that backed up the cliff and looked out over the sea. Lucy was profuse with her praise of what she described as one of the best houses. She was delighted with the little rooms, shielded from the neighbors by tall, thick stands of bamboo and a profusely flowering hedge, the windows designed to catch the breeze in the evening, with the louvered shutters that kept out the sun during the day.

She admired the cozy living room, ready-furnished with rattan chairs, and the stone tiled kitchen and the dining area that looked out over the sea behind the house.

She brought plates from the kitchen and set dinner for them both on the patio under the arbor, where they could hear the pounding of the surf on the cliffs below. He went to shower while she warmed their plates. As the soothing water poured over his back and shoulders, shocking, repulsive images from the day dissipated, and Lucy, her scent, her fascinating smile, her intensity, the grace of her movements, the shape of her cheek, her breasts, began to possess his mind. He soon found he was not as tired as he thought.

He put on his robe and went, hopeful and expectant, out to the patio. Dinner was ready, plates covered against insects, but she wasn't there. What an idiot, he thought. This beautiful – gorgeous – woman in your house and you let her get away. He called her name, but there was no answer. He walked through the living room, the kitchen.

He turned in to his bedroom and stopped. She lay in the middle of his bed, propped on his pillows, looking up at him. She wore her unreadable expression, Lucy at her most enigmatic. She still wore her clothes, but she had taken off her shoes.

He sat down on the bed and laid a hand on her small, warm foot. When she didn't move, he let his fingers run gently up her leg. She grinned her gamine smile and reached for him. They commenced a shared exploration of inlets, bays, gentle hills, a warm peninsula, and deeper, secret places, where they met with gasping and with joy, until both were smeared with sweat, exhausted, and spent. And after there were only gentle dreams.

Part Two

Van Allan's Revenge

### Chapter Seven

Dave Thornton sat on the hard wooden chair outside the office of the governor of California's chief of staff, ostentatiously balancing his laptop on his knees, and typing away with deep concentration. He was the picture of a man who did not have time to waste hanging around outside someone's office. He had been prompt for his appointment over half an hour ago. He stared down at his screen, wondering how much longer he was going to be kept waiting.

A stir outside in the corridor caught his attention as Wendell J. Donovon, the governor's chief of staff, clattered into the room trailing half a dozen minions, petitioners and hangers on,-and talking a mile a minute. Thornton finished what he was working on, not hurrying, and shut the lid of his computer while Donovon spoke to each of his followers, and his secretary, and then sent them on their way.

"Dave! Sorry to keep you waiting. You know how it is."

Thornton noticed that Donovon's smile was too wide, and did not reach his eyes. The message was, "I'm too busy to be bothered by the likes of you." Since Wendell Donovon occupied the office that was probably going to be his next year, Thornton thought this arrogance was misplaced. After all, election season had begun, and the governor was a lame duck. But he got up and cordially held out his hand. "How are you doing, Wendell? Good to see you."

"Uh, Phyllis, hold my calls, will you? This way, Dave."

Thornton secured his laptop in its slot in his briefcase, and followed him in. Wendell didn't go to his desk, but offered him a seat in the corner by the window, in one of the big leather chairs. He opened a glass door in his bookshelf and brought out a bottle of Scotch and a couple of glasses.

"Drink?"

"Thanks." Wendell always had good Scotch. Thornton waited until they had both taken respectful sips before he asked him. "What did you want to see me about?"

The governor's office had called him that morning and told him Wendell Donovon wanted to see him. Dave had caught the first plane he could get and headed up to Sacramento. The governor had agreed to endorse John Savage at a speech he was giving at the Winegrower's Association tonight. The campaign had carefully timed this endorsement for the best affect. It was important that nothing went wrong.

Donovan leaned forward. "The governor wants to know what the heck is going on? Did you know about this Savage Island thing?"

"We saw the advertising, of course. Like everyone else, we thought it was some kind of publicity stunt at first, for a reality show or something."

"And it's not."

"No. It seems real enough."

"Yes. I didn't see it, but it's my business to know what's going on. Especially if it's something that might embarrass the governor!"

"I don't see how," Thornton said.

"Savage Island! John Savage for governor! This is Jules Van Allan's little show, am I right?"

"So it seems."

"And how long have you known that?" Donovan's voice rose.

"Not long," Thornton said. "And it's not going to matter. Jules Van Allan has an axe to grind with John Savage. We knew that going in."

"Jules Van Allan has a whole shit load of money," Donovan reminded him.

"And what he's doing with it is a long way from here."

"Tell me," Donovan said, "that if the governor endorses your man, it's not going to turn around and bite him in the ass!"

Thornton put down his drink, hardly touched. "Of course not. How could it? Jules Van Allan is engaged in an escapade in a foreign jurisdiction. If he breaks the laws of this state, or the County of Los Angeles, John Savage will take action."

"This is about that case, isn't it?"

Thornton nodded. "We think so."

"What is Van Allan up to?"

"Whatever it is, Wendell, we're not going to let it get any traction. Mr. Savage has already got calls in to all the attorneys general of the United States, to set up a concerted effort to prevent any homicidal lawbreakers from profiting from their crimes."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, it is. We're working up a protocol that will at least take the reward out of the system for any Americans involved. Starting with freezing any winnings in their bank accounts."

"I see. You've talked to Scott about this?"

Scott Durndell, the Attorney General for California, was already a team player for Savage. He knew what the future would bring. "He's already on board." Donovan nodded. Thornton continued, "We won't announce until we have everyone acting in concert, but John Savage is going to come out ahead on this, and he's going to look good."

Donovan considered this for a minute. Thornton waited. Let Donovan have his moment of power playing. In less than a year he'd be out of a job.

"All right," Donovan conceded. "I'll go along with that. I'll let the governor know." He rose.

Thornton got up as well. "And the governor will endorse Mr. Savage on schedule?"

"That's what I'm going to recommend. You get your announcement out soon, all right? It will make it look like the governor has backed a leader for California."

"Not just for California," Thornton said, as he opened the door. He glanced back in time to see the arrested look on Donovan's face. "Thank you for your time, Wendell. We look forward to the governor's speech." Score another one for Team Savage, he thought, as he smiled briefly at Donovan's secretary. Turning damage control into a big step forward in the game. He'd have to ride herd on the staff to get those calls out to the attorneys general offices, and get them on board. He'd finish up the concerted steps they should all take together on the flight back. He could make this work. It's what he did.

The cameras that Van Allen had caused to be set all over the Island could operate in very low light. The plan was that whatever combat happened at night would be edited together in an "update" segment at the beginning of the regular broadcast. But on this first night of Savage Island, monitors continued to broadcast all night long.

At Van Allan's villa overlooking the southwest cliffs of Savage Island, Jules and his guests enjoyed their after-dinner drinks. A bank of monitors had been installed on one wall, and a few of his guests were entertaining themselves calling up one view after another, keeping track of the combatants still on the Island.

Van Allan sat on the far side of the room, noting with interest who still anticipated the next confrontation, and who sat with their backs to the monitors, unwilling to follow the action any further. Van Allan believed that as with war, repugnance would wear away, and once people became accustomed to the level of violence, objections would become marginalized. After all, throughout history this was a traditional sport. And people had not really changed. He smiled to himself and sipped a glass of wine, listening to the talk around him like the noise of the sea. The first move was in place. The first move would serve as cover for the second, while also accomplishing another goal. Like the deer hunted in the wood, by now John Savage's head had come up. He would think he knew from which direction the danger lay. And that was what made Van Allan's position so perfect.

"I beg pardon?" He smiled at Sissy, his business manager's wife, who had addressed a remark to him. His own thoughts were so much more entertaining. But he exerted himself to give her his attention, and play the good host. Though his smile was not really for her. He swirled his drink in his glass. He lifted it toward the monitors and toasted the dark figures out there on the Island, hunting one another, or being hunted. It was well begun.

Late in the night, when even the insects were still, one dark shadow met another on a path on the island, and there were shouts, and cries, and steel met steel, and arms clashed. The technicians watching in the darkness saw one figure leave the other, clutching his side, running from the fray, breaking from the trail into the jungle and then falling into the brush to hide. Hellbringer had met Ace Man. Ace Man had fled. He did not stay to see Hellbringer keel over, gasping, and lie dying. Ace Man simply lay as quietly as possible, and bled rather a lot, and wondered why his pursuer did not come after him. Hours later, when the first vestiges of dawn lightened the eastern horizon, the man calling himself Tiger made his move. Covered with insect bites, freezing all night, dehydrated and hungry – he had dropped his pack down a gorge early in the day – Tiger crept back toward the Wall, hoping to get back before sunrise without meeting another combatant. He spied the body lying across the trail and froze, and stood there many long minutes, while the dawn light increased, until he was certain that the guy wasn't moving, that it wasn't some kind of elaborate trap. Up in the control room, the technicians on duty watched as this comedy played out, egging him on, and calling him names for his carefulness. When Tiger at last ran forward and stuck a knife in the man, just to be sure of him, the derision of the technicians brought three or four more people into the room, and thus there were half a dozen witnesses to the second man to claim a kill on Savage Island.

Tiger stabbed Hellbringer's body numerous times before he finally turned him over. It was then he found the gaping wound in the stomach from which Hellbringer had bled out over an hour ago. He also found a couple of rats and a swarm of insects enjoying a fresh meal while it was still warm, and Tiger's shriek, and his backwards fall, his flailing arms, his dropped weapons, his copious vomiting, featured as the funniest moment on Savage Island for days to come. But Tiger recovered himself, and if the cut he made to remove Hellbringer's eartag took with it more flesh than necessary, and if he had to vomit again when he did it, that didn't make it any less valuable.

If he had been paying more attention, he might have found the broken track that Ace Man made when he left the path, and found one more victim for his knife. Ace Man was lying unconscious in the brush. But Tiger did not notice, and continued on his way to the nearest gate, where he pressed the button, and managed to enter before the first combatant of the second day was released onto the killing ground.

Ace Man, who roused himself shortly after, and also made his way back to the Wall, was not so fortunate. Thus it was that Armadillo, the first combatant of the second day, came out the gate heavily armored, bristling with a handful of spears, and faced Ace Man, whose knives were ineffective against Armadillo's heavy plate armor, and who couldn't get close enough, past his spears, to find a joint to stab. Ace Man was staggering with pain and dizzy with blood loss by the time he reached the Wall, but Armadillo was clumsy, it took him a number of tries to kill Ace Man. Ace Man didn't want to play anymore. He asked Armadillo for a truce, for a pass to the Wall, but Armadillo was raring to go, and was not about to let his first prize go by out of some kind of misguided sense of mercy. After all, this was the game he had signed up to play, a place where kill or be killed was the law of the land, and his first prey was at the end of his spear.

Later, the technicians muted down Ace Man's cries and pleading, and Armadillo's screams for him to shut up, just shut the fuck up, when they edited the fight for the feed. It just went on too long. In the end, Armadillo cut off Ace Man's eartag, and left him in the sand in front of the gate that had been just out of his reach. It was a great start to the second day on Savage Island.

Grayson found the second day easier. He came in early and narrated for the feed the fight between Ace Man and Hellbringer. He commented ironically on Tiger's performance over Hellbringer's corpse, and empathized with the frustration of both combatants in Ace Man's fight to the death with Armadillo. His empathy with Ace Man, his sympathetic remarks, made the pointless death of the wounded man more palatable, somehow, to viewers. Farley, listening, made a note to point out to Van Allan the value of having someone like James Grayson covering Savage Island.

There were four more savage fights that morning, as the island filled up with combatants, and it became more difficult for them to avoid one another. James felt different about it now. He had a new detachment from the violence, and he was secretly hiding a new excitement as well. He felt aroused. The violence, the sudden spates of ferocity, kept him at a simmer. But the real source was the part of his mind that was still breathing in the scents of the night before. Any spare moments were spent thinking hoping planning dreaming about tonight, and whether Lucy would come home with him again.

Lucy made coffee when he woke up. She kissed him sweetly, wetly, tenderly, then left his house before dawn, to go home and change before starting work. He'd seen her three times that day. The first two times she ignored him as though he didn't exist. He'd begun to school himself to dismiss their night as one of those brief adventures, not mattering after all. But the third time, as he passed her in the hall on the way back to the studio, her hand drifted between them and brushed his thigh. Desire raged up in him again. His ensuing discussion with Colonel Dawes over how large a population of combatants the Island could hold was confrontational, and he had to walk himself back to his usual optimistic curiosity in order to do his job.

Lucy joined him again for the lunch break, though today he had no time for a sit-down lunch. With nearly twice as many combatants, mostly on the south end of the Island, proximity alerts were nearly continuous. He went outside meaning to grab a drink and a bite and a quick walk around for a bit of exercise, when Lucy fell into step with him, carrying a basket.

She took him to a bench in the garden across the pond from the statue of Alexander. The pile at the warrior god's feet had grown, James noted, as Lucy laid out choices of sandwiches, fruit salad, edamame, chips and brownies between them.

"Wow," he said. "Thanks!"

"I've been looking forward to it," she said, once again disguised behind her stone face. He reached out and tucked her hair behind one ear and she glanced up, grinning like a kid, all the joy of the previous night between them again. He took her hand. He had the urge to kiss it. "It was fun," she said. "Last night. Thank you."

Then he did kiss it. "Thank you," he said. He loved it when she blushed.

She glanced around, took her hand back and used it to choose a sandwich. "There's a rumor going around that you might want to know about," she said.

Grayson's attention sharpened. "Oh? What's that?"

"Well, it's not going to be a rumor much longer. The phones have been ringing off the hook." She grinned around a huge bite of ham and cheese. "That's a joke, because a lot of it's e-mail and faxes, and the phones don't ring up there. They chime."

"Got it. What's going on?"

"The New York offices have been overwhelmed with calls for more coverage and more live feed from all over the world."

"That's not surprising," Grayson said, starting in on his share of the chips.

"But that wasn't the plan," Lucy said. "These first three days they planned to do all-day broadcasts during daylight hours, but after that ― "

"Edited three-hour broadcasts per day, I know. And I'm doing the commentating in the studio. So?"

"New York wants to change it to all-day broadcasts all the time. Did I mention phones ringing off the hook? Because in New York, that's what's happening."

Grayson's brows rose. He certainly wasn't contracted for that. And that meant . . . "Do you think they're going to want to do that?"

"Well," her face scrunched up adorably again. "There's a whole lot of money involved."

"I'll bet." Going from three hours a day of programming to sell, to twelve hours of programming to sell was a huge increase in revenue. "But I'm the exclusive sportscaster. It's in my contract."

"That's right. If Mr. Van Allan agrees to this, they're going to be talking to you about renegotiating your contract."

"To get more hours out of me? Fat chance."

"They know that. They're talking about bringing in two more teams. And they think," she glanced up at him, "they're proposing to ride this wave by broadcasting 24/7. Once there's a big enough population of combatants on the Island, there will be fights all day and all night."

Grayson shook his head. "They'll have to broadcast most of it without a sportscaster. I've got an exclusive."

Lucy smiled. "Yeah? How much money were you thinking of turning down? They're being offered several fortunes. This thing is huge. The outside world is going crazy over it."

He knew it. He'd known it from the moment he first heard of it. "I'll just bet," he said.

On the way back to the studio, Grayson gave himself up to pleasing thoughts. A new contract, some additional terms, more money ― much more money ― it was all turning out just as he'd suspected, and even faster than he'd ever hoped. Which brought him to a halt on the pathway. Lucy almost bumped into him. He apologized absently and started walking again more slowly. Why hadn't Van Allan and his team expected this? Whoever heard of a business plan where the start-up team didn't project the best-case scenario? Weren't they planning for success? And this best-case scenario was not a huge leap. Since Grayson had seen it himself from the start, why hadn't they? If they weren't thinking about this, if this was not the plan, then what were they thinking about?

Something more was going on her that just Van Allan making a big, expensive case for his ideology about manhood and courage. Grayson's antenna for a good news story was up. Long ago, he had started out as a reporter, and a reporter had an intuition for this kind of thing.

When he got back to the studio one of Jules Van Allan's assistants met him in the lobby and told him that Van Allan wanted to see him.

"I'd be happy to," he said, "but I'm needed back in the studio. Right now."

Just then the elevator opened and Farley stepped out. "James! There you are."

"I'm just on my way up," Grayson held the elevator door for Lucy to precede him.

"Never mind that," Farley said. "Mr. Van Allan needs to talk to you." He waved away James's look of enquiry. "We'll add the commentary for any fights you miss later tonight."

"All right," Grayson acceded.

Lucy got out on the second floor and headed for the editing room without a backward glance. He realized he'd forgotten to thank her for bringing lunch. He smiled to himself, thinking how he'd make it up to her, later. Farley got out on the third floor, and gave him a look pregnant with excitement, and a thumbs up. "Good luck," he said.

James, who wasn't supposed to know what might be going on, raised his brows in an unspoken question, and turned that look on the assistant as the elevator door closed and continued up to the top floor. The assistant said nothing until they reached the next floor.

"Right this way, Mr. Grayson."

In his office, Van Allan's director, his accountants, one of his assistants, and two of his friends who were also some of his legal advisers, were holding an intense confab in a corner of the room, their voices low, while Van Allan and his chief assistant, Ken Frize, took a conference call with several of his directors and business partners in the United States. Ken Frize frantically scribbled notes and made calculations in the margins, while Van Allan sat back in his chair, looked out over his island, and listened in mild amusement. When the conference came to a close and Frize cut the connection, he looked up at Van Allan and said, "You never expected this place to pay for itself."

Van Allan shook his head. "That's not what it's for."

"Yes, sir. But it seems – "

"It looks like it could be the best investment I ever made. My God." He stood up and walked out onto the terrace. Beyond the Wall he could see the most recent combatant, heavily laden, awkwardly balanced, strangely garbed, seeming to waddle toward the path on the west side of the island that led to the beach. "Who's that?" Van Allan asked, and turned to the monitor to find out. Elena Carmine, his other assistant, had left the corner meeting to join them when Van Allan rose. She looked down at her notes. "That is combatant number 2-15. He calls himself the Shark."

Van Allan's face cleared. "The one who wanted scuba gear?"

"Yes, sir. He's carrying a fishing spear. You had to pass that one personally, sir, since it wasn't in the catalog."

"I remember. From Belize, isn't he?"

"That's right, sir."

"So the question is," Van Allan mused, "whether he will make it past Ghost Soldier, and reach the sea." He turned to look at the monitor that in his office always carried the map of the island, with the tell-tale markers of where all the combatants were located. Shark's cerulean blue marker could be seen heading for the trail that led to the western coast. Ghost Soldier's white marker was seen moving along the shore. At that moment it began to turn away, toward the interior of the island. "It looks like he might just make it," Van Allan said.

"I have a couple of our guys from New York standing by. They've requested a conference call with you."

Van Allan raised his brows. "Something you can't handle?"

"They really want to talk to you, sir."

Van Allan nodded. "Schedule them in an hour or so."

"Yes, sir."

Van Allan joined the group in the corner that opened to include him. "Well? More new ideas?"

Since the first kill by Shadow, the calls and e-mails had come, routed through his offices in New York and Los Angeles. The demand for more feed, the worldwide excitement, and the rising outrage, was fueling a need for more product that Van Allan's team had not expected. They found themselves in the pleasant position of overseeing a runaway success, and had spent the last few hours brainstorming ways of making more of it.

"'All Savage Island, All the Time,'" Sandy Bruitt, one of his legal advisers, began.

"The twenty-four hour cable network," his wife, Suneet, clarified. "Twenty-four hour live feed."

"And we can continue to sell the three-hour daily broadcast to other channels," Frize, at Van Allan's shoulder, put in.

"'Best of' downloads," Sandy said, pointing at the next item on the pad in front of him.

"'The Best Fights of Savage Island,'" Van Allan repeated. "I like it," he looked at Frize and nodded. Frize made a note.

"'Heroes of Savage Island,'" Suneet amended. "Including those personal profiles, and following their deeds on the Island."

Van Allan nodded. "We'll have to see if any heroes arise. But it's worth considering, yes."

Suneet suggested, "What about Shadow?"

"The first hero of Savage Island. Good idea. Ask him if he'll cooperate, and offer him a bonus." He looked over at his friend Lars Vanderijn, who had been invited to sit in on the meeting. "What do you think, Lars?" Van Allan asked.

Vanderijn stood up, not quite steadily. He had a half-empty glass in his hand. "I think it's repugnant. I think you've descended into barbarism, and you're taking the whole world with you. I think you should pull the plug." He held his ground under Van Allan's shrewd gray gaze. "But since I'm obviously in the minority here . . . " he started to go, "I'll catch the next helicopter out, if it's all the same to you. I've seen enough."

Vanderijn headed for the door. Van Allan said, "Lars . . . " Vanderijn paused, but didn't turn back. "Thank you for coming," Van Allan said. "Elena will make your arrangements, at your convenience."

Lars Vanderijn's fingers lifted as he walked out of the office, and that was all the farewell that Van Allan got.

Ken Frize answered the inter-office phone and said to Van Allan, "Grayson is here to see you."

John Savage stood watching the video Dave Thornton had brought to his office. Jules Van Allan shaking hands with the bus driver, Craig Wells, congratulating him on his courage, and promising that the nine hundred and five thousand dollars he'd earned was already in his account. Practically everyone in the world had seen this broadcast. Practically everyone in the world had a strong opinion about Savage Island. The front page of every newspaper and the top of every blog had pictures of Shadow sprinkling dirt over one of his victims, or holding up a bloody eartag, or framed shots of the dead bodies lying in their gore on the sand.

There'd been half a dozen assaults attributed to men fired up watching the broadcasts. Sports bars were experiencing record crowds with several feeds from Savage Island running at once.

On talk shows, news shows, radio shows, pundits, celebrities and politicians inveighed against it, while others, intrigued, praised Van Allan's vision.

"Have you been in touch with Roger Farshaw?" John Savage asked his aide. Farshaw was the state attorney general for Illinois. If Craig Wells, a resident of Chicago, could be determined to have committed murder, it was Farshaw who must bring the charges.

"I have a call in to him," Dave replied. "He hasn't gotten back to me."

John Savage nodded. Dave was prescient. He always seemed to know what John would want to do, sometimes before John knew himself. "Ask him if he's going to charge Wells with eight counts of murder. And you might suggest to him that freezing his fat new bank account might not be amiss."

Dave nodded. "Under what pretext?"

"Criminal enterprise? Hell, is it too soon to get him for not paying taxes? Why not. Let's fuck up this little game every way we can. Any word yet from Jakarta?"

Thornton shook his head, then turned away to take a call on his cell.

Savage watched highlights of the second day's combat on Savage Island, noting that he himself, though sickened, was also excited. He saw the guy in black and green stalking a half-naked half-armored guy with two swords, bring him down with a bolo, and stab him through the neck. Savage took a deep breath to calm his heart rate, while still trying to listen in on Thornton's conversation.

Thornton muted the television as he turned back to Savage. "That was Richard Callahan, Farshaw's assistant. They thought of the bank account freeze, pending charges for murder, but wherever this account is, it's not the one Craig Wells has always used."

Savage nodded. A new account, probably offshore. It's what he would have done.

Thornton added, "And the Wells family has left Chicago. Wife, two kids, and her mother who lives with them."

Savage stared at him. "They've gone? Where?"

"There's no record of them leaving on any flight, and they haven't gone over the border to Canada. Neighbors haven't a clue, and distant family members aren't talking."

Savage nodded. "Van Allen lifted them out of there.."

"That's what Farshaw thinks."

"Well, what's our move, then, Dave? What is our next move?"

Dave Thornton said patiently, "What we agreed, John. We're coordinating with the attorneys general of the fifty states and the commonwealths."

"And how's that going?"

"Well enough. We tell them we're making a list of people who don't want to cooperate, and that's lighting a fire under them."

"Good."

We've talked to the governor, we're looking into the charges. We think it's uncivilized, but the crime is not being committed here . . . "

"Right." John Savage bit back. "We're still just sitting ducks."

When the monitors turned to the island overview, in preparation for the release of one of the last combatants of the second day, Dawes turned to Grayson and said quietly, "I thought you were upstairs."

"I was," Grayson replied. Dawes was fishing for information, Grayson realized. That meant that he had heard the rumors, but he had not yet been brought inside. Grayson felt a brief glow at the confirmation of their relative places on the pecking order.

"How did it go?" Dawes asked finally.

"It's all good," Grayson smiled at the camera as the red light winked on again.

Grayson had waited briefly outside Jules Van Allan's office. He saw one older man in an expensive lightweight suit walk out past him carrying a drink, pretending not to see him, and then after a few moments others filed out as well, their exhilaration obvious. Several of them greeted him warmly, and then Ken Frize, Van Allan's chief assistant, motioned for him to come in.

The de facto sovereign of Savage Island was alone, standing at the window that looked out over the Wall. The sun was sloping toward the sea, tinting the scattered clouds with reflected orange and yellow light.

"It's been quite a day," Grayson remarked, joining Van Allan at the window.

"Yes, indeed," Van Allan agreed. "Would you like a drink?" Van Allan tipped the gin and tonic in his hand, indicating the drinks cupboard across the room. "You can find anything you like over there."

"No, thank you, sir," Grayson demurred. "I'm still working, you know."

"Ah, yes, of course."

There was a pause as Van Allan looked out over the killing ground where four more men today had died. Farther out on the Island, one man had died on the beach, two in the jungle, and one up on the highest ridge after a spectacular fight backlit by sun and sea, and a god's-eye view of the Island. A fight that could not have been more cinematic if it had been deliberately staged.

Grayson, conscious of the passing time, and of how much work he'd have to make up tonight, taping commentary for any events he missed, prompted him. "Things are going to your satisfaction, sir?"

Van Allan nodded. "Yes, very much so. And for you?"

James hesitated. He still wasn't sure what he should school himself to feel as he watched men fight and inflict terrible wounds, and sometimes die. By their own choice, of course. That was the saving grace. But did they all really have this choice? Grayson thought of today's noon-time release of a slight old man in what looked like black pajamas and sandals, loaded down with tools, camping equipment, and bags of rice. Farley had told him his fighting name was Mr. Free Spirit, but he was another combatant that Lucy hadn't been able to get any background on. James said, "It has certainly been another amazing and fascinating day."

"Yes," Van Allan turned back to him. "You have probably heard that our offices in Los Angeles and New York have been inundated with calls. Never has there been so exciting a sport broadcast for television. Everyone wants it, absolutely everyone."

"I see," said Grayson.

"We have sold out live broadcasts on both coasts, in stadiums, a very popular idea. A huge amount of press is being generated, too. Book contracts ― a publishing company has offered a million dollar book contract to the first man to return from Savage Island alive."

"Lone Eagle?" he said. "He was the first man back alive. They're going to give him a million-dollar book deal?"

Van Allan frowned. "Is he out for good?"

"Looks like. They sedated him. Those spear punctures to the chest seem pretty painful."

"Yes. Of course. Well, we'll see." Van Allan motioned to the leather chairs across the room, and waited until Grayson had taken one before sitting down across from him. He nursed the glass in his hand, smiling. "You have a contract to be our chief anchor for two years, and now ― it seems we are going to have to expand our broadcasts. As you know, we only planned to do this all-day hour-by-hour programming for the first three days. After that, you get your break, and we go to daily three-hour segments, with your commentary. But now we've had numerous offers for continuous coverage, from stations all over the world. We are having to rethink our plans." He put his glass down. "So you, Mr. Grayson, have us over a barrel." He opened his hand, inviting Grayson's response.

James leaned back comfortably in his chair. Shadow, he realized, was not the only man who was going to make a fortune today. "What do you want from me, Mr. Van Allan?"

"We will need to renegotiate your contract, to take into account our expansion. If you are willing to do this,you may reserve the right to do edited commentary over any events you please . . . "

In order to expand, they were going to need to pay him off. Grayson smiled pleasantly. He was going to leave this island, when he chose to go, a very wealthy man.

" . . . and of course," Van Allan was saying, "we will make it worth your while. Very much," he emphasized, "worth your while."

"Sounds good to me," Grayson acceded, rising. "Why don't you talk it over with my agent, and we'll put together a revised contract?"

Van Allan rose as well. "Very good. Thank you for being so reasonable." He offered his hand. "You are doing an excellent job."

Grayson shook Van Allan's hand, surprised once again at its softness, at its lack of pressure. "Can I ask just one thing?"

"Of course."

"Two combatants who came out yesterday – number nine, I think it was, "Double Fortune Man," we're calling him "Super Lucky Guy."

"Yes," Van Allan said drily. "I heard."

"And the other was up in the high teens, maybe seventeen, eighteen, Mr. Happy. And another one today. Number thirteen."

"I don't recall that one," Van Allan said.

"The first two seem to know each other. They don't act like the other guys. Lucky Guy seemed awfully surprised yesterday when Draco attacked him."

"Perhaps he is not used to being attacked," Van Allan suggested. "Perhaps in his own country his reputation is so great that he never is attacked anymore."

"But if he knew what he was getting into here, he should have known that anyone he met was dangerous to him."

"Some people," Van Allan said as he walked Grayson to the door, "never expect that anything bad will happen to them. No matter what the odds, they are always surprised when fortune goes against them."

"Where are they from?" Grayson asked him. "Do you know?"

"Haven't a clue," Van Allan said. "Ah, Ken, call Mr. Grayson's agent, will you. He has agreed to renegotiate his contract. And Ken," Van Allan looked directly at Grayson as he said this, "make sure that Mr. Grayson is happy with the new terms. Very happy. We want him with us all the way."

Grayson was thoughtful on the way back to the studio. Van Allan wasn't a stupid man. Did he think that James was stupid? Possibly. James had always known that his good looks were a great disguise for his intelligence. No one expected someone who looked like him to have read a book. At least not a serious one. His degree in journalism from Syracuse, graduating cum laude, might have been a fluke, after all. If you didn't know Syracuse. But did Van Allan really expect him to buy the story that the rice-toting guys were just like the others? Or maybe he thought that since Grayson stood to make a fortune on Savage Island, he wouldn't look to closely at the details.

But details interested James. It was one of the things that made him good at his job.

### Chapter Eight

The two rice men, as the control room techs had taken to calling them, hung out in their camp all day. They built a lean-to over their supplies, and a fire pit. They kept their water bottles topped up from the spring. They dug a latrine. They cooked rice every couple of hours and ate it with enjoyment. And they talked on and on, like old friends.

"Maybe they're on the lam," Peter Austin, the control room tech on duty that afternoon guessed. "And they heard about Savage Island and decided to use it to lie low together."

"No," Wei Ling, his shift partner said, "they're from the same dojo. You wait. They practice empty-hand. No weapons."

"Care to lay something on that?" Peters asked, his southern American drawl coming to the fore.

"A drink?"

"A drink? That's all?"

"No more of that," Dr. Mukhtar said. "Save that for when you are off-duty. I'm not seeing 2-6. Is he dead? Or have we lost his signal?"

In the afternoon, the rice men, growing bored, grabbed Mr. Lucky's now-empty basket , picked up their machetes and went for a walk. They found the path that led to the ridge trail and climbed it together. When they reached the top of the ridge where the whole Island was laid out at their feet, they stood silent and watched while Iskandar, just emerged from the gate in a red-crested helmet, oblong shield, spear and short sword, met Donalbane, armed with a long sword in one hand and a spear in the other, his body protected by chainmail, and his head covered with a simple barred helmet.

Iskandar picked up a great sword recently wielded by one of his fallen foes, and with it began raining blows on Donalbane's head and shoulders, which Donalbane punched away with the edge of his shield, while trying to close so he could use his axe. Both men had forgotten Mansoor Farouq, whom Donalbane had chased from the beach toward the Wall, until Mansoor's spear ran through the fleshy part of Donalbane's arm, and into Iskandar's shoulder, pinning the two combatants together. In shock and pain, Donalbane dropped his axe. Mansoor shoved both of them off-balance with his spear, and then picked up the axe and cracked the head of first Iskandar, and then Donalbane, killing them both. He then proceeded to be heartily sick inside his helmet.

This did not prevent him, eventually, and with a number of idiosyncratic groans, that echoed all over the world in the days that followed, from harvesting the eartags of the two men he had killed, and even, eventually, finding the ones Iskandar had on him.

Mansoor let himself into the gate in the Wall, possessed of five eartags. An Eastern Orthodox Christian from Turkey, studying business at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, Mr. Bunyamin Yalmin chose to be returned to Turkey, where he was not charged with murder, but was hailed as a local hero.

Super Lucky Guy and Mr. Happy watched the events on the killing ground from their vantage on the ridge. When Mansoor had gone, leaving the blood-soaked ground and the four stained bodies behind him in the sand, the two small men were seen hurrying back down the trail toward their camp, machetes at the ready.

They took the wrong trail and ended up crossing the island and heading toward the Wall, which is how they happened to find Mr. Free as he tried to avoid death at the points of the two slender sharp swords of Andrus. Andrus's long prematurely-gray hair had come loose under his light helmet. His colorfully embroidered red silk shirt and black trousers made him stand out against the jungle, and he screamed again and again as he stabbed into the foliage where Mr. Free pressed himself deeper and deeper into the trees.

Super Lucky Guy yelled and charged, waving his machete, and to his credit, Mr. Happy was not far behind. Andrus looked up at the sound and backed up so fast down the trail that he was gone before either of the rice men reached him. It took them some minutes to talk Mr. Free out of his defensive position, but eventually the three of them t gathered up Mr. Free equipment and hauled it back to their camp. They cooked rice, set up another hammock, tended their new comrade's wounds, and talked long into the night. In the morning, they built a brush wall to encircle their camping place.

Andrus headed down one of the two island roads, where he met and ambushed Stone, coming along a side trail. Andrus went to ground, drank and ate, and headed back to the Wall after dark. On his way he was ambushed in his turn by Stalker, becoming the third of the man-hunter's bag.

And the sun set on another epic day on Savage Island.

Jules Van Allan considered the faces of the half-dozen people in different boxes on his monitor. Ken Frize had set up this conference call in his residence after dinner. He'd taken reports from several of his offices, but these people had called again and again, asking to speak with him personally. He touched a button, bringing the face of Mike Kerr to the fore. The young man's face was raddled, though he had taken some pains to neaten his hair and clothes. But still it was clear the man hadn't slept in quite awhile. Still, his eyes gleamed with excitement, and he had to make an effort to keep his passion out of his voice and talk with the measured reserve of a business man.

"The servers crashed over and over yesterday, as soon as we went live. We mirrored the site half a dozen times, but we want to expand to a whole new level, because there's so much we can do ―"

"We should have a subscriber-only section," the woman, Catherine Chelsea, put in, unable to hold back anymore. "A section where subscribers can access any of the cameras on Savage Island. It needn't be expensive, but the volume ―"

"I have the figures for you in the second attachment I sent ―" Mike continued.

"Subscribers should receive 'Best Fights of the Day' e-mail," Catherine added.

"But we need a huge upgrade in our server capacity to follow up on this."

Van Allan glanced over at Ken Frize, following the conversation on his own computer across the desk. Frize nodded and gave him a thumbs up, meaning he'd read the proposal and approved. Deanna, next to Ken, caught Van Allan's eye and nodded as well. "Very well," Van Allan said. "You have my authorization. Go ahead and expand."

Mike Kerr, in the middle of adding another point to his argument, stopped, his mouth gaping. Catherine put in, "Thank you, sir. We have a one, two, and three-tiered expansion proposal ―"

"The third being the greatest?" Van Allan asked. Ken and Deanna nodded at him even as Catherine agreed. "Then the three-tiered proposal is approved. Next?"

"Online betting," Catherine Chelsea said. "Mr. Van Allan, a great deal of betting is already taking place. Side bets occurred at all three of the stadium venues during the opening hours. Bookies are reporting people offering bets and holding bets on each of the combatants; how long they will last, who will win, that kind of thing." She leaned forward. "There's no reason why we can't be the ones holding book on this. We can set up an off-shore website for every possible wager on outcomes on Savage Island."

Mike Kerr cut in, "If you would like to look at the third and fourth attachment I sent you ―"

Ken and Deanna nodded and Van Allan raised his hand. "Approved. Get that in hand as soon as you can."

Catherine Chelsea flushed with satisfaction.

"Thank you, Mr. Van Allan. And thank you for agreeing to talk to us."

"Very good. I appreciate your bringing your ideas to my attention. You can be certain that when these expansions are launched, you will be rewarded in keeping with your contributions. Is that all? Good. Thank you all."

He cut the connection and sat back. Ken and Deanna finished their end of the call, and sat regarding him. "Well, well, well," Van Allan said. "We do seem to have a hit on our hands. How gratifying."

"Yes, sir," Ken Frize flipped a page in his notebook. "Brent Wasserman in Los Angeles wants to talk to you about seeding some of the talk shows with your point of view."

"Is he running into problems? We already arranged that."

"Ah, we've run into a much larger demand than we expected."

"More phones ringing off the hook?" Van Allan smiled.

"Yes, sir."

"Tell him I expect him to handle it."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell Peregrine, when he puts those suggestions from the New Yorkers into effect, not to stint on their new contracts."

"Yes, sir," Deanna made the note, smiling.

"We don't want them taking good ideas to anyone else," Van Allan reminded them.

"And now I think I had better join my guests for dinner, or they will think I have deserted them. Deanna, good night. Thank you for all your hard work."

"My pleasure," she said warmly. "Good night, sir."

"Ken, will you join us?"

"Thank you, sir. I'd be honored."

As they passed along the short hallway to the noise of his guests enjoying their dinner in the dining room, Van Allan said, "Any word? Any reaction?"

Ken Frize didn't ask who he was talking about. "Savage has held two unscheduled staff meetings. It looks like Thornton has jetted off to the governor's office. Probably to ensure the endorsement. They're trying to get all the U.S. attorneys general on board with a single plan to stop bank accounts and make charges."

"Any charges yet?"

"Not yet."

Van Allan stopped outside the door of the dining room. "Not even Craig Wells?"

"Not yet. And we were able to lift the family out without a glitch."

"No more than I expected. Thank you, Ken." He laid a hand briefly on his assistant's shoulder, and then adjusting his expression, he opened the door on the merriment within.

By the time James finished catching up on narrations for fights that occurred while he was otherwise engaged, it was late, and Lucy had long-since left the station. He could feel his exhaustion; he really needed a good night's sleep. He turned down a ride home in one of the little electric carts. Instead, he walked along the road to his bungalow stepping from one pool of light from the solar lambs to another. The walk would allow him to climb down from his post-performance high.

The thrill of the day's events still buzzed in him. He had resigned himself to the letdown of quiet and solitude while he found a bite of supper, had a drink, and got ready for bed, when he looked up to see all the lights on in his house. He had not left the lights on.

While he stood there deciding whether or not to call security, his front door opened and Lucy stepped out, dressed in a midnight blue satin robe with a silver dragon twined across it. Her hair was loose around her shoulders. Her face wore its remote goddess look. And then she smiled.

"I sent your housekeeper away. Ming, she's a friend of mine. I've got a supper laid out. Do you want to take a bath first?"

They had supper first after all, and then they took a bath together. And he did sleep well, very well, eventually.

In the pre-dawn light of the third morning on Savage Island, Arthur Baines, the Scorpion, decided he should know his immediate environs a little better. He had seen no one since he'd been stalked by the wing-hat dude in black. A few times he'd wondered if he was alone on the Island. One of the students in his karate class had told him about Savage Island. Fresh from his successful first degree black belt test, excited to apply his skills, little Terrell Oliver brought his laptop to show his martial arts teacher the catalog for Savage Island. He wanted Arthur Baines' advice on how he should spend his points.

Arthur couldn't believe it. "Is this some kind of game?'

"No, man, I looked into it. People are going to fight, and you get a hundred grand for making just one kill."

Arthur, looking over his shoulder at the screen, put his hand on Terrell's arm. "It says you have to be eighteen."

"No, look – it says you have to be eighteen if you're from America. My Mom's Dominican, and if you're Dominican you can be sixteen. The age depends on when you become a man in your country. I'm a man in my Mom's country; I'll tell them I'm from there."

Arthur peered at the screen, reading about the island, about courage, about fighting to the death for money. He reached over and hit the power button until the screen went black. "You are not going to this place. You are absolutely not going."

"But – a hundred thousand dollars – I can take these guys, Sensei, you know how many tournaments I've won –"

"Yeah. And you're not going. If I hear you even try, I'll break you in half myself. You hear me?"

Terrell took himself off, still protesting. But something that he had read, as he glanced at the web page, stuck with Arthur. Five thousand dollars a day for staying alive. Five thousand a day . . . fifteen days . . . he could be free and clear. And unlike Terrell, he knew what he was getting in to. He knew how it felt to be eye to eye with men who intended to kill you, he knew how to kill when he had to, and he knew it was better, far better, not to be there. But he had these skills still. And fifteen days would see him clear.

He took a walk that evening after dinner, telling Trish he was going to pick something up at the corner store. He went to the library instead, and logged on to one of their computers ― he wasn't going to try and do this with Trish looking over his shoulder at home. He'd filled out his application and sent it, but was never more surprised when he got an e-mail a week later, telling him his application had been accepted, and where to go for his medical exam, which he passed. He applied for leave from work, and one morning, no one else the wiser, he caught BART to the airport, on the first leg of his trip to Savage Island.

Two days. Ten thousand dollars in the bank. Even if he died, Trish would have some money to help out their situation – but he was not going to die.

The Scorpion emerged on the side of the hill. He crouched in the brush and enjoyed the view out over the northwest side of the island. In the east the sun was just touching the rim of the world. Birds called. The frogs and insects clicked, chirped and buzzed. Behind him the stream gurgled. From here he almost thought he could hear the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks off the beach.

He saw a figure on one of the beaches, far below him, at least a mile away. Dressed in black, striding slowly northwards . . . Scorpion lay watching quietly, unseen. He started when a second man erupted from the rocks, ran toward the the first with what looked like a long sword upraised. The two men circled, their tension evident. The attacker's longer sword held not enough advantage over a man with two swords, even though one was quite short. Samurai swords, Arthur guessed, against a great sword. It was real then. It was true. Men were here to fight to the death. After a long stand-off, the greatswordsman began to drive his opponent toward the sea, until he was first knee-deep, then thigh-deep in the water. But still he couldn't get close enough to kill the man.

Suddenly the greatswordsman fell, knocked over by a wave, or a riptide. At once the two-swordsman was on him. Strangely sickened, Arthur watched while the samurai swung his sword, and murder was done. Then he almost laughed to see the two-sword man charging through the surf after his victim's head. He waded heavily onto the beach, then with his shorter sword cut off his opponent's eartag, and stored it in his sleeve. Then, taking the head by the hair, he threw it far into the sea, and washed his hands in the waves.

The Scorpion slunk back into the jungle. It was true, then. It was all true. A smile broke out on Arthur's face as he headed back to his camp, still using the utmost care not to disturb the undergrowth, or leave any trace of his passing. Thirteen more days. It was really going to happen.

"Dave! How nice to see you." Marianne Savage leaned a little as she held the heavily carved front door open for him, Thornton noticed. "To what do we owe this...?" She stopped herself, shaking a finger at him. "No-oh. Secrets. Mustn't tell." She straightened and with an assumed dignity led the way past the steps to the sunken, high-ceilinged living room with the huge windows overlooking the lights of Los Angeles. Beyond, the French doors had been opened onto the terrace. Marianne's close friend Julie Fronzutto was out at the patio table, gazing at the million dollar view. Glasses and bottles crowding the table showed Dave at a glance that the ladies had been partying for several hours. "John's in the study, go on through." Marianne waved him toward the back of the house, then stepped unsteadily down into the living room, grabbing another bottle from the bar.

"Have you seen this?" Savage was sitting at his desk with his computer on in front of him. Across the room on the flat screen TV, muted, a news channel played. Thornton could see that both screens were running updates from Savage Island. "Fourteen deaths so far. Fourteen!"

"They aren't our responsibility, John," Thornton reminded him. "They aren't from Los Angeles. They're not even from California."

"You think they won't be? Fourteen people! This is barbaric. We have to do something!" Savage's voice rose, the way it always did when he was angry. He hated feeling helpless. He hated being Van Allan's dupe. And he hated that there was nothing he could do about it.

"We have a statement ready," Thornton said, his voice soothing. "We'll release it tomorrow. We oppose what Savage Island stands for. We are communicating with other district attorneys about our responsibilities. And if anyone in our jurisdiction breaks the laws of the county of Los Angeles, or the State of California, we will prosecute them to the full extent of the law."

"Yeah," Savage said, "Yeah, right. Of course." He collected himself. "So. Did you talk to him? What did he say?"

"I spoke to Wendell Donovan. And I am going to fuck him over for going back on his word like he did!" Thornton allowed himself to show his anger. Earlier that evening the governor had made a speech at the San Francisco Chamber of Commerce. The carefully crafted endorsement of John Savage for governor had been left out.

Wendell J. Donovan had promised them the governor's endorsement, and he had failed to deliver. Donovan would learn before very long that Thornton ― and John Savage ― were not to be fucked with. Thornton would see to it. Personally. "The governor isn't going to endorse you at this time."

"Screw that!" Savage exploded. He pushed his chair from his desk and got up. "That bastard owes me ― he owes me!"

"Calm down," Thornton said. "He said ― not at this time."

Savage walked over and deliberately turned off the television. "All right. When?"

Thornton sat down on the couch. He waited until Savage was sitting across from him in the heavy dark leather chair. "The governor is aware that this Savage Island event is aimed at you. He says when you make it go away, he will endorse you. He doesn't want his name in the conversation about Savage Island. And I don't blame him."

John Savage smiled. "I understand the sentiment. All right. What do we do?"

"We beat this thing," Thornton told him. "We have to."

"All right. I wait until one of the men from Los Angeles is killed, or kills or wounds someone, and we follow the plan – I put out a warrant for his arrest. I keep tabs on his family, I track their communications, and wherever the guy lands, I have him arrested. That will put us in front of their message."

Thornton was shaking his head. "John, we've been over this before. It's not enough. To get on top of this, you've got to put a stop to it. Take control of it and stop it."

"Yes, all right." Savage put his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. Thornton felt a stab of concern at how tired John seemed. But then his eyes opened again, and Dave saw the strength of will shining there, as strong as ever, and he felt that familiar glow. He was backing a winner.

"All right," Savage said again. "Listen, how soon before Van Allan breaks the story that ties Savage Island to me directly?"

"We think he'll do it just before the primary. That's when it would have the most effect. But he may have another surprise in store, before them." It's how Thornton would have done it, if he were on the other side.

Savage nodded. "So . . . we've got about forty days to get ahead of him. All right. I'll get it done."

Thornton took a breath of cool air as he made his way to his car. The governor had been a lot more conciliatory than he had let on to John Savage. Wendell had offered him the governor's apologies, and a suggestion that they all sit down together and work things out. The governor did owe Savage, meant to endorse him, and wanted to reach an agreement about how to deal with this Savage Island thing that was dominating the news cycle and making them all look bad.

Thornton knew that Savage would find a way to deal with it, if someone lit a fire under him, made him understand it had to be done. He walked away from the house knowing the fire had exploded into life behind him.

Van Allan touched the monitor and froze the broadcast of the popular talk show, "What Are They Saying?" as the perky model-cum hostess signed off. The entire show had been given over to a debate about the legality, and the morality, of Savage Island, between the Bishop of Minneapolis, a human rights activist, a professor of ethics, and a decorate paraplegic Marine. "Very good," Van Allan said. "Convey my thanks to Wasserman. This is exactly what I had in mind."

Ken scribbled a note to himself and asked, "How many of the guests were ours?"

"You mean, in my pay? Why, all of them, of course. If you want to steer a conversation, you don't leave anything to chance."

"But ― they're against us! All except the Marine."

"And in all the many points of view, what do you remember best?"

"The Marine," Ken replied, without hesitating.

"And what did he say?"

"That one thing we have enough and to spare of is young men who want to prove themselves for fame and fortune, same as it ever was."

"And that is the point we want the audience left with."

Ken thought a moment. "So, that suggestion that they should land troops and overthrow the administration of Savage Island, what that a plant too?"

Van Allan smiled. "Wouldn't it be fun if they tried?"

"Here on Broken Sword Beach, Crusher continues his stand-off with Mars," James Grayson, in the studio with cameras rolling, recapped the most interesting combatant positions. "What neither of them knows is that Trueheart is here, right here, hidden in these rocks, ready to take on the winner. If either of them has a moment of inattention, Trueheart will add another tag to his pile. How many has he got now?"

"Three?" Colonel Dawes suggested.

"Trueheart is going to be so upset when he finds out that when he took that one eartag, that guy, Rozco, had another one in his pocket, which ended up going out with waste management. Such a shame!"

"I wonder if there should be a rule change," Lucy suggested, "so that combatants get credit for eartags if they rightfully deserve them."

"No, no," James said, and Colonel Dawes echoed him, but Grayson made the argument first. "Choosing to take time to search your foe for any possible eartags, that's tactics. While you're doing that, as we've seen, you're vulnerable to attack, so it goes down to courage. Those who are courageous enough ―"

"― and watchful enough," Dawes put in.

"Yes, they deserve all the eartags they can lay their hands on. But if they're not willing to risk it, they should just have them given to them."

Lucy nodded. "Yes, I see your point. Still," her face scrunched up in a grin. "It does seem like such a waste. These men's lives are worth a hundred thousand dollars on Savage Island, and to have that just thrown away somehow doesn't seem right."

James nodded. He knew better now than to bring Van Allan into the conversation, but he made a note to himself to ask him about it when he got the chance. He went back to his recap. "Okay, stand-off on Broken Sword Beach, with Trueheart stalking them. But what all three of them don't know is that Wolf Spider has set up a trap on this trail right here," he turned and put his finger on the map on the monitor, and hoped the camera team would follow him. But they could get the shot tonight, if they had to. "So if the winner heads down the Wolf Spider trail, he's going to find himself the loser after all."

James had been enjoying himself giving names to the various locations, trails and landmarks on Savage Island, and places where important or exciting events happened. Thus, the clearing just outside the killing ground where Shadow had taken his rest, was now known as the Shadow Lair. The wide road up the eastern interior of the island was called Blood Road; the ridge was Lookout Point; the beach at the northeastern tip of the island, where the sand of the eastern shore met the black rocks of the western coast was called the End of the World. Other people were picking up Grayson's designations, and James saw the names going down in history along with his own. Fame was upon him, and fortune was promised. The beautiful woman at his side had once again slipped into his bed the previous night where they had made merry hell for long enjoyable hours. Sleep? Who needed sleep? He was on the cusp of a changing world.

"Meanwhile, the Stalker has made camp on Wrecker Beach, he's dug in under this rock, just out of where the camera can catch him. And here in Scorpion Gorge the Scorpion still sleeps, but woe to anyone who gets down in there, the man's been busy, he's been setting some traps of his own."

They'd finally gotten cameras down into Scorpion's lair, and found a cushy set up, with his equipment stashed under the overhang, all the trails blocked off, and camouflage nets guarding access from above. It looked like Scorpion had dug in for the duration.

"The Shark is still in position of Table Rock, here in the west. Since he moved from the Shark's Teeth, he's in a much better position. If anyone comes down onto this little stretch of Black Beach, they'll be in reach, and the Shark might just get his kill."

Dom Aguirre was been a sprinter in school. Long and lithe and fast, he had set records for California for his varsity team, and placed third in the nationals. He was on the championship track team at Cal State Long Beach, and set a California record for the 100 meters. He was one fast guy.

Dom went with a couple of buddies to the Coliseum to see the opening day of Savage Island. His friends got very drunk and were hugely excited by the blood-lust, by the actual killing, by Shadow's amazing fights. Dom did not say much. He went straight to his computer and sat up all night, downloading fights, poring over the catalog, and capturing pictures of the killing ground.

He slept a few hours on Sunday, but in his dreams he was on Savage Island, and when he woke he staggered straight back to his computer, capturing more frames, and building, piece by piece, a plan, for success on Savage Island. That night, he filled out and sent off his Savage Island application.

Wednesday, he heard back from Savage Island, Inc. He was asked for his passport number, and was sent for a medical examination. The next day he got confirmation of his acceptance, and was told an e-ticket would be awaiting him at Los Angeles airport, at the United Airlines desk, and that he should pack a week's worth of clothes and necessities.

The first leg of his journey was to Tokyo, where he was met and conducted to a comfortable waiting room along with a dozen or so other men. Here, they were asked to give up their phones, and any other devices they used to access the web. These were separately bagged and labeled. They would get them back when they returned.

After some hours, they were walked out onto the tarmac to a private jet, where other men were already aboard. Dom checked them out. His one worry was that someone else would have also thought of his plan. Most of the men were big, heavy-set, the kind you'd find excelling in boxing rings and martial arts dojos. None of them looked like a runner.

After an excellent dinner, all of the men fell asleep. When they awoke, the plane was on the ground, it was light outside, and the doors were open. They disembarked onto a long runway cut through the trees. He saw rising hilltops to one side. It was hot and sticky. Here they were divided into small groups and ushered on to waiting helicopters. Dom didn't mind the long trip. Sleeping or waking, he acted out his plan. He came out onto Savage Island, and he won.

"Mr. Grayson!"

"Sir." James stumbled a little as he got up from the table to meet Jules Van Allan, an empty glass in his hand Van Allan's assistant had laid out copies of the new contract on the table in Van Allan's office. There was champagne cooling on a side table. The signing was a formality; Grayson and his agent had already negotiated every point to their complete and even overwhelming satisfaction. "If there is anything I can do for you, James, anything at all . . . " his agent had choked into the phone. "Name it!" His agent had used his fifteen percent of Grayson's advance to pay off a hefty mortgage in Malibu.

Grayson was euphoric. The fortune that had been transferred into his bank account, which represented his advance on his next year's earnings, was more than he had made in any three years of his life before, even in his best days. He was to be the head anchor, he retained casting approval over any sub-hosts, and could even fire them if he liked. He had acquired all kinds of leverage by graciously agreeing to renegotiate his contract. He had acquired – and this still left him breathless – profit sharing.

"And that other thing – " his agent reminded him.

"What other thing?" Grayson asked.

"That question you asked, about Mr. Van Allan. You wanted to know why he was on all those talk shows."

"I wanted to know why his name sounded familiar, right."

"It was after his kids were killed."

"They were killed? How?'

"I can fax you the article – "

"No, no, don't do that." Grayson didn't want to receive any information about Van Allan here on the Island that Van Allan's people would pick up and deliver to him. "Just give me the gist."

"All right . . . let's see . . . his kids were both killed in a drive-by shooting at a club. Seven people died. Don't you remember? The Crimson Club shooting. It was real big in the news, what, fourteen, fifteen years ago?"

Fifteen years ago Grayson had been working his way through Syracuse University. He did not bother to tell this to his agent. "No, I missed it. What else?"

"The subject of all his appearances was the tragedy of good kids being killed by bad ones. Does that ring a bell?"

"No, but it sure explains a lot. Thanks."

"I'll send you the articles with your next mail packet. Is there anything else I can do for you? Honestly, James. Anything."

Grayson finished the call, smiling. Arkman had stood by him a lot of years when his career was tepid. Now he was going to reap the rewards of his faith. Grayson, from far across the sea, wished him well.

Part of him shrewdly noted that not only had success caught Van Allan by surprise, he was not capitalizing on it. The profits Savage Island was generating did not seem to be the point. Then what was the point?

"Is everything to your satisfaction?" Van Allan asked now, shaking his hand.

"More than satisfactory. You've been very generous." He sat back down a little hard, and reached for his glass, only to find it empty. "Started celebrating," he admitted to Van Allan, "a little early."

"Well, good," said his patron, his slight Dutch accent just perceptible, "we want you to be happy. You are doing a great job."

"Thank you, sir." Grayson initialed the places that Van Allan's assistant pointed out, and signed the last pages of all three copies.

Van Allan signed his copies as well, the champagne was opened, and Grayson, explaining that his dinner hour was before him, accepted a glass. He went to stand with Van Allan by the window that overlooked the killing ground on the danger side of the Wall. There were two figures on the sand in a stand-off, mirrored close-up in the monitor on the wall. They had been there for the last hour. Conrad Boldheart, all six foot three and 250 pounds of him, wearing a medieval-style close helmet and carrying a huge white shield with a golden cross and anchor painted on it, had come out and taken up a position outside the gates just as Shadow had on the first day. Soon after, he was almost surprised by Constantine, in head-to-foot armor and a bastard sword, emerging from the jungle behind him. Constantine had been the first out the gate that morning. After a short walk through the jungle that had taken a long time, he had returned to the Wall. The two of them had been standing off, neither willing to commit himself to an attack, for almost an hour. "The two turtles," Grayson had called them on the air, before he left the studio and headed up stairs to his meeting with Van Allan.

"Very amusing," Van Allan said now, looking out at the two men slowly circling one another. "The two turtles.' You have a knack, Mr. Grayson, you really do."

"I call it like I see it," Grayson took another swig of the champagne and then emptied it surreptitiously into the flower planter beside the window. He went and picked up the champagne bottle, filling his glass partway as he brought it back to the window. He let Van Allan see him take another deep drink.

"The more I see of it, the more I'm just amazed at this set up," Grayson told Van Allan. "It's so well thought out, everything, from the points system to the waste disposal, and the cameras everywhere. How long have you been planning this?"

Van Allan sipped his champagne, observing Grayson thoughtfully. "Many years, I assure you."

"And you must have known you were creating the sporting event of the century. Nothing like it since ancient Rome! What a selling point! And people don't actually have to be here to watch – that's brilliant. I have to admit, the first fights, they kind of got to me. I've never seen a real person killed before." Grayson grabbed the champagne and refilled his partly empty glass. Waving a drink, and a slightly sloppy manner, could make insightful questions seem careless.

"It can be disturbing," Van Allan agreed. "You seem to have become accustomed, however," he added.

Grayson shook his head a little longer than necessary. "Not exactly. I mean, you can't really get accustomed. I had no idea people bled so much."

"But you're carrying on nonetheless."

"That's right."

"It's a very professional attitude, Mr. Grayson, and one reason why you are so important to our team. This is your dinner hour, is it not? I'm sure you'll want to get something to eat before you're due back at the studio."

"Yes, sir." Grayson started for the door and then turned back. "Everybody works under the same rules out there, right? I mean, you wouldn't shit me about that."

"What do you mean?" Van Allan sipped his drink.

Grayson waved his arm just a little excessively. "It's those rice guys. Did you see? Another one came out this morning, number four, five, out the gate, something like that. Skinny, Asian, no armor, no weapon except a machete, and a huge bag of rice over his shoulder." Grayson bent over, miming the posture of the fourth unlikely Asian guy who had walked out the gate that morning. He'd taken the western path into the interior, missing the way to the other three rice guys who now lived in a fortified encampment which they only left together, machetes at the ready.

The new guy's fighting name translated as Good Journey, but his journey had not been good. He'd gone a hundred yards down the eastern main road when he met Questor, with his naginata to the fore, and his two cutlasses in his belt, on his way back from his victory against Sky Killer. Questor cut down Good Journey without hesitation, and walked into the gate in the Wall with two eartags instead of just the one he'd really earned. Grayson, privately, had named the Blood Road for Good Journey. Like the other three rice men, there was no information about where he had come from, what his real name was, or why he had chosen to come to Savage Island.

"These guys," Grayson continued, "it's like they're playing from a different rule book. They look like they've come here to camp out permanently."

"And they have built a camp, and are staying in or near it," Van Allan finished for him. "Yes. Our first combatant, what's his name – "

"Scorpion," Grayson said.

"Yes. He seems to have the same strategy. I suppose some men find the challenge of simply staying alive during the hunt to be sufficient. It's still a reflection of their courage."

"Did they know each other before they got here?" Grayson asked.

"Now how should I know that?" Van Allan queried mildly.

"Is there anything in the rules," Grayson swayed a little, as though he were unsteady on his feet, "about guys teaming up together. Do you think that's honorable?"

Van Allan's brows shot up. "Honorable? Now there's an idea. Truly, I hadn't thought about it."

Van Allan opened the door for Grayson, but James wasn't satisfied. "But they've been fully briefed, right? They know what they're up against?"

"I assure you," Van Allan smiled thinly. "All combatants go through the same orientation. All of them know what they're doing."

"At least, they think they do."

"That's right. Thank you, Mr. Grayson."

"And they're volunteers, right?" Grayson turned as he went out the door, so he could look Van Allan in the face as he answered. "They've chosen to be here?"

Van Allan assured him solemnly, holding his gaze, "All combatants are volunteers. What can you be thinking, Mr. Grayson?"

Grayson laughed, swung his arm out to shake Van Allan's hand. "I can't wait to see those guys fight. They must be something else."

When Van Allan closed the door behind him, Grayson dropped his tipsy act and took the elevator down to the ground floor, frowning. Good Journey's death had shaken him. It had reminded him that this wasn't really a sport. And he'd needed that reminder, now that everything he had ever wanted had been given to him.

If Van Allan knew nothing about the rice guys, why wasn't he just as curious about them as Grayson was? He knew something, Grayson decided. And before too long, James was going to know what that was.

### Chapter Nine

Stalker stole quietly through the night. He took his time, he went slowly, and he left no trace of his passage. His senses were tuned to the sounds of the jungle, the gentle cacophony of the insects, the movement of little animals in the underbrush. He had hunted like this all his life, but always with a high-powered rifle in his hands, and a back-up heavy-caliber handgun at his side. This, now, was the ultimate hunt, with the ultimate prey. Stalker's plan was simple. To come upon his prey in the night, alone, while he slept, and kill him without a sound.

He had underestimated the Island's size, and overestimated the number of combatants still on the Island after dark. On his first night, after hours of wandering about, Stalker had realized his miscalculation. He found himself some cover, ate and drank, and settled in to wait until dawn.

The second day he had explored the Island, traversing the Blood Road from one end to the other, climbing the ridge trail to Lookout Point, and walking along the eastern beach. At one point he'd heard a clattering armored fighter tromping down the trail he was on, but this fighter was wary, constantly looking in all directions, and Stalker had determined that if he left his hiding place and took a grab for the guy, he'd be seen and skewered by the guy's sword before he got close enough to kill him. Stalker had learned the patience a hunter requires. He'd learned to put himself into position, and to let dangerous game go by until he was ready.

By the third day, the Island was becoming more peopled, and it was hard to go for an hour without the sign of another combatant. He admired the warriors who walked openly, weapons at the ready, looking for fights. The problem was, if he was seen by one of these, he was a dead man unless he could outrun the guy and lose him. And he'd seen a few times that guys in armor could run pretty fast. So he went to ground again during the day and waited for his time, the night.

But the night was empty of combatants. They'd holed as well, or the ones who were abroad walked as softly as he. The next day he tried a new plan, to establish a good position on a trail until a combatant came by, and then kill him before he knew Stalker was there. And this worked perfectly. He heard the swish of chainmail and the heavy tread a long ways away, and pressed into the underbrush behind a sheltering tree. When Troy passed him, Stalker had a moment to assess his backplate, his spear and sword, and his heavy crested helmet, before leaping forward to pull him back by the forehead. He had a moment's consternation when he discovered that Troy's throat was encircled by a metal-studded leather gorget under his helmet, but it took only a split second to aim his point higher. He cut Troy's throat with his bowie knife before Troy was fully aware someone was behind him, and Troy was dead without ever seeing his foe.

The cameras were positioned in such a way that the shot of that fight showed Troy tramping down the trail, an arm snaking out, and Troy's head yanked backwards. A longer shot from a different camera showed Troy on the ground and Stalker bending over him, checking his eartag before cutting it off. "Sudden Death" was the most popular download from the new "Best Kills of Savage Island" website for over a week.

But Troy had not died without striking a blow. He'd struck out with his sword before he died, and nicked Stalker in the back of the thigh. Stalker left the body lying on the trail and found himself a hideout in the brush where he cut open his trousers to get at the seeping puncture wound, and then bandaged his leg. It hurt much more than he ever imagined it would. But he stopped the bleeding, and he had, in his breast pocket, an orange tag purported to be worth a hundred grand. More than he'd ever been worth in his life. And now Stalker made his second mistake. He had forgotten that what makes you a successful hunter is making it home with your bag. He debated making for the Wall and going inside with his prize, but the kill had been so easy. Why should he not collect one or two more tags before he called it quits?

He went a little further up the trail and found another hiding place. He reasoned that the body of his foe would cause a momentary distraction. Anyone coming up the trail would pause to make sure that the man was dead and his eartag was missing. Stalker stuck Troy's helmet back on so the missing tag would not be immediately obvious.

He forgot that, while it was true that most of the men on the trail would be coming from the direction of the Wall, there were already combatants on the Island that might be coming back that way.

In the control room the technicians watched Stalker slip back among the brush, as three proximity alerts sounded. Later, when Grayson added his commentary to this tape, he called to Stalker, again and again, to watch out up the path, but Stalker faced the other way.

Lion, fresh out from the gate, came daintily along the path. He carried a round shield decorated with a leopard skin, and two short spears in his other hand. He also carried a sword at his side, and a machete over his shoulder. He stepped carefully, listening as he went. Stalker blended into the shadows, blended into the trees, made himself one with the foliage, softened his vision so that the dark armored man in the hideously carved black mask and the lion headdress would not feel his eyes. And almost jumped a foot as a scream came from the other direction, and Iron Hand hurtled passed him and attacked Lion before Stalker had a chance to move.

He was so startled he gave himself away. Lion saw Stalker in the bushes as he met Iron Man's attack, and driving him back, shoved him in Stalker's direction. Stalker took his chance, grabbing Iron Hand as he had Troy to cut his throat. As he did so, Lion thrust his spear not at Iron Hand, but at Stalker. Lion's spear struck him in the side, just under his short rib. Iron Hand twisted in his grasp even as Stalker cut at his throat, and lunged low and long for Lion, bringing his sword point up under his shield, and stabbing him in the groin. Lion screamed and fell to the ground, writhing. Iron Hand turned on Stalker, raising his two-handed sword to strike, but Stalker dropped to his knees and gutted him. Lion continued to scream.

Stalker found himself lying on the path in a welter of blood. It took him a moment to realize where he was, and that the sound of moaning he could hear was real, and that it wasn't him. When he pushed himself up, he found that Iron Hand had gone back up the road, leaving a trail of blood to mark his veering passage, and Lion was a little ways away, writhing and bleeding. When this part of the fight was edited together for the Savage Island website's "Greatest Fights," the editor prudently lowered the volume.

Stalker rooted out his first aid kit, and put a bandage on the wound on his side. He then got up and, from tree to tree, made his way to where Lion had fallen still. Stalker paused to check, as he had all his life checked wounded prey, but he was dead. Then Stalker woozily remembered his purpose here, dropped to his knees and clumsily removed Lion's eartag. After a long moment of dizziness, Stalker got up and handed himself down the trail.

It was not quite dark when Stalker met Death on the Blood Road. Death had hiked up one side of the island and down the other, hardly slept for four nights, had finished his water and run through his food. He was tired, dehydrated, bug-bitten and thoroughly fed up. He'd gotten turned around trying to make his way back to the Wall. He had blisters on both feet, and his armor had gone from chafing his armpits and hips, to oozing sores. He was sure that he was finally on the right path, but now he was being followed. He could hear the sounds behind him, stopping when he stopped. He tried to make a plan, but he kept walking while he did so. He was concentrating so hard on what was behind him, that he didn't see Iron Hand in front of him until he almost tripped over him.

He stopped for a long moment, eying Iron Hand's sprawled form, looking for a trick, for a trap, for an ambush. The man was dead, without a doubt. He saw with shock that Iron Hand's eartag was still on him. Death knelt down, dropped his spear, pulled out one of his knives and sawed it off. So it wasn't the gutted man, the smell of blood, the wounds beginning to attract iridescent insects that set off Death's gag reflex. It was the little blood-clotted flap of skin on the eartag. Death dropped it and began to retch. He vomited several times before he could get his winged helmet off, which the technicians in the control room were the first of a whole lot of people to find so funny that they nearly fell out of their chairs laughing. Death finally got his helmet off, revealing a round-faced man in his late twenties with short brown hair, dirt-smudged and with indentations on his face from his helmet. He stowed the eartag in his backpack, then scrubbed out his helmet with leaves and dirt. He tried to put his helmet back on, but the smell started him gagging again. He carried it by the chinstrap, picked up his spear, and continued down the trail. Death was triumphant. He had at least one trophy to show for his adventure.

Stalker was sitting with his back to the trees, only one turning in the road from the killing ground. The Wall was in sight through the foliage. The wound in his leg had begun to bleed again, and there was a long splash of blood down his side from the wound under his ribs. But he was alive. Stalker planned to rest a few more minutes, and then get up and make one more move for the Wall. He just needed a little more time to get over the light-headedness that was making him so tired.

Death came to a halt when he saw Stalker sitting beside the trail. He put up his shield and spear. If he passed, Stalker might cut at his legs with that big knife, and he didn't have a lot of armor on his legs. He gathered himself, and feinted at Stalker, staying out of his range. Stalker just sat there.

Death froze as Stalker's hand came up, fumbling at his shirt. A throwing knife? But no. Stalker pulled out two eartags from his pocket, and tried to toss them at Death. But his hand didn't have the strength and the eartags dribbled out of his fingers between his legs. Stalker's head fell to the side and he sat there staring at the ground.

Death waited, breathing heavily, eying the two additional eartags lying on the ground, and was just deciding to go and get them when he felt the cold steel of a blade against his neck. Death choked on a gasping breath, felt panic loosen his bowels as darkness welled up and seized him and he fell to the ground. He had fainted.

Ghost Soldier walked up to Stalker and picked up the two eartags. He checked Stalker's tell tale and found it just beginning to grow dark. He paused long enough to say a prayer while it went black before using the small knife in his belt to cut it off. Then, leaving Death in a heap behind him, Ghost Soldier crossed the killing ground. As he neared the right-hand gate, the middle gate opened and a new combatant dashed out onto the sand. Ghost Soldier eased into his stance, his great moon blade ready. The new combatant was a big man carrying a great sword and a large kite-shaped shield with a white crusader's cross painted on it. He found himself facing the slim young man in red armor, his spear pointed at the Crusader's throat. He stood there, unsure what to do. After a moment, Ghost Soldier continued on his way to the Wall, pressed the red button, and walked in through the gate. The Crusader gazed around the arena and then headed toward the woods in a different direction.

At about this time Death recovered from his faint. He checked himself all over, certain he'd been hurt or killed. He stared wildly around, looking for his unseen foe, but there was no one there except Stalker, lying on his side in his own blood.

He fancied briefly that he had been killed, that he was now a dead man, but his bug bites were bothering him, and his armor sores hurt, and his helmet still stank. Stalker's eartags were gone. Death hefted his helmet, shield and spear, and headed for the Wall. He almost dropped his equipment in the arena on his way to the gate, but didn't bother. Later, when he found that the eartag he had taken off of Troy was still in his pack, he was greatly relieved. He would be even more relieved in the weeks that followed. At home it seemed everyone had seen him throw up in his helmet. But the hundred and twenty grand in his bank account was a great solace, together with the fame of being one of the first few to survive and return from Savage Island. As he told them all, buying another round of drinks at his local pub in Vancouver, "Hey, I went there. I walked the sands. Where have you been lately?" And the beer tasted awfully good, after that.

James Grayson sat outside his cottage on the shaded veranda that looked out over the sea. He had a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice in his hand, and light jazz played on the speakers of his state-of-the-art sound system. He had finished a recording session that morning, and felt good about how it had gone. He'd been driven back to his cottage for a long lunch, and was due back for another taping session that evening. His housekeeper was setting the table for two. Lucy was coming. The sea glittered under the noonday sun. Life was extra fantastic.

A courier had brought his mail to him, just arrived off the helicopter. Bills from his condo in L.A. were being paid automatically. He put the hard copies aside to be tossed. His bank statement from last month was completely out of date, he tore that up and tossed it. His agent's hard copies of his contract had come. He opened the packet to read Arkman's note and found it clipped to a thick stack of xeroxed cuttings. Only then did he remember that he'd asked Arkman to send him the information about the subject of Van Allan's talk show appearances.

Van Allan's son and daughter had gone with a group of friends to the opening of a new club in Los Angeles, The Crimson Club, fifteen years ago. The son, Franz, would be Grayson's age today. The daughter, Sonia, was two years younger. The line to enter the club had snaked around the block that warm autumn evening, a huge crowd of laughing, flirting young people, out for an evening of dancing and drinking in the presence of this year's celebrities, living the good life of their best years. Two cars had passed, gunning, supposedly for the club owner's two sons, due to some bad blood between gang members. But the killers had been indiscriminate; they'd sprayed the crowd out of passenger side windows, killed five people outright, and wounded twenty more. Franz Van Allan was shot in the neck and died where he stood. Sonia was shot in the back. She was taken to the hospital, where she lingered for ten days. The following year, Van Allan's wife divorced him.

Grayson sat staring at the news clipping. He felt like a fool. In his frantic quest to land this job he'd done just the barest search on Van Allan's background. Van Allan must have been devastated by the loss of his children. Grayson felt for the guy. His whole life had been torn apart by this tragic crime. And fifteen years later, Van Allan had opened Savage Island.

No wonder he had spent money like water to get this place off the ground. He had no family to leave it to. And this explained Van Allan's point about men pretending to courage while using guns. He had lost both his children to one such iniquitous action. This explained everything.

He heard his front door open, and Lucy exchange a few words with his housekeeper. He put the papers back in the manilla envelope to finish later.

Lucy came out to the patio and kissed him, leaning over the back of his chair. She chatted as Ming set out the food on the table, and then sent her on her way. "Here," she said to James. "I thought you might like to see this."

She opened her laptop and set it on the table. When the screen came up she hit "play."

"Hey! It's Lone Eagle!" The white Indian was being interviewed back in the States.

Lucy was watching over his shoulder. "He went home a couple of days ago, and I hear he was swamped with interview requests."

"Did he get the million-dollar book deal?" James asked, his voice edged.

She laughed. 'No, he did not. They're holding out for the Shadow."

"I should think so. Anyone know where he is?"

"Not yet."

"Someone must know," James looked at her speculatively. Lucy was amazing at coming up with information that no one else could get.

She shook her head. "No one's talking. Here, listen to this." She turned up the volume.

"Charges against Brian Longworth, aka Lone Eagle, have been dropped by the Conchise County District Attorney on a challenge that the assault was perpetrated out of his jurisdiction. Brian Longworth is just back from Savage Island, the first combatant to return openly after walking on to the killing ground. Brian had this to say about his adventure."

"I didn't do anything wrong!" Lone Eagle was sitting on a studio set, his arm still in a sling. He was dressed in a suit and looked very different from the Lone Eagle Grayson remembered on the Island.

"You don't think attacking people is wrong?" The interviewer was a petite young woman with pixie hair. She'd been trained to smile for so long it was almost impossible for her to sound serious.

"Of course it's wrong!" Lone Eagle replied. "It's wrong here, in the United States, but on Savage Island, it's how you stay alive." Another camera angle showed Lone Eagle's face close up, and James realized the interview had been cut. Lone Eagle said, "I learned more out there on the killing ground, about myself, about what's important, than I'd learned my whole life up to that point."

"Were you afraid?"

"Of course I was afraid! I still can't believe it. I saw him coming at me, right out of the gate, and I thought I was a dead man."

"You were pretty quick to get away from him."

"I did run away," Lone Eagle met the eyes of his interviewer. "I ran just as fast as I could. I was facing a man armed from top to toe, and I had come out in the traditional war garb of my grandfather's people, the Jicarilla Apache. Moccasins, deerskin pants, and war paint." He grinned. "I guess I was a bit outclassed."

"Tell me what you were thinking when you went to pick up the morningstar."

"Well, obviously that it was a great weapon. We all know how effective it was out there now. I got to see the tapes of everything that went on that day."

"And then Shadow came after you again."

"He hit my shield so hard I thought he'd broken my wrist."

"It's not broken though."

"No, just badly sprained. But without the use of the shield, at least, I was toast. That's why I headed back in."

"You'd only been out a few minutes."

"I was out there for thirty-three minutes. The most exciting thirty-three minutes of my life. I was underarmed, which was my fault. But I faced four killers of men, and I came back alive."

"And what were you thinking when the gate opened and Sol came right at you with his spear."

"'Holy sh – '" The bleep just obliterated the expletive. "That's all I can say. He hit me twice, made a hole right into the bone. But they say the breastbone's the second strongest one we're got. Like our own personal armor. So it hurt a lot, and I bled a lot, but I'm okay."

"You must feel very lucky."

"I am so lucky. I am the only man on Savage Island to face Shadow and live."

"Do you think it's changed you?"

"I know it has. I offered my life on the killing ground to prove I am a man." Brian shrugged. "I guess I don't have to prove anything anymore. Not even to myself."

"And what are your plans now?"

Brian Longworth smiled. "I'm getting married."

"Well, congratulations, Brian, and the best of luck to you... "

Lucy sat across from James, while he did the honors. He served her blackened mahi-mahi, garlic mashed potatoes and French string beans in a light vinegar dressing, with a side salad and sourdough rolls. They drank a white wine that Van Allan had sent over the previous day.

Lucy started eating as soon as there was food on her plate. "Lone Eagle is being treated like a celebrity. He's got bookings from coast to coast. He may have missed out on making any money here, but he's cashing in big-time back home."

James snorted. "There are a lot better examples of grace under attack ―"

"Not back yet." Lucy finished scarfing down her fish. James watched as her hand crept along the table, fingers reaching for the bread basket. "In a week or two, survivors of Savage Island will saturate the airwaves, and then they'll be more choosy."

"Ah, just a moment," James said, as Lucy looked up and her face flamed. "Permit me." He slid a covered basket onto the table and pushed it across to her. When she hesitated, still embarrassed, he pulled back the napkin revealing half a dozen fresh pasties. "Meat pies. They hold together, and they'll keep indefinitely." She looked up at him. "I did research," he told her blandly. "They may drop some crumbs in your handbag, so may I suggest you take the napkin as well?"

He turned away to serve himself seconds, and started up the conversation again before he looked back. The napkin, and three of the meat pies were gone, and Lucy was eating her mashed potatoes as though nothing had happened.

"Have any other contestants been charged?" he asked.

"Not that we've heard. Van Allan is offering to land departing combatants anywhere in the world that they choose."

"So Shadow's probably in some country that doesn't have an extradition treaty with the U.S."

Lucy agreed. "Probably somewhere where over eight hundred thousand dollars will keep him and his family in luxury forever."

"Good," James finished his fish. It was delicious.

"You're starting to buy it," she told him.

"What's that?"

"That courage means looking your enemy in the eye and trying to kill him."

"No, not that," he said. "There are many kinds of courage. But yes, that would be one of them."

"And coming out onto Savage Island?"

He nodded. "That would be one of them, too."

She smiled. "Are you going to do it?"

It was his turn to flush. His voice dropped to an unprofessional mumble. "I've thought of it."

"Are you?"

"No. Of course not. I'm not a warrior. The only fighting I've ever done is locker room shoving matches and a year of karate in college. It fit in my schedule. But you can't watch this show without thinking about it. Can you?"

She shrugged, and reached for the last green bean. Lucy, it seemed, was immune.

When they'd finished the dishes of crème brulee that was their desert, James asked Lucy how soon she had to be back at work.

"I've got some tapes to edit this afternoon. But not yet."

"You need to be anywhere?" She shook her head. "Come over here."

She came and sat on his lap, and he ran his hands lightly down her sides. She smiled at him and snuggled closer, and bent to kiss his ear. "That was nice of you. About the meat pies."

"Um," he said, and kissed her neck.

She moved her hips and paused on his intake of breath, and then moved again, smiling.

"Shouldn't we . . . digest?"

"I always do that best lying down."

Dom Aguirre stood over the table where his equipment lay, together with the black backpack he'd decided on to carry it. He was ahead on points, and that pleased him. The strategy he had chosen had not been discovered, or by now it would be more expensive. He picked up the running shoes, light and flexible, smelling sweet and new, and set them aside. He would be wearing those. He packed the water bottles in the outside pockets, and the two-liter containers in the bottom of the pack. If he lived through stage one of his plan, there would be time to worry about reserves of water.

He packed two coils of heavy rope into the backpack, and two coils of lighter rope attached to grappling hooks. He quickly assembled the four lengths of aluminum pipe into a spear. He'd asked for the longest-possible spear, of the lightest possible materials, that he could carry in sections in his backpack and assemble when he needed it. This one was just over twelve feet long, and didn't sag in the middle. The four-inch spear tip was slender, sharp and impressive. This was going to work. He packed some jerky in an outer pocket, and put the rest of his food bag into the depths of his pack.

The Master Armorer and one of his assistants approached Dom's table. "I'm sorry, Mr. Aguirre, but the darts have been ruled out."

Dom protested, "But the documentation – they were used in battle by the Irish long before there were guns."

Charles Gordon , a thickset bearded man with heavy arms and dark, intelligent eyes, nodded. "Yes, I checked your research and you are correct. But those things are heavy – you can throw them over fifty yards – "

His assistant, a young man, also bearded, with long reddish brown hair, nodded as well. "We actually made a couple and tried them out. They are deadly," he added with approval.

"Well I can't throw them that far," Dom said.

Gordon eyed him thoughtfully. "Maybe not. Nonetheless, they've been ruled out, as being distance weapons. However, you can have the climbing spurs. Tom's made you up a set to try out."

You could request items that were not in the catalog, according to the rules, though it could cost a lot of points, depending on what you asked for. The climbing spurs were actually much more important to him than the darts, but it had been worth a try. He slipped on the leather chaps and laced them tight. The rode comfortably on his shins, above his ankles. The only question was, would they interfere with his running?

Before he could take off to try them out, one of the technicians came to his table with a clipboard. "Mr. Aguirre," she asked, "We don't yet have your fighting name. We can't put you in the draw until we have that."

For the first time, Dom spoke aloud his fighting name, and as he said it, he understood. He felt that in some deep part of himself, he had always been a warrior, a predator, a hunter of men. His life growing up in Los Angeles, a third-generation Angelino, the first in his family to go to college, office manager for a medical billing company, with a new car, saving for a down payment on a condo, just over his old girlfriend, playing the field in a leisurely way for a new one – all that was nothing, it was , , , civilized. But he was not civilized. He was a wild man, a hunter, a murderer. And soon, soon, he would have his taste of blood. "I am the Cougar," he told them. The technician wrote the name down on her form, and the two armorers nodded understanding, and respect.

Savage Island dominated the news all over the world from the hour of the first reported kill. Almost at once a number of people asserted that Savage Island was a staged event, that the killings were fake. They posted clips of the Shadow's kills next to clips from violent movies of men killing one another and argued that the movie versions actually looked more realistic, and that Savage Island should do a better job. Then, Lone Eagle returned from Savage Island and was booked on one talk show after another, testifying to the reality of Savage Island, and opened his shirt to display the swollen puckered scabs on his chest. The commentators postulated that make-up was very good these days.

Then, the families of three of Shadow's kills, Bandit One, Hrolf Bloodaxe and Phoenix, filed suit against Savage Island, Jules Van Allan, and Craig Wells, aka Shadow. (Manslayer's brother, on the other hand, cashed the ten thousand dollar check he was sent, commenting that the money almost covered the amount his brother owed him, and he was surprised he'd ever managed to amount to so much.) The remains of Kevin Hightower, killed under the name of Bandit One, had been returned to his family for burial, and his corpse was autopsied and the report entered into evidence. That, to some degree, put an end to the theory that Savage Island was staged. There were some holdouts who assumed that someone of Mr. Van Allan's resources could manage to provide a corpse or two for verisimilitude.

Then Ghost Soldier returned from Savage Island, having killed no one, but richer by three hundred and twenty thousand dollars. He created a new wave of interest as he appeared on talk shows, first in Korea, then in Europe, and then in the United States, and explained over and over again why he had not killed Death, or attacked the Crusader, the last combatant he had faced before reentering the gate. Why, after all that effort to get there, knowing that he was so well-qualified to defend himself, had he not killed anyone at all?

Lin Kim, when posed this question, would lean his head back a little, looking up at the light grid with his eyes half closed. He seemed to be contemplating distant places, probably an island jungle, where predators walked by day and night, carrying weapons and hunting men. He had done his undergraduate degree at the University of Washington in Seattle; his English was excellent, and his soft-spoken voice was engaging. " I've studied martial arts all my life, but you never know what you're practicing for until you have occasion to use it. I thought I could use Savage Island as the ultimate test. I'd learn whether my training really worked, and whether I could kill a man if I had to." Kim cocked his head at the interviewer and added, "What I learned was, while I could kill my opponents, having proved that I could, I didn't have to. There was no need for us to fight after all."

Invariably his interviewer would ask, "What about the money? You came back with three eartags, you could have had four or five."

Kim would smile. "But it never was about the money. I was lucky to have picked up three eartags without having to kill for them. And that's enough ― that's plenty. I'm ready to move on."

As an advertisement for Savage Island, it couldn't have been any better, from Jules Van Allan's point of view. Then, as Shadow never turned up, Kim was offered the million-dollar book deal,band the question of whether he'd made enough money from Savage Island was put to rest.

The issue that Van Allan had raised, that engaging an enemy from a safe distance was cowardly, and that guns, and by extension, bombs, were cowardly, did not receive much debate. In the United States, where the gun culture also took it upon itself to define manhood, it was a difficult point to concede that it didn't take much courage to press a trigger from across the street or a block away. By extension, the military, whose missions seemed to be designed primarily to keep the men out of harm's way, by bombing or shooting or destroying their targets from a considerable distance, could not even address the question of courage in that context.

A handful of gadflies on the blogs kept the question alive. If these people also received donations from one of Van Allan's companies, that was, in any case, beside the point.

On the whole, Van Allan was pleased. To fuel the fire, after the twentieth death on the island he taped another interview. Grayson was invited into Van Allan's office to supervise the set up, and when they were rolling asked Van Allan how he thought his experiment was progressing, and whether there had been any surprises.

"I am surprised at how many heroes have revealed themselves since we began," Van Allan confided to fifty million viewers. "One is always tempted to believe that one lives in a degenerate age. The world seems full of cowards and reprobates. To see the combatants here rise to the challenge that Savage Island offers them has been an inspiration to me. I hope it has been to others. I look at men such as Wenceslaus today, Karl the Bad, and of course the Shadow, I see terrible fights undertaken, and I honor the dead as much as the victors, for their courage."

Grayson heard the key words "hero," "challenge," and "inspiration." He couldn't help admire how Van Allan was dictating the mythology of Savage Island. He glanced at his notes and asked the next question, one that Farley had put on his list. Funny he hadn't thought to ask it himself. It seemed obvious now.

"What about the women, Mr. Van Allan? I've been told that applications of candidates to fight on Savage Island are arriving at the rate of thousands a day, from all over the world. When will the first women combatants come onto the Island?"

"Never," Van Allan said shortly. "There will be no women combatants on Savage Island."

Grayson was taken aback for a moment, so he kidded. "What, no equal-opportunity fighting? Don't women also have a right to show their courage?"

"They can have all the rights they like," Van Allan said evenly, "but not on my island." He opened his hands, explaining. "The purpose of this island is for men to show what they are made of. Women have no such requirement. 'She who faces death by torture for each life beneath her breast,' as Kipling put it, has no need to be judged for her courage or prowess at arms. And what purpose is such prowess for men but to win respect from one another, and the favor of a woman? It is how we seed strength and courage into the next generation." He shook his head. "To die here at the hands of a woman, men might say is unworthy of their effort. And to kill a woman, for gain, is unworthy of their honor. No. There will be no women combatants on Savage Island."

Grayson knew it had been a set-up. Van Allan had wanted to make this argument publicly. James tried to think of something to say. To argue for women be able to go out there and fight or die put him at a disadvantage; he was pretty sure he wouldn't want to see that. And in addition, he'd be arguing against the policy of the Island, the policy of his boss. So he said, "Thank you, that's pretty comprehensive," and added, "Would you like to add a comment about the pointless violence on the streets in world cities? About gangs and such? Since women and children are so often the victims, directly and indirectly. Also, the tragic loss of your children in the Crimson Club drive-by shooting, your remarks on the subject will carry a lot of weight."

Van Allan's reaction was not what Grayson expected. He assumed Van Allan would fold that event into the current story, and make use of it. Instead, Van Allan's face darkened. He turned to the cameraman. "Stop recording."

As Van Allan turned his cold glare on James, Grayson realized the difference between interviewing a subject, with his own crew and equipment backing him, and interviewing the guy who owned the equipment, and paid the crew. And himself as well.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Van Allan. I thought you'd like the opportunity to make that point."

Van Allan glared coldly a moment longer, and then turned away. "I have no statement to make regarding my children. Please do not bring up that subject again. We're finished here. Take your equipment and go." He got up from the chair and moved to the window.

The crew looked at James, which he thought was good of them, and then began quietly ― and slowly ― to break down the equipment.

Grayson got up his nerve and followed Van Allan over to the window.

"Sir, I'm sorry. If there's more you want to get done today with this interview, please don't let my mistake get in the way."

When Van Allan turned back to him, Grayson felt relief. The angry coldness was gone from his boss's face and voice, though his eyes were still hard. "No. Thank you. We're finished here. Don't let me detain you further, I know you have a great deal of work to do."

There was nothing to do but to get out of there. He left the crew packing up and headed back to the studio.

He continued to puzzle over Van Allan's reaction through another long day of broadcasting. There were more men on the island than ever, and that day another nine men were killed. Though no other warrior as spectacular as Shadow had arisen, today a short black man from Kenya by way of Spelman College in Atlanta, Georgia, where he taught African history and Swahili, proved, under the name of Long Arm Warrior, that a man who knew how to use a spear could keep more heavily armed fighters at bay, and find a way past their armor, weapons and shields, to their vulnerable throats and arm pits. Long Arm Warrior killed the first three men he came upon. He was wounded in the third fight by Cold Heart, who gashed his arm before he died. It was soon evident that a one-armed spearman was at a huge disadvantage against more heavily armed fighters. On his way back to the Wall, Long Arm Warrior was killed by Silver Shield, who knocked his spear out of his hand and struck him down with his sword. Silver Shield took Long Arm Warrior's eartag, but left his body lying on the beach without searching him.

While Silver Shield seemed to be heading back to the Wall, Grayson and Lucy argued over whether he should be told when he came in that he had left three eartags out there, so he could choose to go out there again and get them. This question became moot when Baraka, a huge Pole wielding two huge swords, struck down Silver Shield and killed him as he emerged from the tree line.

When night fell, Long Arm Warrior lay there still, and a new policy came down from the head office (Grayson assumed Van Allan, the final arbiter, had been consulted), that bodies that still had their eartags, or that had other eartags on them, would be allowed to lie in situ for 24 hours. After that, waste management would pick them up, and the eartags would be rendered valueless. Altogether, it was another very interesting day on the Island.

Grayson had drinks with Lucy after dinner, and then stayed on, drinking with one of the armorers and some of the technicians. One of them drove him to his bungalow in his electric cart, so he didn't have to stagger home.

His bungalow was spotless. He found himself prowling the place, not willing yet to go to sleep. He thought he was missing Lucy, and he was, but what he mostly did was rewrite his interview with Van Allan, to avoid that moment of fury, and wondering again why Van Allan had reacted that way. It was obvious that this event was the origin of the idea for Savage Island. It seemed out of character for Van Allan not to use it to promote his ideology. The death of his children created a rationale for all the savagery that Van Allan had set in motion So why wasn't it part of the narrative? Why was it off limits? It didn't make sense.

This was the kernel of unease that kept him from his rest. He searched around until he found the manila envelope with his contract, which also held the clippings that his agent had sent him, on the tragedy of Van Allan's life. And it wasn't long before he found the clue.

The shooters had driven by the Crimson Club in two cars. These were found abandoned a few miles away. It had not taken long to trace back the cars' provenance and find they had been stolen. With a death count of seven, four more badly wounded, and the city in an uproar, the nine shooters were soon found and taken into custody. With the exception of one, they were all under eighteen. The one adult had been the driver of the first car, and was a known long-time gang member. The other eight were kids, the youngest thirteen. The police had been under enormous pressure to make the case. Thus, the suspects were not interrogated as minors, but as adults. Confessions were coerced, rights were trampled. Two years after the murders, the case was thrown out, and every one of the suspects were released without charges. The assistant district attorney who had taken over the case from the police on the very night of the crime had been publicly exonerated of any wrong-doing. The police had been left to take the blame. Grayson read between the lines and realized a whole lot of arm-bending must have been at work to save that guy's career. He put down the papers, imagining what that must have felt like to Van Allan. His children were dead, and those responsible had been allowed to go free on a technicality. And one man was to blame. He wondered if the guy still had a job.

### Chapter Ten

The limousine with the tinted windows drew up to the gates of the house in Pasadena, set back from the modest, tree-lined street by what had once been a carriageway, and was now a driveway a tenth of a mile long. The security guard at the gate spoke to the driver and punched a button to let the car through.

John Savage sat looking out the window at the well-kept garden. Thornton, beside him, knew John was angry, but he said nothing. This meeting was a natural result of unforeseen events. He, unlike Savage, was taking it in stride, just another hurdle on the way to their goals. He supposed John's passion over the matter was one of the reasons that John was chosen candidate for Governor of California, and he was expected to help him get there. For the other reason, of course, one had only to look at the two of them side by side. Thornton, average height, narrow face, receding hairline. John Savage, tall, handsome and fair-haired, with blue eyes that seemed to see right through anything they looked at. If you looked at John Savage, you assumed he was contemplating deep thoughts on a higher plane than anyone else, Thornton reflected, even if some people knew that he was just thinking about taking a crap. Thornton again looked over the sheaf of papers he had thought to bring. He would get John Savage to where he was heading. And then, he would see . . .

The limousine pulled up to the door of the house, and Savage didn't wait for the chauffeur but got out of the car as soon as it came to a stop. He had offered to drive himself, but was told a car would be sent for him. He had suggested he could meet Kalfrey at the airport himself, but was told Martin Kalfrey had other meetings before he would see him – the candidate, the prospective governor – and the car would come for him sometime in the afternoon. So Savage was expected to spend the whole afternoon waiting around for Kalfrey to be ready to see him.

Savage, against the advice of Thornton and the rest of his staff, had taken off with Cory Applegard to play a quick game of tennis at his club, and hadn't come back until dinner time. The car had come shortly after his arrival home. Savage assumed he had gotten the best of the men who wanted to make their point by making him wait. Thornton assumed someone had been keeping an eye on Savage's movements.

John Savage ran up the stairs to the house with the air of a man who had no time to waste. Thornton shut the briefcase carefully, and walked up in his wake.

There were half a dozen men in the room, but only one of them mattered. Martin Kalfrey, former President of the Republican National Committee, to whom most of the Republican Senators and the current President owed their careers, liked everyone to know where he stood, when he was in a room. He stood on the top rung of any ladder that mattered, and if he didn't, he made a new ladder.

He was sitting in the best chair, of course, holding forth with a snifter of the best brandy, after a dinner that had been served early for his convenience. He looked up when John Savage strode into the room, but he didn't interrupt himself.

"— I said, if you want to see another dime for your reelection, you'll put that girl on a plane to Aruba, and never see her again." He sipped the brandy, glancing to make sure everyone was still paying attention to him, then added the punch line. "I have a very nice house in Aruba. She likes the beach."

He broke in to the obedient laughter, feigning surprise at John Savage's entrance. "John! Good to see you. Sorry you missed dinner. Alpenheim served duck, it was just wonderful. But I hear you had an important game of tennis."

John Savage came forward, and took a seat on the leather couch closest to Kalfrey. Frederick Hallerdam, who had occupied the seat, simply moved when Savage approached him, and then wondered, from his new place by the window, how that had happened.

"I didn't receive an invitation to dinner," Savage said. "I'm sure it was excellent." He nodded at Alpenheim, who sat hunched in his chair, so wizened by age that his feet, in his Armani socks, hardly touched the floor, but basking in his proximity to the powers of the land.

"Anytime," Joe Alpenheim told him hopefully. "I've a great new chef. . ."

A black-clad Filipino servant brought Savage a drink. It was a martini, just as he liked it. "Hello, Layden. Michael, sorry about your back. Feeling better? Fred, how's Claire? Bob, good to see you. It's been awhile since we played tennis. Give me a call sometime." Savage acknowledged the other men in the room, taking control of the meeting away from Kalfrey.

Kalfrey took it back. "John, if you want our support for the governorship, you need to stop mouthing off out of line."

Savage met his eyes with deceptive mildness. "Oh? When was that?"

Kalfrey nodded over at Fred Hallerdam, who replied, "We're talking about the statement you made about Savage Island."

Savage raised his brows. "I said, upon inquiry from a reporter for the Times, that my staff is looking in to whether anyone from my jurisdiction has broken the law. And we will prosecute any malefactor to the full extent of the law, according to my mandate from the people of Los Angeles."

"Cut the crap," Kalfrey told him. "I don't need to hear the campaign speech. Though I'm sure it's very good." He nodded over at Thornton. "You and I know that Van Allan is after your balls with this Savage Island stunt, so what we want to know is, what are you doing to make sure this doesn't blow up in your face and leave us without the California governorship?"

Savage waved Thornton over to sit down next to him and open his briefcase. "This is not going to blow up in our faces, gentlemen. Van Allan is spending a fortune to make, what is going to seem to most voters, a very obscure point."

"You bolluxed that case. Your department made a complete hash of it. Properly handled, it could be just one of those things ― "

"The police ruined the case before it ever came to my office."

"Yes, of course, that's the story." Kalfrey sipped his drink. "But we both know the police took the blame when an obscure assistant D.A. waltzed into the station that night and took over the interrogations."

"They had already ― "

"Yes, of course, plenty of blame to go around. But your boss made sure that you came out of it with your career still intact. Even though you are the one who let those little thugs go."

"I didn't let them go. I have stayed on those punks ever since ― "

Kalfray asked, "And didn't one of them put an old lady in the hospital a few years later?' He looked up at Hallerdam, who nodded.

"He knocked her down, pleaded to second degree assault and battery and served two years."

"Mrs. Hansa recovered," Savage added.

"But she would never have been knocked down in the first place if ― what's his ― "

"Emilio Sanchez," Thornton supplied.

" ― whatever his name was hadn't been out on the streets. He belonged in prison."

"The case is fourteen years old," Savage replied. "No prosecutor can win them all. The police conducted the investigation in such a way that my office was unable to prosecute them as they richly deserved. My presence at the station that night did not manage to correct the mistakes the police made, due to their over-eagerness to get a conviction. The fact that every one of the boys claimed a false identity when caught, all added to the situation that none of the confessions could be used at trial. The guns were compromised by the extra gun that was found in one of the cars, that later turned out to have come from a police evidence locker . . . "

"We know all this," Kalfrey said peevishly. "What we want to know, is how you are going to handle it. Which means," he leaned forward in his chair, "how are you going to make it go away. Poof!" he made a flicking gesture with his fingers. "Never heard of again."

Thornton replied, in an attempt to drag the conversation back to the present, "Out first step is to investigate Savage Island for whatever crimes are being committed. The second is to charge anyone from this jurisdiction, including Van Allan, and seek extradition."

"Ha," Kalfrey snorted. "Do you even know where he is?"

John Savage met his gaze coldly. "We have a good idea."

"We are looking in to whether we can shut down broadcasts from the Island, under the same laws that govern snuff films."

Michael Stearns, the nephew of Senator Stearns, shook his head. "You'll never get that through. The show is expanding astronomically across cable channels. I've watched it myself ― Shadow, killing eight guys in a row ― incredible!"

Thornton said, "The point is not necessarily to shoot the broadcasts down. The point is to be seen doing everything possible. If we concede an action because it would violate First Amendment rights, well, that just makes John Savage look like a better candidate."

"A high-level prosecution of anyone from California who killed someone over on Savage Island would do the same," Alpenheim put in, proving that he was still following the conversation.

"Yes," said Kalfrey. "That would be good."

"If Van Allan moves to bring the old issue of his case to the press ― " Thornton began.

"You know he is! What else would be the point to all this?" Kalfrey responded.

"Then we're ready for him," Savage continued. "We regret what happened, bad things happen all the time, but to respond with wholesale murder will bring forth the full response of the law. And if that doesn't work, our next step is to freeze his assets and put liens on his property, under the criminal franchise acts."

Kalfrey smiled for the first time. "Good! That's good."

"And we'll take any subsequent steps necessary to shut him down," Thornton added.

"Very good. I'm glad to hear it. We'll see you in the governor's office yet, John. And after that, well, we've needed a candidate like you for the Oval Office for a long time."

John smiled at him. Even Kalfrey felt the warmth of that smile. Savage had been practicing it for years. "We'll get there," Savage said with conviction. "That is the plan."

Lucy drove the electric cart at top speed down the path past the warehouses. James held on surreptitiously. He found it amazing that she knew every road on the Island already, and seemed to know half the people, too, as they slowed once again to call greetings to some men loading freight onto a trailer. A couple walked over to the cart and Lucy stopped and chatted with them. The men smiled at James, nodding to his wave, and then Lucy accelerated again on a laugh. "They said you look just as good off the camera as on," she told him.

"Who are those guys?"

"Just some of the workers."

"And who's this girl you want me to see?"

Lucy turned a corner and decelerated. They drove along a pathway that ran along the Wall, a long ways from the gates, behind the warehouses on the other side of the practice fields. Grass and flowers had been planted here. The flowers were huge and gaudy, flourishing in the sun, the heat, and excess watering. Lucy pulled up at a series of markers, decorated with flowers and ribbons and deflating balloons. James read the name on the nearest marker. "Hrolf Bloodaxe, killed in honorable combat." The one next to it read, "Sting, brave fighter, died with courage."

James looked up at Lucy in surprise. "But these are ― "

"They're the dead combatants," she nodded. "Right."

"They're not buried here?"

"No, most of them are sent back to their families. I think some of them have been cremated, and their ashes scattered on the Island."

"Then what is this?"

"Some of the staff asked permission to put up memorials to the fallen. Mr. Van Allan liked the idea. I'm going to do a story on it, when there are enough of them to make a good pan." She demonstrated the shot, making a square of her fore fingers and thumbs. "Some of the women working here have really gotten in to the idea of these men as heroes. And heroes deserve this kind of remembrance."

James walked along the little garden of cenotaphs, noting the loving decorations of flowers, pictures, and little notes fixed in place with small stones. "Wow," he said, looking at a printed screenshot of Swordsinger, as he stepped out the gate, to die soon after on Day Three of Savage Island. "This will be a great story." He looked over at Lucy. "How did you find out about this?" He knew she'd been spending as many hours in the studio as he did.

She grinned his favorite, gamin grin. "I have friends. Here she comes."

A tiny Asian woman, dressed in a neat blue maid's service uniform, approached them on the path. She greeted Lucy and kissed her in the French manner, standing on tiptoe to reach Lucy's cheek. Then she looked up and smiled at James with that look of awed recognition that he always enjoyed. He smiled warmly back at her.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi!" he replied brightly.

"Mr. Grayson," Lucy said formally, "may I present Mrs. Maria Chong, she's a great fan of yours."

Mrs. Maria Chong nodded vigorously. She had gray in her hair, James noticed, raising her approximate age by about twenty years, to her forties, or maybe even her fifties. She was stout, energetic, and James could no more have placed her country than he could have identified which state in the U.S. someone came from that he met on a street in L.A.

Lucy and Maria started gabbing away. James stood there smiling at them both, wondering how many languages Lucy actually spoke; he thought this was the fourth he had heard ― not counting English.

Lucy broke away and turned back to him. "Maria cleans up in the barracks, where the men stay before they go out through the Wall."

Maria, who could evidently understand some English, nodded as she followed along with what Lucy was saying.

"She says that the men now called Lucky Man, and Happy, and Free Spirit, and the one who went out the other day called Good Journey, were not given rooms in the barracks like the other combatants. She doesn't know where they stay before they go out the Wall."

Maria talked some more, pointing shyly at a cenotaph near James's feet. It was inscribed to Son of Odin. James remembered the Son, a Hungarian from Budapest, who had held the arena for nearly two hours, holding three combatants at bay with his two swords, before being killed by Aleut, a huge American from Florida carrying a long metal pole with a club at the end. The Son of Odin had been killed with a blow that had stunned him right through his helmet.

Maria bent down, patting the dirt into better order around the stone. "I sleep with him," she said, smiling.

James learned that some of the women had decided that the heroes going off onto the Island to fight and die, needed a send-off worthy of their courage. They'd begun drawing lots to see who would sleep with which of the combatants, but the system soon failed as the younger, prettier girls propositioned the best-looking men. James nodded, unsurprised. Same as it ever was. However, none of the men were being left out, as there were enough women on the Island who considered it their duty to wish them luck before they departed was more than enough to cover all the combatants. Especially as some of the women were taking more than one turn.

Maria waxed a little bitter over a couple of girls who seemed to have a bet on to sleep with all the combatants, before Lucy brought her back to the subject she had asked her to talk about.

The rice people? They spoke Manchu, and were probably from the south of China. Maria, from Singapore, told Lucy the rice people weren't like the other combatants. No one ever saw them in the armory, where each combatant's equipment was assembled, reviewed, and modified. Most combatants visited their table in the armory again and again, having their weapons and equipment adjusted, negotiating for alterations and paying for them out of their points. None of the rice people were seen there.

"I heard they came on a boat, and they stayed on a boat until it was time for them to get their ear tag," Maria clutched her ear, illustrating Lucy's translation. Were there more? Yes, the boat was still there, probably there were more, but she didn't know for sure.

James told Lucy to ask Maria if she could get aboard that boat, and maybe ask the crew some questions, or try to find out about any other rice people there. As Lucy spoke, Maria's face took on a guarded expression. She glanced at James, looked away and shook her head.

Lucy translated, "There are places that people are not allowed to go. The docks are one, because people aren't supposed to come on the island, or leave it, without Mr. Van Allan's permission."

Maria nodded vigorously as Lucy spoke, "No permission," she agreed.

Lucy listened to her briefly, and spoke to James again. "Maria says this is the best job

she's ever had, and she doesn't want to lose it."

James gave Maria his patented television smile, and watched her melt. He still had it. "No problem," he said. "I don't want her to lose her job either, or do anything she shouldn't do. But I would like to know more about the rice people. If she should happen to hear anything, or find anyone who knows anything . . . "

Maria nodded agreement, when Lucy translated. In payment, James gave Maria a bottle of Scotch that was part of his personal supply. She kissed him, too, which allowed him to understand why the Son of Odin had been lucky to receive such a send-off.

When Maria had gone, James and Lucy walked along the Wall, reading the cenotaphs. Lucy outlined her plan for her story, and James, aware of a twinge of jealousy, agreed that her ideas sounded just great.

When the walkway was deserted, James said, "What do you think this is all about?"

"The rice people?" Lucy screwed up her face like a little kid pretending to think really hard, except James didn't think she was aware she was doing it. He thought about kissing her. "Well, they could be really dangerous combatants, murderers or something. . . "

"Or it could be political," James finished for her.

"Why don't you ask Mr. Van Allan?" Lucy asked him.

"I did," said James. "I asked him about Mr. Happy and Mr. Lucky, and he said they're combatants like all the others."

They walked back to the cart and got on. Lucy backed up and turned around, and they took off back the way they had came. James grabbed hold of the frame as they accelerated. She grinned at him.

She stopped in front of his bungalow. "What are you going to do now?"

"Now?" he asked. "Now, I'm going to try and get a few hours sleep before I go back to the studio and comment on who's been killing who while we've been out there investigating. Later . . . maybe I'll talk to Van Allan's secretary. He might be able to explain things that Van Allan won't." He leaned over and kissed her, gently, lingeringly, and got out of the cart. "Want to join me?"

She screwed up her face again, and then relented. "Sure."

He took her hand as they walked into the cottage.

"Mrs. Baines? We're ready for you now."

Tricia Baines left the green room and followed the production assistant through the hallway, walking carefully on her new shoes. She was wearing more make-up than she ever had in her life, and her new dress was too tight. She'd heard that television put ten pounds on you, and she didn't want to figure as a laughing stock at the family get-togethers for the next ten years. She wouldn't be here at all, except the network had offered her five thousand dollars for the interview. Arthur would have told her to grab it. After all, he was taking a terrible chance. She could certainly do her mite at home.

The production assistant showed her where to sit, and her host, Sally Ann MacGuire, of the Good Morning MacGuire Show, Live and In Person, came on to sit in the chair opposite her. She was fussing with her jacket, and speaking sharply to the two women who followed her out, one with a hairbrush, one with a clipboard. That stopped abruptly with the announcement, "In five, Ms. MacGuire!" and suddenly, her hostess turned her thousand-watt smile on Tricia Baines, and Tricia just melted into her chair. It was true about these people. They really were different.

"Tricia Baines? Hi, I'm Sally MacGuire," the TV star reached out and shook Tricia's hand.

"Hello, yes," Tricia said.

"How are you? So glad to meet you. I'll just be asking you a few questions, no need to worry about anything." Sally leaned towards her and beamed, patting her hand. "There won't be any questions you don't know the answer to, you know." She leaned back. "So glad to have you here," but she was already looking away, speaking sharply to one of the technicians about one of the lights. They did a mike test, and showed Tricia which camera to look at. Then someone did a count down, and Sally MacGuire again turned on her smile. A red light came on on the camera, like the bead on a gun.

"Good morning! And we're here today with Tricia Baines, who is the wife of the first, and the longest-lived combatant who is out there right now on Savage Island. Tricia, did Arthur – or should I say, Scorpion – did he tell you where he was going?."

"No," said Tricia.

There was a beat while Sally waited, smiling, for her to add to that, and then Sally continued. "When did you find out where he had gone? He just turned up missing one day, right?"

"He left me a message. I was at work. He told me he had to go out of town for a few days, take care of some business. I thought it was that brother of his again . . . " Tricia trailed off, not wanting to tell everyone in the world about Arthur's brother Tyler, and why Arthur might have to go out of town suddenly to deal with him.

"And when did you find out where he was?"

"I saw him on the TV. There he was, coming out of that gate, and he's not wearing any of the armor, of even a helmet, and when I get him home I am so going to give him what for for scaring me like this, but right now I just wish, I just wish everyday, I talk to him, on the TV, you know, and I say, Arthur, you just stay put. You keep out of everyone's way. You're almost there, honey, you're almost there." Tricia found she was crying, the tears simply leaking down her face as she spoke. "I'm sorry," she choked.

"This is Tricia Baines, the wife of the first combatant to step out onto Savage Island. A man who has already proved his courage, every day now for seven days. And we'll be right back."

When the red light on the camera went out, someone came to Tricia's side and carefully wiped her face for her, and handed her a fistful of tissues.

Sally leaned toward her and said, "That was wonderful, Tricia, couldn't be better. Now, I'm just going to ask you a few more questions . . . "

What Sally asked her, a few minutes later, was, "People are curious, Tricia. Why hasn't Arthur ― the Scorpion ― killed anyone? He's certainly been close enough to other combatants a number of times, he has all that rope, he has his knives, his machete. Of all of the men still on Savage Island, why is he the only one not hunting other men? Doesn't he want the money?"

Tricia remembered to look at her camera, and not at Sally MacGuire as she answered her question. It felt awkward. "My husband did two tours in Vietnam. The first one when he was only seventeen years old. He knows what it is to kill people. He doesn't talk about that much. I know that the killing he did haunts him to this day. He says war is a terrible thing, a terrible thing, to make young men try and kill one another, because old men are too stupid or too proud to talk over their differences. Or too greedy," she added, thinking of the most recent wars. "But one thing Arthur said he learned how to do was stay out of sight and stay out of trouble. I think he's trying to cash in on that skill right now."

"What do you say to those people who call your husband a coward because all this time he has been skulking in the bushes in the middle of the Island, and hasn't tried to fight anyone?"

Tricia's eyes flashed and her posture straightened. "Why aren't they out there, then, that's what I say," she said hotly. "Why don't they get their own butts out there, and hunt up my Arthur. But they better watch out, cause what they're going to meet is not plain old Arthur Baines, but the Scorpion, and he has a deadly sting."

Sally MacGuire was smiling at her again. She asked one more question. "If Arthur Baines ― if the Scorpion ― happens to be listening right now, what would you say to him?"

Tricia took a deep breath. "I'd say, honey, we've got enough money. Now you sneak back out of there nice and quiet, and don't get into anymore trouble than you're going to be when I get you home." And then she burst out, "Keep safe. I love you." And the tears began to fall again.

When Tricia got home from the airport, after flying back from Los Angeles (first class, and on the network's dime, no less), she found four more invitations for interviews on her phone machine. Her sister-in-law, Lorinda, who met her at her apartment door with celebratory cheesecake, exclaimed at every one.

"Did I do good?" Trish asked her, smiling.

"Honey," Lorinda replied, "you did so good! You looked great! I love your new dress. Come on, come in and see, leave those for now. I brought the tape."

For three days after his excursion out of the gorge to see what was happening on the Island, Arthur Baines, the Scorpion, kept to his hideout. He whiled away some of the time building a pool in the stream so he could bathe and wash his clothes. He did some more work hiding his camp, and he explored up and down the stream. He noted with interest on the fourth day that the Savage Island technicians had managed to get a helicam down to his position. He heard it batting around the canopy, coming lower and lower, until it locked on to the trunk of a tree opposite his overhang. He was aware of the eye of the camera all day as he did this or that around the camp. He found himself performing, making up chores that made him look like a first-class survivalist. After dinner, he found himself waving to it, making hand-signs that only Trish would understand. "Don't be mad at me." "I love you." "Meet you in the car." Trish's sister had lived with them for six weeks after her surgery. Since they'd given her the the one bedroom, the hand-signs were the only privacy they'd managed during that time, except when they left the apartment. When he lay down to sleep, he lifted his hand to make one more sign, since the camera could see him there where he lay.

The camera could see him. Scorpion sat up. It had been seven days since he emerged onto the Island. What had they said in orientation? The first group of combatants would go in blind. They'd never have seen the Island before. They wouldn't know the lay of the land, or what they were getting in to. The second wave of combatants would come because they'd seen Savage Island, and wanted to be part of it.

On Savage Island, his position would be tracked on a computerized map. Anyone watching the show would know where he was, would know where he'd been camping for the last seven days.

If any of the first week's combatants had scratched, some of the new ones might be substituted in on the seventh day. Or even the sixth day. People who knew where he was and what he was carrying might already be on the Island. They might be hunting him now.

He tried to listen for any sounds that did not belong in the jungle at night, but his heart was beating so hard he couldn't hear anything. He found himself scrambling around, gathering his stuff, punching it down into his backpack . . . and stopped. And calmed himself. And listened again.

Nothing could reach him here without his knowing. He'd blocked the paths. He'd netted the overhang. He knew the sounds ― which had changed now as the nearby insects and frogs panicked to hear him thrashing around. No one was here now. But they might come, very soon. He needed to change his lair, and he would need to do so again at least every three days. So, he would change his lair three more times, and then he would walk out and go home, mission accomplished. But right now, before morning came, he needed to move.

"Is there any other thing I should ask you?" Lucy said to Dom Aguirre, as she wrapped up her interview. "Anything that you'd like to say?"

Dom shook his head. "I know I'm supposed to say that I'm looking forward to proving my courage, or something like that. But that's not really it." Across the practice field, several other future combatants were working out. One was lunging over and over, stabbing the point of a slender sword into a man-shaped target. Across the field, a huge man jerked free weights into the air. Beyond him, a big, lanky guy swung a morningstar over and over, around and around, making the chain whistle in the air.

Dom shrugged. "I got an idea. I gotta try it. If it works, then it's possible I'll win big. If it doesn't . . . " he shrugged again.

Lucy, framing the picture in her mind as she concentrated on his face, listening hard to draw from him his every word, knew she had a good interview right at that moment. And then Dom capped it.

"I'll never have a chance like this again. Win or die, fortune or destruction. Isn't that what life is all about?" And he gave the sweetest smile.

Lucy closed her eyes, briefly. Shang-zu, on camera, kept rolling. "Thank you."

"Sure," Dom smiled and shrugged again.

Dom's equipment was packed, he had finished orientation, he had signed all the necessary papers. He was awaiting the notification that he was twenty-four hours from release onto Savage Island, at which time he would be summoned to draw a number

He felt great. He wore the black shorts and orange tee-shirt that combatants were required to wear on the Island. This was his fourth day here, and he felt as though he'd never lived anywhere else, never been anywhere else, except waiting his time, waiting his turn. He did laps around the practice field, occasionally doing wind sprints. He'd seen no one else practicing running. He had that wonderful feeling of holding a hand of cards that could almost not be beaten. He had to be a little lucky out the Gate, that was all. Life was good, and he tried to express that in his interview.

The camera was still rolling. Lucy was still looking at him, expectantly. He shrugged. He was trying to think of something else to tell her ― some message that he hadn't already sent home, when the beeper at his waist went off. And Lucy, who had been waiting for this, caught the moment when he started, looked down, checked the message, and raised his head, like a kid called to the stage to give a speech, or sent in in the last minutes to save the game: wonder and hope and fear, and the overwhelming sense that this was his moment, this was what his life was for.

"I'm up," Dom said excitedly. "I'll be going out tomorrow. I've got to go and draw my number."

"How do you feel?" Lucy asked him. "Are you scared?"

"Terrified!" he said. He gave her a wave and loped across the field toward the barracks. Shang-zu kept rolling, following Dom all the way across the field. Other men were heading there as well; the weight lifter left his weights on the field, the swordsman whipped his sword all the way to the barracks. The morningstar wielder was trying to stop the thing without damaging himself.

Shang-zu turned off the camera and smiled at Lucy. "Great!"

"Yeah," Lucy agreed.

Van Allan's instructions to her were to make these men look as heroic as possible. This interview, which she had timed perfectly to catch the moment when he was called up, was going to be one of her best.

Shang-zu said, "He's a cute one. Maybe I'll put in for the draw tonight."

"You're kidding!" Lucy turned to her.

"Yeah, I'm kidding," Shang-zu said.

"Have you ever done it?" Lucy asked.

Shang-zu shook her head.

"You're blushing! Go on, you want to," Lucy kidded her.

Shang-zu shrugged. "Maybe, if you got to choose. But you know how they're doing it. You sign up, and if your name gets drawn, you pick a room number out of a box. Some of those guys," she grimaced. "Too big!"

"You don't like them big?" Lucy asked.

Shang-zu, small and slender, shook her head. "Too big for me," she said. "Besides," she said, as she finished stowing the camera in its box and wrestled it gently into the back, "I got a boyfriend."

"No! Who?" Lucy turned the key. "Come on, I'll buy you lunch, and you can tell me everything!"

Sixteen. He had drawn sixteen. That put him out the Gate at about two in the afternoon. Unless he turned back. Unless he chose not to go. Dom grinned to himself, staring up at the pale light on the ceiling reflected from the lights that lined the courtyard below. Of course he would go. Why else was he here?

He lay on the narrow bed in his room in the combatant's barracks. In this same building, scattered across the half-dozen floors, were twenty-three other combatants who would be released onto Savage Island beginning the following dawn. His worthy foes. And no matter what they were expecting tomorrow, they would not be expecting him. He ran through his plan again. He ran through what would happen if he stayed so keyed up all night that he didn't get any sleep, until he stood before the Gate and fell asleep just before he was released . . . he laughed at himself, turned over in bed, prepared to slow his thoughts, find sleep somehow...

He heard the door click open. He waited, eyes wide. He heard soft footsteps. He turned and saw her in the soft gray light reflected from outside. The woman was small, her dark hair loose, her eyes wide. As he watched, she walked slowly towards him, and let her robe slip, slowly, down her naked, golden skin, her eyes never leaving his face. When it dropped to the floor, he could see that she was trembling just a little. He didn't move. She came forward a step. In a soft voice, heavily accented, she said, "Do you want me, Hero?" His pulse was pounding. He sat there frozen, and then got it together and lifted the covers, welcoming her in to his bed.

She kissed him, everywhere. She stroked him, she let his hands move where he liked, first gently, wonderingly, and then strongly, firmly. She rose up onto him, smiling down on him, a figure from his dreams, his hands on her small breasts. She began to move, exquisitely, and his pent-up excitement drove him to explode inside her. But she didn't stop, simply smiled, shifted, lay down by his side and began stroking him again, kissing him, licking him, mouthing him everywhere. He lay her on her back and entered her gently, gave her the long, smooth ride he knew how, felt her kick and buck beneath him, stilled her cries with his lips, and then pounded his way to his own climax, as she wound her legs around his hips and urged him on, gasping . He fell onto his side, breathing as hard as in any race, and slick with sweat. He felt her shift and leave the bed quietly, but she was back again in a moment, with a cool damp cloth. He drifted off to sleep under her ministrations, heard her whisper, "Be brave, Hero. Fight well. Come back safe," before she slipped away, leaving him in darkness. And then he slept, as he hadn't in a long time.

James Grayson sat in the big chair by the fake fire. Lucy's good-bye kiss was still sweet on his lips, and the scent of her body lingered. He'd poured himself a glass of Scotch, and sat tasting it, idly paging through the sheaf of documents his agent had sent him. Something had struck him, earlier. Something he wanted to look at again. Yes. There it was.

The name of the prosecutor who had handled the case against the Crimson Club killers who had murdered the Van Allan children was called John Savage. A coincidence? That fifteen years later Van Allan would have expended so much of his time and his fortune building an island by that name? That was the coincidence that stuck in his mind. He spread out the newspaper clippings and began to read.

An hour later, he finished his Scotch, staring in to the fake fire. John Savage, in his first year as assistant district attorney for Los Angeles County, had grabbed the biggest case of the decade, and inserted himself into the badly botched investigation within hours of the drive-by shooting at the Crimson Club. The two cars used in the drive-by shooting were found a couple miles from the club. Seven suspects were arrested the same night, and by the next morning, the three shooters had confessed. In subsequent days, the fact that all but one of the shooters were underage and unaccompanied while questioned and coerced into confessing immediately led to the confessions being thrown out. The evidence from the cars was thrown out after it was learned that the police broke into the empty cars and searched them before warrants arrived, on the spurious report that they thought there might be other victims inside. In the end, not one of the seven killers went to trial. The only eighteen year-old member of the group pleaded guilty to grand theft auto, and saw three years in prison before he was paroled.

One of the articles profiled all nine of the gangsters involved, their mug shots lined up in color across the page. The two shooters, seventeen-year-old Emilio Sanchez and Jesus Aparicio dominated the page with the largest pictures. Mario Aparicio had been the adult driver of the first car. There were outraged statements from the families of those who had been killed there were threats against John Savage, who admitted that mistakes had been made, and promised a thorough review of procedures for police. Several of the large, public funerals ended with marches on City Hall and speeches on the steps about the rule of law, and justice. After that, the Crimson Club shootings disappeared from the news.

James put the sheaf of papers down, took a sip of Scotch, stared into the fake fire. Years had passed, and no one remembered, and John Savage was running for Governor of California. It seemed that Jules Van Allan had found a very public, and a very expensive way, to remind the state of California, and the world, of John Savage's very public failings.

### Chapter Eleven

The seventh day on Savage Island was Grayson's first official day off. He went into the studio anyway, to look over the the most recent fights and pick the ones he would call the next day. Then he went for a walk. He turned down the offer of a cart. People noticed the carts, and who was in them. He just wanted to wander around, seemingly aimlessly, so that no one noticed particularly when he showed up at the harbor. He wanted to get a look at the ship where the Chinese prisoners were supposedly held.

The harbor stood at the south-eastern tip of the island, in the area called the warehouse district. Next to the collection of two-story metal buildings that reminded James of sound stages on a Hollywood studio lot, the helipad stood, with its small tower and wind sock. James crossed the grass at the extreme end of the exercise field, watching as one of the helicopters landed. A dozen men off-loaded, jumping down unsteadily, gazing around curiously. James knew he'd see these men again in about four days, in the glory of their new identifies, ready to fight for their lives. Staff members with clipboard hurried up, checked them off from a list, and herded them to the administration building where they'd begin the process of becoming combatants.

James skirted the far side of the helipad, keeping his distance. He smiled to himself. He was doing an undercover investigation. Except he had no cover but the fact that he was on his day off, and he was out for a walk.

Grayson walked along the path at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the harbor below. A small cargo ship stood at the dock at the foot of the cliffs, a group of Asian workers off-loading her. Grayson was interested to note that the ship flew the flag of Indonesia. One of the clippings his agent sent him had a puff-piece on Jules Van Allan, who'd moved with his family from Jakarta due to some political upheaval, and reestablished his extensive business interests in Los Angeles. When the troubles died down, Van Allan had recommenced his businesses in Indonesia, but chose to remain in Los Angeles. One item of interest was that about this time Van Allan had purchased one of the thousands of Indonesian islands, after brokering a loan for the government. Grayson thought it was a good bet that Savage Island was located in Indonesia.

Van Allan's yacht was moored in the harbor, a shining white two-story arrow, with the lines of a space ship, and a lounging deck in the bow. The only crewman he could see aboard was wiping down the rails in a desultory way. As he watched, an old wooden fishing boat came into harbor under power. It caught a mooring near three or four other vessels, whose sailors called out to the new arrivals. Grayson thought of some more questions to put to Lucy. How did new staff arrive? Not the staff hired from the United States, but the cleaners, cooks, gardeners and other help, Asian and Filipino, and possibly – he must ask her this as well – Indonesian. Did they live close enough to go home to their families now and then? Maybe they were ferried on these boats. He cast his eyes further out to the most distant of the wooden boats, moored at the edge of the harbor. Half a dozen men sat around on the deck. One stood at the rail smoking. Grayson wondered if he would see him again soon, exiting a gate onto the Island, loaded down with camping equipment and as much rice as he could carry.

"Yes, Mark" Jules Van Allan adjusted the tilt of his computer, so that he could better make out the picture from his New York office.

"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you again, but I've had a very interesting offer."

Van Allan smiled, sitting back in his chair. Really, this project kept raining down benefits as though it were some judgment of heaven. "Oh? What is it?"

"I've been approached by a very reputable company, very high-end, with the offer to license a video game of Savage Island."

"A video game?"

"Yes, sir. Broadly speaking, they would license the idea, and the use of some Island video for their artwork, and they would adapt the catalog as a way for players to build their characters, and then fight them on, essentially, a virtual Savage Island. They've offered us a two million dollar licensing fee for the use of our assets, they to take all risks, and all production costs."

"I see," Jules stared out the window, ruminating. "We don't get a percentage?"

"Ah, no sir, they didn't offer that. The way I see it, sir, since we aren't planning a video game, or anything like it, they're just giving us free money to use our name on a concept that is really pretty much out there. There are all kinds of fighting games, after all."

Jules ran down the thought he had been trying to grasp and leaned forward. "Thank you, Mark, I'll think about it and call you back."

"Yes, sir. Thank you sir."

Van Allan looked across at his assistant. "Ken? Remind me of the name of the man who showed us the simulation of how the fighting was going to go ― about six months ago ― that he worked up on the computer?"

"Richard Simmons, sir. He headed the team we contracted to run the probabilities for the point system, combat frequency, and Island population." He smiled. "I got to play it a few times."

"Yes, that's what I recall. That the team played it as a video game."

"That's right, sir. That's how they got the random factors into it. Very enthusiastic bunch, they used to work on it all night sometimes."

"By work on it, you mean they played this game?"

"That's right."

"Call Simmons up here, will you?"

Richard Simmons, an assistant to Dr. Mukhtar, was on his day off, but he came willingly when he was summoned. Since Mr. Van Allan wanted him now he didn't go back to his apartment and change, but appeared in shorts and a tee-shirt.

Richard had built a computer simulation in order to do a test run of how Savage Island would work. The original plan to release combatants at five minute intervals had been nixed after running a simulation, as it resulted in a bloody melee right outside the gate that simply left a pile of bodies with no way to remove them. The sense of personal combat, of bravery and honor, was lost, as every combatant simply struck at whoever was in reach, especially those busy with other combatants. After numerous trials, the half-hour interval had resulted in the most number of personal battles, while ensuring there were sufficient combatants on the Island for fights to arise at regular intervals.

"The computer simulation? Sure, we still have it. We're working on the new draft of the catalog based what we've learned from the combatants trying out the point system under field conditions. We're still figuring out how much to charge for a morningstar, for one thing, and if breastplates should be more expensive. The fact is . . . " He glanced over at Ken.

"Oh, yes?" Van Allan, sensing some activity he wasn't supposed to know about, waited for his men to give it up.

"In the last month before Savage Island went live, we put the sim up on the Island server. Anyone can access it. They design their own characters, choose weapons and stuff. People play pretty regularly. About a hundred of us."

"Can you show me here?" Van Allan drew back from his desk, giving Simmons access to his computer.

"Sure!" From Van Allan's shoulder he gave a tour of the game site. "You see, here you build your characters ― these are mine, that's Hulk Man ― he's got fourteen kills ― and that's Bear, he's super strong. I just started running him this week. Here's the Island . . . you can see, down here, who's on the Island, but we don't show it on the map, that's a cheat. You have to go and find them. And then, you can type in your challenge line, and you fight . . . "

"Everyone fights each other?"

"Well, we sort of have bets. You pay for your points in Island dollars which you buy on your credit card, and you cash out whenever you make a kill."

"So, you're making money from this game?"

Richard looked over at Ken again. "Well, I could. I mean, I've taken money in. But it's still there. Ken said ― Ken said I could use it to pay for server time, and maintenance, and stuff. I haven't . . . "

"How much have you made?" Van Allan asked mildly.

"About thirty-five hundred dollars. You buy a thousand points for a hundred dollars, and you cash out at five thousand a kill . . . "

"Not a hundred thousand?" Van Allan asked mildly.

"No, sir, because, kills are easy; we'd go broke."

"We?"

Richard looked over at Ken again.

"I'm in it at twenty percent," Ken admitted. "It still serves as a simulation, but there are . . . administrative costs . . . and ― a whole lot of people really like it." Van Allan turned on him with a hard blue stare. Ken flushed. "It's still a useful simulation. The adjustment of points for spears came from the game-play that we've done, and that's a help."

"Yes," Van Allan said. But that was not all he meant.

Simmons broke in, making his case with enthusiasm. "I told Ken, if you were to run this as a massive online multi-player came, you could make a fortune. Look. We haven't been able to fit everyone who wants to play on the first Island," Richard reached over, clicked on a button, and brought up a new menu, "so we had to design an archipelago. As you make kills, you move up. But you have to buy in again, to upgrade equipment . . . We did this all on our own time, really, sir."

Van Allan read the titles off the various islands in the archipelago. "Ruined Monastery. Hidden Cavern. Island of Cannibals. Pirate Bay. Jungle Canopy."

"There are giant birds in the canopy. And worms with lots of arms in the cavern. We fight monsters as well as other combatants. It makes it more surprising. And, it's like a sand trap, because you don't getting anything for beating a monster. Except, you get to live."

"I see," Van Allan said on a laugh. He clicked through a tree-canopy maze, where a number of virtual combatants were fighting. Then he segued over to a fantasy island with an ancient ruined city. "Very imaginative." His two employees looked profoundly relieved. He told Simmons, "We've been offered two million dollars to license Savage Island as a video game. Could we sell this game ourselves?"

Richard glanced at Ken, and back again. "We've been talking about that. It's already up and running. We could just open it up to other players. We'd need a whole lot of server capacity, of course. But if we ran parallel worlds, we could take on an unlimited number of combatants."

"You've been thinking about this?"

"I've been telling Ken, right along," Richard said. "It's a fantastic game. And Savage Island is the best possible publicity for it."

Van Allan didn't follow up with his next question, but a sharp glance over at Ken told him that Ken knew very well what it was. Instead he asked Richard, "Can you draw up a proposal for me?"

"Yes, sir!" Richard said.

"Very good. You designed this ― and tested it," he added, "on my time, and on my equipment, but I will reward your ingenuity. If the game sells, you will prosper."

"Thank you, sir," said Richard.

When he was gone, Van Allan turned to Ken. "When were you going to tell me about this?"

"We're still testing it," Ken said, flustered. "Frankly, in the last month I haven't paid much attention. I've been too busy. And when I mentioned the simulation, you didn't seem very interested."

Van Allen held his gaze for another moment. "I see." After consideration he asked, "Is there anything else you haven't had a chance to tell me?"

Ken shifted in his seat, and swallowed once. "There's been gambling. On the game. A lot of people ― on the Island ― log into the game to lay bets on fighters that are playing."

"And there's been some additional revenue there?"

Ken shook his head. "We put it into the jackpots won by the online players. And the gambling has fallen off considerably, since Savage Island opened for real. You already know about the gambling on the Island."

"Yes." Van Allen nodded thoughtfully. "Anything else?"

Ken took a moment to think before he said, "No, sir."

Van Allan held his gaze coldly for another moment. Then he said, "All right. Call back Peregrine and tell him to decline the license; Savage Island will be producing our own game. Thank him for bringing the idea to my attention, and tell him we'll cut him a bonus when we incorporate. Call Wasserman's office and tell him to incorporate a game company. Find a producer who can get the game out at soon as possible. Put Richard in charge, and cut him in for a share, and everyone who helped him develop the game."

"Yes, sir," Ken kept his head down, scribbling notes.

Van Allan waited until Ken had finished thinking of more things to scribble and looked up at him again. "You may cut yourself in for an appropriate number of shares," he said. He leaned back. You will then donate a portion of those shares to some useful cause. Perhaps the health care benefit fund for those wounded who survive Savage Island."

Ken nodded. "I think that's a very good idea, sir."

"Good," Van Allan said. "I look forward to seeing how much you think you need to share.

Ken flushed again. "Yes, sir." He then added, "Thank you, sir."

"That's all," Van Allan said.

Ken got up, remembering to unhook his phone before he dragged his laptop off the desk, and headed for his office next door to start making calls.

"And Ken," he turned back once again to meet those hard cold eyes, "I will have no more surprises."

"No, sir," said Ken Frize, and left the office, trying not to hurry out of sight of that ice blue stare.

"Today we begin a new chapter in the saga of Savage Island," James Grayson said to the camera the next morning. He'd elected to tape this show in real time, granting him all the spontaneity of surprise as he commented on events as they unfolded. "Today, the first combatants who have seen Savage Island will step onto the killing ground. These men know already what the ground looks like, they know where the trails lead. They know what can happen when their gate opens."

Dawes barked a laugh, "And they know what can happen if they try to get back through a gate at the wrong moment."

"That's right," James chuckled too, remembering. "Now, none of the men have seen a monitor since they arrived here four days ago. So they don't have that advantage. But they have seen what strategies have been successful in the past."

Colonel Dawes nodded. "This is going to be a very interesting day."

"And what do you expect to see, Colonel?" James asked.

"James, I'm not going theorize ahead of my facts, I'm just going to wait and see what happens."

James smiled to himself. Had the Colonel committed himself, James would have amused himself all day making him look wrong, and foolish. But after a week, Dawes had come to realize that he was on another kind of battlefield in the studio, and had picked up some techniques. Honestly, Dawes was turning out to be more fun every day. In his renegotiation, James had approved the extension of Dawes's contract as well. He knew what was good for the show.

In the minutes before the first combatant emerged, James reviewed the combatants currently on the Island. Then the countdown ran out, the center gate opened, and the first combatant of the eighth day strode onto the killing ground.

"And this," James announced, "is Griffin."He carried a long, rectangular shield painted red with a golden griffin, claws out, wings unfurled. He wore a steel breastplate, chainmail skirt, long red leather boots that matched his red leather gauntlets. A light-weight red and gold surcote covered his armor, and the dagged mantling on his helmet made him look like a knight out of a book on medieval chivalry. He wore a sword on his left hip, a long knife on belt, and carried a morningstar.

"Wow," Grayson said, and he came out of the gate and into the glory of the rising sun. "He's beautiful."

"He's sure something," Colonel Dawes allowed. "I bet we're going to see a lot of morningstars today."

In fact, over half of the combatants that day came out of the gate carrying morningstars. It was no coincidence that this day produced more "Funniest Fights of Savage Island" than any other.

Like the Shadow before him, Griffon strode out onto the killing field, checked his perimeter, and then turned and stood there, waiting for the next combatant to come out of the gate.

"Well, we know he saw the Shadow. ," Grayson said.

"Yeah, that's his game plan."

With almost thirty minutes to fill before the next combatant came out of the gate, Grayson showed footage of the current Island champion, Storm Bringer, with three eartags in the pocket of his backpack. Storm Bringer, formerly Dean Abernathy, hailed from southern Georgia, and had brought all the craft of a long line of hunters to his plans. He had killed Ripper Don on his first day, and gotten two eartags from him. He then threw Sword King off a cliff and spent the rest of the day and half the night climbing down the to reach the body where it was jammed in some rocks to recover the eartag, only to sprain his ankle in a bad fall trying to get back up. .

James realized that his voice had taken on an ironic tone as he egged on Storm Bringer, leaning heavily on his spear as he limped slowly back to the wall. So when the next combatant, Kingslayer, stepped out of the gate, dressed almost identically to Shadow, in black armor, a winged helmet like Death's, but with rather bigger wings, and wielding, as Colonel Dawes predicted, a morningstar, Grayson's tone was suitably awestruck.

Kingslayer stepped into the arena, and Griffin moved to intercept him. Both of them wound up their morning stars, and both men approached their opponent with their shields raised to cover their heads for the block. Thus, they couldn't see their opponent. And thus, both morningstars missed the other and swung back around toward the throwers. Kingslayer's clocked him in his own backplate. Griffin's caught the corner of his own shield and fell to the ground. Both men backed away and tried frantically to get their weapons into motion again. Then they advanced once more, raising their shields as they came into range.

"They're not ― they can't ― " Dawes expostulated.

"How do you see around your shield when it's that big?" Grayson asked. "How do you – whoa!" he yelled involuntarily as the two men's chains met in the air and wrapped around one another. Kingslayer yanked hard to pull them apart, and his morningstar came back to him and crashed into his helmet. Griffin dropped his morningstar, hopped back and grabbed at the sword at his waist. Kingslayer meanwhile came charging in, swinging his morningstar. Griffon trotted backward to stay out of range, and finally drew his sword. As the morningstar swung passed, Griffon changed direction and charged Kingslayer, reaching up with his shield as he came into range to block the chain of Kingslayer's morningstar coming around again, thus causing what would have been a clean miss to smack him in the back of his head. Griffin staggered, recovered himself, and charged Kingslayer again, and simply knocked him over.

Grayson glanced up at the proximity alert. His voice rose with excitement as Storm Bringer skirted the tree line, limping slowly, trying not to catch the fighters' eyes.

"What a move!" shouted Dawes.

Grayson made admiring noises while he felt himself bracing for what would come next. Killing could be hard, and slow, and brutal, he'd learned. When the men were tired, and it took a long time, it could look a lot like bad butchery.

Griffin lumbered in on Kingslayer, who rolled, came up with a roar, charged into him, got around him, and wound the chain of the morningstar around Griffin's head.

Kingslayer lifted Griffin off his feet again and again At last, Griffin fell. and Kingslayer fell with him. Then he got on both knees on Griffin's back, took another turn around his neck with the chain of the morningstar, and hauled back as hard as he could. And hauled again. Griffin's light had already gone out on the board, but Griffin's eartag was under his helmet, and Kingslayer did not stop to check it, but hauled away, making sure that Griffin would not rise again. And that was when Storm Bringer's carefully placed spear point stabbed Kingslayer in the neck.

There was a generous spray of blood. That was something that James had not yet gotten used to. The huge amount of blood a man could spray when opened by a weapon. Kingslayer fell slowly, the retching gasping sounds of his expiration failing as he failed, bleeding his life out into the sands.

Storm Bringer put his spear through Griffin's neck as well, to spare himself any nasty surprises, but there was no spraying of blood this time, only a sluggish river like a scarlet ribbon slipping from beneath his helmet. Storm Bringer soon dropped two eartags down the back of his glove. He then checked his perimeter ― the lesson the Island soon taught you, Dawes commented, or else you ended up dead, like Kingslayer ― and then limped his way toward the nearest Gate.

Storm Bringer had one chance in three of choosing the gate that did not hold, behind it, the next combatant, but now his luck failed. Just as he approached the left-hand gate, it opened, releasing Starhands into the arena, and into the eyes of the world.

Starhands was dressed all in white, from his soft leather boots to his white surcote (with a gold star on the chest), to his conical helmet with the little cape around it (to keep the sun off the metal, and it had a gold star on it as well, of course). Starhands carried a morningstar in his right hand, and a long sword in his left. He was a Swede, a younger son of an aristocratic family (that had also made a shipping fortune early in the 20th century), and one-time member of the Swedish Olympic fencing team. He strode out of the gate and found Storm Bringer standing before him, leaning on his spear, sprayed in blood, and behind him in the sand, two bodies united in death and gore. And near them, on the sand, a sword and two morningstars. Starhands, fresh and revved up and ready to fight and kill, hesitated. Storm Bringer raised his blood-encrusted spear. Starhands backed slowly away, walked carefully around him, skirted the arena, and headed into the trees and to glory elsewhere.

Later, when he returned from Savage Island, he told the world that he assumed that Storm Bringer was defending his two prizes, and had not yet harvested the eartags. Since he wasn't there for the money (Starhands said), he thought it wrong to interrupt Storm Bringer, or take him from his prize. He said he assumed there would be other prizes, more worthy of his mettle. But that didn't stop the world from labeling him, in his conspicuous white togs, the Silver Chicken. And despite his two prancing victories later in the day, and his triumphant return to Sweden (where they made nothing of his escapade, and he was allowed to live in peace with his small fortune after taxes, despite the constant reminder of his adventures, in the missing two fingers of his right hand), the world continued divided over whether his glory would have been the greater had he struck down Storm Bringer right out the gate. Because the world had seen him charge out the gate, and hesitate at the sight of the killer before him.

Storm Bringer sensibly forbore to move until Starhands was well on his way, so the fact that he couldn't walk without the aid of his spear was revealed too late. Storm Bringer came back through the gate with five eartags, to the cheers of the waiting crowd of technicians and hangers on, and a slender young Asian woman who slipped out of the crowd and kissed him in front of everyone, and called him, "My Hero!" and gave him no end of explaining to do to his wife when he got home.

The whole world learned that day that morningstar on morningstar could be an extremely humorous weapons form. The best fight of the day was between two combatants who both managed to strike themselves so hard with their own morningstars, before they'd even engaged, that they knocked themselves down. "Funniest Fight Ever!" on Savage Island.

Upstairs in his office Van Allan followed the events of the day. He'd seen most of his guests off the island onto helicopters that morning, in the first leg of the long journey back to their homes. He smiled at once of the morningstar fights, the one where the guy called Nova chased his opponent, Red Fox, into the trees, swung his morningstar there, and got it completely tangled in the foliage. His real mistake, however, was in not letting go, backing off, and drawing his secondary weapon when Red Fox came back after him. The morningstar was considerably tangled, and Red Fox had a short spear.

At the knock on his office door Jules Van Allan called, "Come!"

Elena Carmine entered, ushering one of the staff into his office. Elena Carmine was in charge of the staff on the island, and oversaw hiring and the logistics of their travel, food and housing. "Mr. Van Allan," she said, "this is Maria Chong, whom I told you about."

Van Allan looked up from his screen as the woman came to stand in front of his desk. "Yes?" he said.

Carmine reminded him, "Mrs. Chong said James Grayson and Lucy Tran were asking her some questions. About the Chinese combatants."

"Ah," Van Allan said, leaning back in his chair. "And what did you tell them, Mrs. Chong?"

His deceptively mild manner, and the steely expression in his eyes, had their desired effect. Mrs. Chong wilted. She spoke quickly, gesturing with her hands.

"She told them the Chinese combatants don't sleep in the barracks. They asked her if she could go on the ship where they sleep and ask questions, and she told them it was forbidden," Carmine translated.

Mrs. Chong watched him anxiously, and then started talking again.

"She says they asked her to tell them if she hears anything else, but she says she hasn't heard anything, and she won't say anything."

"I see," Van Allan said thoughtfully.

After a pause, while Mrs. Chong seemed to shrink into the carpet, Carmine added, "Do you want me to fire her, sir?"

"Oh, no," Van Allan replied. "No. She won't tell them anything more, will she?"

Carmine spoke quickly to Mrs. Chong, who shook her head vigorously.

"Good," Van Allan smiled thinly. "She'll be a dead end for them on the one hand, and on the other, she can tell us of any other questions Grayson and Tran come up with. All right? Fine her a day's wages for her indiscretion, and tell her to go back to work."

When Mrs. Chong had been ushered out of the office, still promising, thanking and explaining, Carmine came back to stand by Van Allan's desk. "Anything else, sir?"

Van Allan sat frowning. "Yes," he said, after a few moments. "Mr. Grayson and Ms. Tran . . . I think we should break those two up, don't you?"

Dom came charging out the left-hand gate at one-thirty in the afternoon. He'd been moved up, when number seven refused. Number Seven ― Invincible ― had seen through the gate what was left of Tank after his long fight with Orc Lord.

Cougar, came out of the gate like a runner off the blocks. All he had to do was outrun anybody who was out there, and make it to his destination ― the tree he had studied, mapped and planned for, on which his whole strategy was based. Everyone on Savage Island was there to fight each other to the death. Well, there were other ways to beat people than fighting. He would show them all.

Cougar still at a run, took a sweeping look around and spied Conquistador, just returning to the arena from a walk up the trail into the hinterlands.

Conquistador wore a helmet modeled on a 16th century Spanish tourney helm, and he carried a small shield on his left arm, and a two-handed sword, which he had ascertained in several trials with some friends of his (who were not with him now), that a long sword could defeat a morningstar. A long sword could also defeat a shorter sword, and any other shorter-hafted weapons. He was pretty sure, in fact, that he could take anything that came out of the Gates. When Cougar emerged, wearing a light pack and carrying nothing, he was sure he had an easy win.

But he couldn't catch him.

Cougar found Conquistador standing between himself and his tree, so he executed Plan B. He ran toward the eastern edge of the arena, drawing Conquistador away from the left-hand side. Conquistador, thinking him easy prey, loped toward him. Dom sped up, running toward the beach path. Conquistador put on some speed to catch him before he left the arena. Then Cougar veered away along the tree line toward the left-hand trail. Conquistador turned to follow him, but by then it was too late.

Cougar had plenty of time to shin up the tree. He had his climbers attached to leather leggings and vambraces. But he had underestimated the effect of the adrenalin rush you experienced when a giant guy in a steel suit was chasing you with a long sword, because he was up the tree without seeming to need them.

Cougar climbed up to the branches thirty feet off the ground, and got himself situated, which was when Conquistador arrived at the foot of his tree. Conquistador couldn't climb the tree – not in that armor, and not without any branches closer than twenty feet off the ground.

Conquistador didn't want to leave Cougar at his back when he returned to fight in the arena. He had to assume the guy in the tree had some weapon. He decided to move further inland, and wait for a more suitable opponent. Hopefully one with a morningstar, which he knew he could beat. Conquistador headed back along the treeline. Cougar threw a grappling hook ― and missed.

In the first official collection of "Funniest Moments on Savage Island," Dom Aguirre ― the Cougar ― was the star. Clips of his fights had the most downloads, and the most bootlegs, of any in the first months of combat on Savage Island.

First, the Cougar secured a life line to his safety harness. Then he climbed farther up in the tree and attached block and tackle to each of two stout limbs, one over the edge of the arena, and one over the trail that led under the tree.

In the control room, the techs were so interested in the Cougar's preparations that they adjusted a couple of cameras to keep him in view, so there were a whole lot of cutaways available to add when the day's broadcast was edited.

Cougar sat quietly and allowed Hunter of Men to walk by beneath him. Hunter was dressed in camouflage, and carried a long spear with a crosshatch at the end, and several long knives. An hour later, Sun Hero, dressed in golden armor and carrying a Roman-style shield and a long sword strode off beneath his tree, but too far out for Cougar to reach him with his hook. Not long after, Black Knight, armored exactly like the Shadow and carrying a morningstar, came down the path toward the Gate.

Black Knight had been on the Island since mid-morning, and was the victor in two fights. He'd laid up not far from the arena since his last fight this morning when he had wrenched his shoulder badly. Since it hadn't gotten any better, he was heading for the gate, and a hot shower, and medical care, and two hundred thousand dollars in prize money. One of the amusing parts of the clip was that he stopped under the Cougar's tree, and stood there scanning the arena, making sure that it was safe.

Cougar dropped his three-pronged grappling hook, and pulled up, trying to catch the edge of his helmet, but he missed. James's commentary was hilarious. Cougar dropped the hook again, and it swung toward the Black Knight and touched him on the shoulder. He spun, swinging his morning star, while the Cougar pulled the hook up out of sight. The morning star smacked hard into the tree. And stuck. The Black Knight, gathering the chain in his hand, walked over and tried to pull it out. The Cougar dropped the hook again. The Black Knight moved at the last minute, and the hook caught him under the shoulder, hooking his underarm, instead of at the back of the helmet, and the Cougar hauled away as hard as he could. The Black Knight, kicking and screaming, was pulled into the air ― and then stopped, because he was holding the morningstar, which was still stuck in the tree. The Cougar hauled away, the Black Knight held on for his life. The Cougar tied off the rope on a cleat he'd installed, and slipped down the tree to finish off his prey. He'd screwed together the sections of his spear, and, holding onto the tree, tried to spear the Black Knight in the throat. Instead he poked him in the shoulder and caused him to swing back and forth on the end of the rope, four feet off the ground. The Cougar leaned out, trying to get his spear point into the Black Knight's throat, and then he fell out of the tree.

James cracked up when he saw it, and they left his laughter in when they sent out the final feed. The Cougar jerked up short at the end of his lifeline. The Cougar, swimming in the air up above, trying to get back onto a tree branch, and the Black Knight swinging below him, trying to unhook his arm, was the cause of much mirth across the globe in the days that followed.

The Cougar dropped his spear. He swung himself and grabbed the trunk of the tree and shimmied up. He climbed up to the block and tackle that held the Black Knight and hauled away on the rope. And that was when the block, improperly secured, fell out of the tree and conked the Black Knight on the head as he dropped to the ground. The Cougar fell out of the tree again and jerked up hard at the end of his lifeline, cursing and swinging for the tree trunk. The Black Knight lay groaning on the ground, his shield arm, with the hook in it, beneath him. He tried to get to his feet.

Before the Black Knight could recover, the Cougar regained the tree, fed the rope through his other block and tackle, and hauled the Black Knight up into the tree and tied him off twenty feet from the ground.

The Cougar no longer had his long spear. He took a length of slender rope, waited his moment as the Black Knight spun slowly, and looped it around the Black Knight's head, dropping it down to his neck and snugging it up, until he got under the edge of the helmet and around his throat.

It took the Cougar twenty minutes to finish off the Black Knight. That part wasn't so funny. They cut out some of that in the final edit, the long minutes where the Black Knight, gasping, grabbing at the rope, spun and kicked and choked to death. But everyone agreed that the Cougar had earned his kill.

The Black Knight hung in the tree like a macabre decoration while the Cougar cut off his armor piece by piece, searching everything his victim had and then dropping it to the ground. He found the Black Knight's two additional eartags tucked under his breastplate.

Cougar unhooked his prey and let him drop. He sat watchful for awhile, and then climbed down, unhooked the Black Knight, and recovered his spear. Cougar sat tight in his tree while the next combatant to be released stood his ground in the arena, and then challenged the next two combatants who came out the gates. He beat both of them, made a salute, straightened his foes' bodies, and then went inside again, unscathed.

A proximity alert was already sounding in the studio. A few moments later, Hagen came down the trail toward the arena. He'd been released in the early morning, crossed the empty killing ground, and made his way up the trail to a defensible place where two trails intersected, and took a stand. There he had a successful day, exchanging blows with one opponent until he backed down and went away, and killing the second, recovering one additional eartag. Now he was hot and tired. Having had one good fight, he was calling it a day.

Hagen wore a hauberk of scale, which he'd thought would be lighter in the heat than traditional chainmail. Now, he thought nothing would be lighter in this heat.

He noticed a piece of the Black Knight's armor before he stumbled on it, and then saw the corpse on the ground. He bent to check for the Black Knight's eartag. And this time, the Cougar's strategy worked just as he had fantasized. He dropped the hook and caught the edge of Hagen's helmet and hauled away until he was twenty feet in the air. Hagen's chin strap was tightly cinched, as he hadn't wanted his helmet to come off in combat. Of course, he had not imagined these circumstances. The Cougar aimed carefully with his twelve-foot spear, and spitted him in the side of the neck, where the helmet rode up on the hook. There was a generous spray of blood. It made a hissing and splattering sound that would invade Dom's dreams for the rest of his life. Hagen bled out quickly, and hung limp on the Cougar's hook. This second attack by the Cougar was titled, "How It's Done," as compared to his first attack, which was labeled, "Don't Do It Like This," on the "Best Fights of Savage Island Special Collection" DVD when it was released in time for Christmas.

The Cougar once again cut each piece of equipment off of Hagen, leaving only his helmet, searched his clothes, and found Hagen's extra eartags. Dom spared himself a joke at his expense by remembering, after he dropped his dead victim, to go down and harvest Hagen's eartag.

At dusk, Conquistador came back down the trail. He couldn't see very well through the slots in his helmet, and it was getting dark, so he had decided to come in and perhaps go out again another day. He tripped over Hagen's leg, causing the Cougar to miss his first attempt to hook him. But the second worked perfectly.

Hours later,, when the moon was high, and the arena had been deserted for a long time, the Cougar slipped down from his tree, and then ran like hell for the Wall. Seven eartags in one day was enough of an adventure. And after all, he'd proved his idea would work.

Lucy met him as he came in the gate, among a cheering crowd of the self-appointed Hero Groupies. Shang-zu's camera was rolling.

"How do you feel?" Lucy called. She noticed with satisfaction that Dom was still smeared with blood from his butcheries. This was going to go over really well.

Dom was in an altered state, a combination of adrenalin rush, excitement, joy and victory.

He clutched his seven gory eartags in his hands, afraid that they would disappear. "I'm fine!" he called to her. "I'm great!"

He broke off as a woman hurled herself at him, grabbing him, holding him, and kissing him hard. He hadn't seen her in the light, but he thought he recognized her scent from the night before. He smiled at her.

"How did you ever think of those ropes, and the grappling hook, and everything?" Lucy asked, not having to feign how impressed she was.

Dom grinned. The woman still clung to him, and he draped an arm over her shoulder. "I've done a lot of sailing. First thing I thought of, when I saw all those big guys with their armor and weapons, how a guy like me could stand a chance, up against guys like that."

"Are you going back out there?" Lucy asked.

In reply, he held up his eartags. "That's enough, don't you think?" His smiled widened. "That's going to buy my boat, and all the time I need to enjoy it"

### Chapter Twelve

Jules Van Allan watched the interview live on his monitor. Applications to Savage Island were sorted by computer to ensure a variety of nationalities and weapons strategies. The rubric also kicked any applicants from the greater Los Angeles area to the top for early review. Thus, there had been statistically more combatants on the Island from Los Angeles than from any other city. But Dom Aguirre was the first to get himself a kill. Jules Van Allan smiled. A Los Angeles resident had killed three people in public. And now, John Savage was going to have to take action.

Jules Van Allan sent for James Grayson the next day, to tape an interview that he planned to broadcast as widely as possible. He wanted to give John Savage no room to ignore Dom Aguirre's actions.

Grayson had changed. He was not as obsequious as he had been when he arrived. He was not afraid to ask hard questions. Van Allan appreciated this, as an edgy interview would attract more viewers. Besides: he had final say on the edit. Nothing was broadcast from Savage Island without Van Allan's approval.

In Los Angeles, John Savage had already scheduled a press conference. As part of his carefully-orchestrated campaign, investigation and prosecution of Narwhal Chemical Company for environmental abuses had resulted in a huge settlement for Los Angeles County. With lights blaring, in his best suit, with his staff behind him like a legal posse, he made the announcement.

He was allowed to gloat over his coup for two questions before the third reporter hijacked his press conference.

"Yes, Roger?"

"Mr. Savage, you have said in the past, that you didn't care about Savage Island ― "

"― Excuse me, Roger, but this is not about Savage Island."

"Then it's true that you don't care about Savage Island, because it's a long way from here?"

"Roger, that is not what I said," John Savage broke in forcefully. You couldn't let that kind of language loose into the media cycle; it would drive the news for days. "What I said was, until the laws of California are broken, this island, and whatever is done there, is not in my jurisdiction. And until that happens ― "

"And if that happens, what are you prepared to do?"

"Can we get back on topic? Come to me tomorrow and we'll talk about it. Meanwhile, the City of Compton and Los Angeles County has garnered through this settlement a windfall that will serve―"

"Excuse me, Mr. Savage -- "

"Nancy, if I can just finish ―"

"A Los Angeles resident has just won seven hundred thousand dollars on Savage Island."

Savage stopped. After a short pause he said, "That news has not yet been brought to my attention." He put his hands up as more questions were shouted at him. "Thank you, gentlemen and ladies. Councilor Cray is distributing my complete statement ― "

He called his secretary on his way to his car. "Deana? I thought I told you to notify me when someone from Los Angeles... Oh. Just today? He killed three people? Find out everything you can about them. He's coming back to Los Angeles? Is that right? When is he due to land? You bet we're going after him! We're going to fry the bastard!"

Dom announced publicly, in his departing interview with Lucy Tran, that he would return to Los Angeles to talk to his girlfriend about leaving her job and going with him on a world cruise.

When his flight landed at the Los Angeles airport, by way of Sydney, John Savage was there, with the press, and a SWAT team, to make the arrest. Once he heard that Mr. Aguirre had been escorted from the plane in chains, John Savage made a triumphant speech about not tolerating criminal behavior in Los Angeles County residents, just as he would not tolerate criminal behavior in California once he had been elected governor. He promised the charges would be conspiracy to commit murder, capital murder, with an enhancement of torture, and that Dominic Aguirre would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

The news cycle that followed, while it included his tough statement, also showed the portly, elderly Donald Aguirre, removed from the plane in chains, while his wife and daughter followed weeping after. It concluded with the fact that the suspect had been released in a case of mistaken identity. Cougar of Savage Island was not heard from again.

John Savage's announcement of the settlement with Narwhal was lost in the ensuing media storm about the false charges, and the ordeal of Mr. Aguirre, just back from his granddaughter's wedding, during his seventeen hours in custody. Savage not only lost the momentum for his campaign that he'd planned on from the settlement announcement, but ended up looking weak and ineffective since Dom Aguirre, to the enthusiastic delight of the world-wide Savage Island fans and followers, got clean away.

Jules Van Allan was pleased. He'd offered Dom a brand new Ericson 36, if Dom agreed to take delivery of it in Argentina. Dom was happy in return to change his name and disappear.

When the frenzy surrounding John Savage's misstep had just begun to die down, Van Allan made a call to a contact in Los Angeles, a contact that had been standing by for several weeks. "It's time," was all Van Allan said to him. "You may begin."

James Grayson's obligation by contract was to do three hours' worth of commentary per day on Savage Island. Other commentators had been hired to make up the additional hours that had been sold, but they worked in a studio in Los Angeles. Living on the mile-square administrative end of Savage Island, Grayson found that aside from work, there was not a lot to do. You could go and have a drink at the Last Resort. You could take walks, or a cart ride. If you were part of the management staff, you could swim in Van Allan's pool. Swimming in the ocean was not advised due to the prevalence of sharks. This caused Grayson to lose interest in doing a bit of ocean sailing or kayaking, since a mistake wouldn't just land you in the drink, but also invite teeth marks.

The phone system, as well as access to the internet, was subject to censorship by the island administration. This was to ensure that no one inadvertently or by design gave away anything that could allow outsiders to locate the island. James discovered that other methods of disguising their location were also in place, when he was given a copy of the first "Best Fights of Savage Island" DVD. His picture was on the cover, and he looked good. A shot of Shadow, in the moment before he slammed his morningstar into one of his foes, took up most of the frame. On the back was a shot of Savage Island with two prominent geological features in view; a pair of black stone pillars emerging from the surf in a surge of spray off the west coast, and a massive transmission tower just behind the Wall, with a bristling array of antennae. Grayson was amused. He asked to see some of the final broadcasts in the control room and discovered that these signature landmarks had been dropped into shots of the Island right from the start. In addition, a half-sunken wreck from World War Two could be seen (in the broadcasts) at the north end of the Island. Farley told him that they had half a dozen protocols in place for disguising the island from casual surveillance, whether satellite or overflight.

With little else to do, Grayson often gravitated to the studio. He liked to keep up with activity on the Island. He enjoyed narrating the adventures of the various fighters, and he got bonuses for doing more work than he was scheduled for. So he happened to be in the studio when they released the fifth rice man. The first combatant wasn't scheduled for release for nearly an hour, to coincide with the sunrise. Grayson had wandered into the control room to swipe a cup of coffee and a sweet roll, before going to his new dressing room for make-up. The walls of monitors rotated through every shot on the island in ten second intervals. If you knew how to orient yourself, you could stand in the middle and turn, and see every combatant on the Island from one end to the other. Most of them were dug in at this hour. It was nap time on Savage Island, before the new day of combat begun.

So, seeing the third gate open onto the empty killing ground in the predawn light caught Grayson's attention. He recognized the profile of the emerging combatant at once. Straw hat, light cotton clothes, heavy pack, extra bag of rice over his shoulder. This one also carried a walking stick. Not a weapon, just a stick, which he leaned on to walk as he started out the gate.

A technician followed the new rice man out, and that was unheard of. Grayson, riveted to the screen, saw the Asian tech, who wasn't even wearing the orange vest that would keep him safe from combatants, run out onto the sand after the new rice man and catch him up. The tech spoke to the rice man, gesticulated, and then pointed him to the path that meandered along the stream, and would eventually bring him to the rice men's encampment. The Asian tech put his hands together and bowed to the rice man. Grayson stepped forward, wondering if he'd seen that clearly. The monitor went black.

He looked around to see Farley at the controls, shutting down all the monitors that gave coverage to the killing ground. Grayson hesitated for just a moment, but when Farley caught his eye, James yawned, sipped his coffee, and with elaborate lack of haste turned and headed for the door.

He was on to something. He was right about the rice men. They weren't like the other combatants. And Farley had been an idiot to draw attention to the fact. Because Grayson had access to every frame of film shot on the Island during his dubbing sessions. He didn't need Farley to let him look at the killing ground shots. He could bring them up for himself later on. But he had proof now. The rice men weren't ordinary Savage Island combatants. Now he had to find out just who exactly they were.

Shadow continued to leave his mark on Savage Island. About a third of the combatants who stepped onto the Island in the days that followed carried morningstars, with varied success. A proximity alert between two combatants who both carried morningstars became a signal for the off-duty techs to gather in the control room to watch.

Grayson noticed two other legacies of Shadow, when a couple of the second-wave combatants, on returning victorious through the gates, offered a tenth of their winnings to their fallen foes. Also, several times in the ensuing days, victorious combatants occasionally picked up a pinch of sand to sprinkle on their dead foe, and spoke a few words to speed him with honor to the next world. Another new custom that came about from this time was for combatants to salute one another before they began to fight.

Grayson and Dawes praised these gestures fulsomely. Jules Van Allan was known to be pleased. The fans and followers loved it. And the fighting and killing continued, with a patina of honorable gestures to cover the slaughter.

Grayson noticed some time later that the rice men's encampment had grown to seven men. They'd built two circles of brush around their camp. They hung around it most of the day, but were also seen fishing in the tide pools on the western shore. Lately they'd begun gathering the jetsam of the fallen. Abandoned packs yielded water bottles, rations, first aid kits and various other equipment. Dropped weapons and shields, lost bits of armor, were brought back and piled in a section of their compound.

One night Grayson saw a rice man alone, relieving himself by the edge of the beach trail, just fifty yards from the encampment. Red Kelly, the Irish swordsman, came up the beach, already possessed of the eartags of Argonaut and Vigdor. But when he saw the rice man called Happy, he stopped. He did not charge. Happy, spying him, no longer had to pee and got himself out of there in no time. But the fact was, Red Kelly could have killed him, had him dead to rights, and had refrained. Grayson saw this clip during an editing session and let it go by without comment. Later, he saw a combatant with a broken sword trading rations for a new weapon. He didn't enter the encampment, but put his offering on a big flat rock in the stream, and backed away until it was taken, and replaced by the spear he had chosen.

Combatants began to bring a few points' worth of cigarettes in their packs, to use as trade goods, as cigarettes soon fetched a high price from the rice men. Savage Island no longer tried to explain who or what the rice men were. Grayson never saw the fan sights where speculation went on. He was interested in the fact that combatants ― at least some combatants ― had accepted that the rice men were off limits.

The Scorpion sheltered in a hollow he'd dug next to the stream with just room for himself and his most important equipment. He'd built up a cover of dirt and brush and check it out from every direction before he crawled into it. It looked like it had once been a snag in the stream when the water was high. He'd closed off the game trails that led down this way. He'd blocked the gaps in the trees. Anyone wandering through the gorge would be inclined to go around his pseudo-natural impediments.

The cameras had found his previous hideout, so it had been time to move again. He'd lost track of the days. He was pretty sure it was over ten at this point, and he was more than half-way to his goal.

He had a high temperature, which accounted for his losing track of things. He was not unhappy. His food supplies were low, but that didn't matter because he wasn't hungry. He had plenty of water, since he had filled up and purified his collapsible five-gallon jerrycans the night before he had woken up sweating and dizzy. His position was good. If anyone came at him, he would hear them for a long time before they reached him.

Some days ago he'd heard shouting and grunts, and then the sound of a heavy object crashing through the brush, and guessed that someone had fallen into the gorge. That was the night he'd come down sick, so he didn't have to wrestle with the choice as to whether he should try and harvest an eartag from the combatant who might still be alive. He couldn't stand, so he certainly couldn't walk. He decided not to try, because he was pretty sure if he did that Trish would kill him.

Part of him knew where he was, knew what he was doing, knew, even, that he had several more days to stick out before he came home. The other part of him was back in the mind of Corporal Art "Capper" Baines, who'd been out with his unit, but had gotten separated and missed the pick-up.

He was fooling himself about getting separated; they were dead, of course. He'd seen them. And part of him still cringed from the sounds of the fire-fight in which he had been unaccountably spared. He knew that soon, tonight, or maybe tomorrow, he would get up from his hide-out, and the gooks would have gone, and he'd make his way back towards the rendezvous point, and he'd be picked up by a chopper doing some kind of recon. And he'd get back, and there'd be a letter from his wife ― that would be Celia, his first wife ― that she had found someone else. But that was okay because Trish wasn't going to leave him. He knew that. Besides. He was sending her his pay.

"Al!"

"John, a pleasure!"

Savage rose and shook his old friend's hand, smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. Al Fontaine's straight posture, his spare fine physique, even the way he held his head, gave away his military background, but today he wore a casual civilian suit and carried a briefcase. He seated himself at John Savage's table in the bar of Fontaine's club.

"They take care of you all right?" Fontaine asked. "Sorry I'm late,"

"Not at all," Savage kept the jocularity in his voice. He had been waiting almost an hour. "It's good of you to see me at such short notice. How's Bette? And the kids?" They got through the social pleasantries, and John dodged the questions about his own wife's health, which were thinly disguised inquiries into whether she was keeping her addictions in check.

Savage and Fontaine had gone to the same prep school. Fontaine had gone on to West Point, while Savage attended the University of California in Los Angeles as an undergraduate, and then law school. But the ties that bound them at school remained strong. In developing his long-term goals for public office, John Savage had always counted Colonel Al Fontaine as one of his assets. Now he had flown to Washington, D.C., at short notice, to try and get the help that he needed badly.

"So it's true," Fontaine said, when they took their drinks upstairs to a little-used meeting room for better privacy. "Savage Island is Jules Van Allan's way of making you squirm. After all these years. Who would have thought?"

"He is a devious man," Savage allowed.

"A dangerous enemy, I would have said. Isn't he a billionaire?"

"At least."

"And he seems to have spent it all on getting at you."

"So what do you know about this place he calls Savage Island?" John Savage asked.

"Not a damn thing," Fontaine said. Their drinks arrived, bringing an annoying halt to the conversation until the pretty server smiled and went away. Both men sipped their drinks until she was out of earshot.

"That's frankly unbelievable," Savage continued. "That the U.S. government doesn't know a thing about something like this."

"It's not our country," Fontaine stated. "It doesn't concern us."

"Well that's a load of shit."

Fontaine smiled thinly. "Very true." He took another quick swallow from his drink. "I hear the State Department's official line is that it's sovereign territory. The President has mentioned it two or three times. He's making endless hay about civil rights violations, but that's his usual line."

"Is he prepared to do anything?" Savage asked hopefully.

"It's more useful for him to have something to point at and carry on about. It fills up a lot of sound bites that might otherwise be questions about the economy and the wars."

"I hear you."

"But that doesn't mean he doesn't have to be fully briefed." Fontaine put the briefcase on the table between them. "This is what we've got so far." He opened the case and extracted a couple of files. "You haven't seen these, and you certainly haven't seen them from me."

The reconnaissance pictures showed Savage Island from several angles. The recognizable features, the Wall, the transmission tower, and the curious rock formation off the west coast, were obvious.

"So you've located it?"

"Of course," Fontaine said. "We're also on the verge of infiltrating it. We've sent a couple of men in as combatants. They'll take location and communications equipment, just to double-check."

"Combatants? Not staff? Or helicopter pilots?"

"We're not certain," Fontaine admitted, "just where he's drawing his staff from. We've put out a lot of feelers, so we'll know soon. But we'll have a man or two on the island as a combatant in a couple of days."

"And how is that supposed to stop this thing?"

"We're not sure we need it stopped." He interrupted Savage's reaction by adding, "Yet. We're keeping our options open. But we think it's important to have a man in place, in case we need to take action."

"Being out on the killing ground might not be as useful, in that case, as being back inside the Wall."

"That's where you're wrong, John. It's a built-in weakness to this so-called sovereign nation. On the far side of the Wall, anything can happen. It'll be completely up to him." He grinned. "The big discussion was, does he get to keep the money he wins or not?"

"He's planning to go out and kill someone?" Savage couldn't hide his distaste.

Fontaine shrugged. "He'll have to blend in with the other combatants. Besides. He's a former Special Ops soldier. This is a great opportunity for him to hone his skills."

"And you're certain he will win?"

"Unlike these martial-arts wanna-bes," Fontaine pointed out, "our man will have had training in delivering sudden death up close and personal."

"I see."

"We'll know more about this outfit, how it's set up, who's behind it, what the goals are, once we've got a man on the ground there."

"Well, good luck to him, then."

"You want to see this, Mr. Grayson!" the editing room tech told him excitedly as he came into the room. The second, older guy brought up a set of clips.

It was late in the evening. James had come in because he didn't have anything else to do. For the past couple of days Lucy had been too busy to see him.

"What is it?" Grayson asked them.

"This guy. He was number eleven today. Here he is."

The older technician, Nick Chou, found the place on the first clip where number eleven came out of the gate at an unhurried stroll. Black-haired, in his mid-forties, wearing a hakama like those Japanese martial artists who threw each other around. He wore two swords in his belt, a long one and a short one, and he carried a naginata, a spear with a sword on it.

Grayson watched as the combatant looked around, and then stuck his spear in the ground. He drew out his sheathed sword, faced the east, and held it up with both hands and bowed. Then he put it back in his belt, pick up his spear, and headed across the killing ground with the spear on his shoulder.

"Cool, huh?" the younger guy asked. His name was Peters, Grayson remembered.

"Huh," Grayson said. "Interesting. What's his fighting name?"

"That's Pilgrim of Courage," Peters said.

"Watch this," Nick Chou told him. "I've got his whole day here."

One of the control room techs had written a program that would allow the techs to follow a single combatant all day long on the Island, from camera to camera, everywhere he went. Chou and Han had compiled a day's worth of the travels of the Pilgrim of Courage.

About a third of the way across the killing ground, the Pilgrim paused. He checked his perimeter again, stuck his spear in the ground, and brought his hands together in prayer for a moment. Then he bent, picked up a handful of sand, and cast it about him. Then he bowed his head in the prayer posture again.

"That's – that's where Shadow killed most of his guys," Grayson realized.

"Yeah," Han said. "Wait, there's more."

Chou fast-forwarded the Pilgrim's journey to a place a little along the beach trail where Shadow's victims Jaguar Warrior and Draco had died. He bowed and prayed there as well, and cast some dirt on the ground.

"Huh," Grayson said.

The Pilgrim paused a few more places along the trail, and then turned west along an intersecting trail that took him to the stream trail, and eventually to the encampment of the rice men.

"This is interesting," Chou said. "Watch this." He touched a button and the film slowed to normal speed.

The Pilgrim of Courage stopped across the stream from the rice men's encampment. Three of the rice men sat around their fire, talking and tending a pot full of shellfish they'd gathered that morning. They jumped to their feet when they saw the combatant, which roused the other two. All of them grabbed weapons. Not just machetes anymore, Grayson noticed. They'd picked up an extensive armory of discarded weapons from around the Island. Swords and spears bristled in the direction of the Pilgrim. He bowed to them. From inside his jacket he drew out a pack of cigarettes, and what looked like a bag of nuts. He placed them on the rock where trading with the rice men usually took place. He bowed to them again. At this, the rice men lowered their weapons. They came closer, and did some bows of their own. The Pilgrim backed away from them, and then went on his way.

"I'll be damned," Grayson breathed.

"He does this all the way around the Island," Chou said. He sped up the playback so that the Pilgrim of Courage whizzed around the Island.

"That reminds me of that guy on the first day, the South Korean," Grayson said.

"Ghost Soldier," Peters provided.

"That's right, Ghost Soldier."

"That's what we think," Peters said. "He goes around the whole Island."

"Did he meet anybody?"

"Sure," Chou said. "Right – here."

On the northeast shore of the Island, where the white beaches of the eastern shore met the menacing rocks of the west coast, the Pilgrim of Courage came around a point of land to find two dead bodies in the sand, and Weng Su Khan, wearing his great round helm with the specially-designed steel grill on the front, harvesting the second eartag. Pilgrim stopped. It was a few moments before Weng Su Khan noticed him. Then he leaped up suddenly, grabbed up his two-handed great sword and came on guard. The Pilgrim only stood there, not moving his spear. Then, he bowed slightly.

"Are they talking to each other?" Grayson asked.  
"Don't seem to be," Chou said. He brought up the audio from one after the other of the three cameras framing the two men, but all they could hear was the sound of the surf, and the cry of a few birds.

"What's with the big helm guy?"

"Weng Su Khan," Peters said. "He had a big fight with Red Hawk here, who had just killed Sword of Doom when he came up. Red Hawk took a cut to the forehead, I think he couldn't see for most of the fight."

Grayson nodded. "Patch it over to me," he said. That would be interesting to narrate. It was amazing how one little thing could mess up your whole game out there. "So do these guys fight? Big helm guy, and the Pilgrim?"

"Nope," Peters said. "Check it out."

He fast-forwarded the clip again. The two men stood there, facing off, and even in fast-motion they still stood there quite a while. Then the Pilgrim of Courage bowed again, and motioned to the beach beyond Weng Su Khan. After a moment, Weng Su Khan pointed toward the northeast end of the Island. The Pilgrim bowed again. Weng Su Khan made a gesture and backed away from his two kills., The Pilgrim passed him some distance out of the range of both of their weapons. When he'd gone by, the Pilgrim turned and bowed again. When he was out of sight, Weng Su Khan resumed harvesting the eartags from his prizes, though he turned a little so he could see if the Pilgrim happened to come back his way.

At the northeast point of the Island, the Pilgrim stuck his spear in the sand and stepped out onto the furthest rock that wasn't covered by surf. He took out his sheathed sword again, and bowed once more. He prayed a moment, and then put his sword away, picked up his spear, and resumed his walk.

His next stop was the place along the beach where Pell-Mell and Shiloh had fought it out, in one of the longest battles on the Island. True Heart meanwhile had waited up along the beach until Shiloh had fallen. Then True Heart had killed the exhausted Pell-Mell and made it back with both ear tags.

Pilgrim of Courage stopped between the tall, leaning rocks where Pell-Mell and Shiloh had died, scattered some sand, and held the prayer position for a moment again.

"Does he make it back?" Grayson wondered.

"He does," Chou said, and clicked on another clip of the Pilgrim of Courage coming in through the gate to cheers and applause of a big crowd waiting to welcome him. The handsome, calm face, the bright serene eyes made the man, whose real name was Peter Westerholme, quite charismatic. "I've walked the sands," he said. "You don't need to fight to prove you have courage. You just need to be willing to, if it comes to that." He smiled, pleased with himself.

"Wow," Grayson said. "A new star is born."

Later, back at his bungalow, he sat up late on the patio behind his house. His new housekeeper had laid out a hot supper for him as soon as he arrived, and drawn his bath. Now, clean, cool and relaxed, in his silk robe, he watched the moon rise, a pale waning crescent, over the sea.. It was late. He needed to go to bed. He knew, though, that he wouldn't be able to sleep yet. He did not allow himself to think about how much he missed Lucy, how much he wanted her. He'd had a bit too much already, but he poured himself another Scotch, and listened to the sounds of the night.

Half asleep in his room an hour later he felt his bed shift under a gentle weight. He made a sound of satisfaction and welcome and turned to her. He felt her warmth as she came near. Muzzily he noticed that her scent was different, her legs longer. Her hair was short and curly, not the long black cascade he loved to wind in his hands. But her mouth was warm and generous, her hands sweet and then urgent, expectant, exacting, and he couldn't stop, didn't want to stop, and he rolled her beneath him cupped one generous breast in his hand and pumped into her, peremptory in his turn. He saw the smug satisfaction on her face as he subsided to the twisted sheets. He didn't think it was his performance that had so pleased her.

He fired his new housekeeper in the morning. She'd had no business getting into bed with him. He was annoyed with himself that he hadn't thrown her out last night, but the part of his mind that weighed causes, events, and consequences, had been simply overwhelmed by the scent of sex and excitement, and the really marvelous things that girl had done.

He asked a tech from the control room to bring him a sandwich, instead of going to the staff dining room where he might ― where he usually ― met Lucy. He went home at a different hour that night, found his housekeeper there making dinner, and fired her again. She still looked a little smug. He ate dinner at home and went back to the studio and worked late. He felt uncomfortable. Part of it was simply that he wanted to talk over with Lucy the journey made by the Pilgrim of Courage. He wanted to hear whether other people thought what the Pilgrim had done was admirable, or just insane. She really was his eyes and ears on this island. And the truth of the matter was simply that he missed her. That night when he went to bed he locked his door.

Emilio Sanchez got a text message from his new girlfriend after dinner. He told his wife he was going out. His mother-in-law stared at him balefully as he walked through the kitchen where the women and his daughters were cleaning up. He smiled back. Who cared what she thought? She couldn't prove anything. And his wife, Maricela, believed what he told her.

In the driveway, one of his sons was sitting on the hood of his car, smoking, watching the other two play basketball. Emilio pushed the boy off the car and smacked the cigarette out of his mouth. The kid was getting more annoying every day.

Emilio drove off with a roar, leaving the ties of his family behind him. He liked this part, where he headed off alone, toward the small, tidy apartment where his girlfriend lived. She was so hot. She loved him so much. They'd met in a bar, and she'd followed him into the parking lot, practically begging for him. She'd made him park his car before they even got to her house, and dragged him into the back seat. My God, how that woman wanted him!

Deep down inside, Emilio had always thought of himself as a stud. The kind of man who had a certain magnetism that women were drawn to. It hadn't worked out that way in life; Maricela married him when she got knocked up, and convinced her mother ― and his ― that the kid was his. But Belinda looked at him the way he thought of himself, like he was a man that women fought to have. She was always waiting for him in the bedroom when he came to see her. The apartment would be dark. The light from the bedroom would be low. Sometimes she waited, naked, stretched out on the bed, pretending to sleep. Once she was dressed in layers of clothing that he had to work his way through while she fondled, kissed and bit him, urging him on, until he was almost bursting with his need for her. Last time she managed to tie herself to the bed, and he had walked in to find her like that, naked, helpless, begging for him.

Emilio unconsciously put his foot down and roared down the street.

When he opened the door to the ground-floor apartment with his key, it was dark, as always. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and there was a low light beyond it, like a flickering candle. He caught the scent of incense and massage oil. He felt the excitement surge inside him. He walked quietly to the bedroom, hard as stone, his heart beating quickly, smiling in anticipation of what he would find. He pushed open the door.

He never knew what hit him.

When Grayson emerged from the studio after his second long session of the day, Lucy was waiting for him outside the door. He hesitated, and then realized that was the wrong reaction. She looked tired, he thought. She also looked sad.

She stepped forward and raised a finger to him. "No excuses. I happen to know this is your break. Come and talk to me. Somewhere private."

"I have to ― "

"You have to eat and drink before you go back in. I've got food for us both. Come on."

She took him across to the staff dining room and then upstairs to one of the little meeting rooms. The door she opened had "reserved" and "private" in the card slots on the door. Grayson didn't know how you went about reserving one of those rooms, but it was no surprise to him that Lucy did.

The small table had been pushed over by the window, and two place settings had been laid. The buffet against the wall had half a dozen covered dishes, and James was not surprised again to discover they were all favorites of his. She poured and fixed his coffee, which is what he preferred at this time a day, filled her own plate and sat down opposite him.

"Long time no see," she commented, and started eating.

Grayson just sat looking at her.

"Dig in," she told him. "You know it's good."

"Lucy ― "

She held up a hand. "You're going to tell me why you've been avoiding me, but I already know. My friend Ming told me she got taken off the roster to look after your house. She's doing Dr. Mukhtar house now."

"I didn't have anything to do with that."

"I know that too. And I know you slept with Jo, because she told me."

"Jo?" Grayson tried to place the name.

"Joanne Barangan. Your new housekeeper."

"She didn't mention her name."

"Look," Lucy said. "You don't have to feel bad about it. You don't owe me anything. We had a lot of fun, and that's great, but we never said we were in any kind of exclusive relationship."

Grayson felt himself burning. "No?"

Lucy shrugged. "I don't own you. I never thought I did. So if you want to sleep with someone else, that's your business. But . . . " her face scrunched up in that self-deprecating gamine look that Grayson found adorable. "I enjoyed being friends," she said with dignity. "I enjoyed working with you. I'd like to keep doing that."

"I'd like that too," he said.

"Okay." She grinned at him suddenly, and he couldn't help smiling in return. "Okay, great! I've got a lot to tell you!"

"One more thing." Grayson lifted a hand. "I want to tell you this. She slipped into my bed when I was already half asleep. We had sex. But I'd been half-hoping you would come. And by the time I woke up and realized. Well . . ."

Lucy, looking down at her plate, forked herself a bite of pasta salad. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. Because I want to be exclusive. I want to be in a relationship with you." He smiled. "I want you to own that part of me. At least . . . "

"While we're on Savage Island?"

"While we're on Savage Island."

He got back a little late from lunch, and his make-up and hair needed re-touching, but he didn't feel tired anymore.

Emilio Sanchez woke to the sound of waves lapping around him. That didn't make sense. He tried to think back to a night of drinking, a walk on the beach, but nothing came to him. He opened his eyes. Where the fuck was he?

Groggy from the drugs in his system, he fought his way up from murky dreams. The world smelled wrong. There was salt and ozone in the air, and something else, but not a hint of smog or diesel fumes. His head felt heavy. Weighted. He was . . . wet.

He jerked awake as a wave washed over him, and panicked when he almost couldn't lift his head. He pushed himself up and saw . . . a stony, moonlit beach. Trees. The traffic roar in the distance wasn't cars at all. It was wind. Wind blowing in the trees. Where the hell was he?

He tried to pull himself up and found out why his head was so heavy. He was wearing some kind of thick metal can. Sand and water had scooped into it through the off-center face plate and dripped down his neck. He reached up and tried to grab it but his hands were heavy, they were caught, they snagged on something. In a moment of panic Emilio pulled up his hands. His right arm caught in the sand, but his left one brought up a huge double-headed axe and just about dropped it on his own body. He shoved it away and it fell, twisting his wrist sharply. In the dim moonlight he stared down at his left hand. It was encased in a big metal fingerless glove, which was tied to his leather sleeve. The axe was duct-taped to the glove. He looked over through the cock-eyed grating of his helmet at his other hand, and found it taped to the haft of a long spear. It couldn't be. This was insane.

Emilio thought this must be a bad dream. He'd heard of Savage Island, of course. He'd even watched for a few hours one night at a friend's house. Now he dragged himself to his feet, taking in the sand, the jungle, the smell of the night, the canopy of stars such as he had never seen before, and the weapons immobilizing his hands. A big axe. A twelve-foot spear. Heavy, clumsy armor. This was, had he known it, the most ineffective combination of arms and armor that Colonel Dawes could come up with, when asked. Emilio shrugged, trying to straighten out his helmet. It was strapped on really tight. He turned around slowly.

Night. The beach. A wild beach. No cars.

No way.

No fuckin way.

Emilio tried to dislodge the spear and the axe, but they were firmly attached. He backed away from the shore toward the trees, in a street-wise move to get himself into cover.

He ought to have water, food, a backpack with a first aid kit, a machete -- he'd watched enough of Savage Island to know that there were certain rules, certain supplies that no combatant was supposed to be without. He looked around and saw that he did have a backpack. It was on his back, cinched up tight. And getting it off, without the use of his hands, past his taped-on axe and spear, was just not going to happen.

On the beach, the surf had long ago erased the marks of the boat landing, and the two men who dragged his unconscious body onto the sand.

This was truly a nightmare. He tried to adjust his helmet again, and felt the edge of it press against his eartag. Fuckin hell. God fuckin hell. This couldn't be happening.

Later in the day, one of the techies monitoring the Island noticed a fight between Man of Might and a combatant he didn't recognize, in heavy armor, a big helm, and an axe in one hand and a spear in the other. What a useless weapons combination, he thought to himself, as he watched Man of Might deal with the unnamed combatant in short order. The techie ran a diagnostic to try and identify the combatant whose implant was failing to send a signal.

Man of Might had more trouble getting the guy's helmet off to at his eartag, than he had killing the guy in the first place.

The techie ran through the combatants on the Island at that time, but couldn't find a name on the list that didn't have a location at that moment on the Island. Everyone seemed to be accounted for. He started to write up a report on the problem, but then he was distracted by a camera glitch, and made a note to go back to it later.

"Mr. Grayson, how good of you to come." Van Allan let his genial gaze fall from James's face to Lucy Tran, standing by his side. His gaze hardened, but his voice did not change. "And Ms. Tran, thank you for coming."

"You said I could bring a guest," James reminded him, shaking his hand.

"Of course! Of course, Ms. Tran is most welcome."

Lucy grinned her most disarming smile and shook Van Allan's hand in turn as though she and James hadn't spent hours over the last days discussing whether Van Allan had orchestrated James's housekeeper ending up in his bed. If Van Allan was dismayed to see them together, he certainly didn't show it. He waved them toward the garden patio and said, "May I make you known to my guests?"

The patio had been strung with colored lanterns. The half-dozen fountains were spangled with changing colored lights. Servants in white jackets slipped among the guests, offering drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Most of the guests were upper management and top staff from the Island, but Grayson was aware that a helicopter load of visitors had arrived earlier that afternoon. He knew because Lucy heard just about everything that happened on the Island. She hadn't known who all had arrived.

"Mr. Grayson, may I make you known to my sister? Margot Verhoeven." Van Allan took the hand of a stately woman almost as tall as he was, dressed in deceptively simple expensive clothes and a light scattering of jewels. Grayson thought the work done on her face probably outclassed even the jewels and offered an admiring hand. "Ms. Verhoeven."

"Margot, may I present James Grayson."

"So pleased to meet you, Mr. Grayson." She took both his hands in hers. "I've seen your show. You're doing wonderful work, just wonderful."

Plastered, he thought to himself, smelling the alcohol on her breath. He gave her his platinum smile, noticing that even when she smiled in return, it did not relieve the bleakness of her expression. "My pleasure. This is Lucy Tran, my associate."

Lucy bobbed her head and shook Margot Verhoeven's hand. She had decided to be disarming, James realized. He had bet on the aloof goddess aspect, to go with the amazing tight-fitting night-blue dress. But Lucy had a knack for playing people just right.

They continued their circuit of the garden to meet the rest of Van Allan's guests. Grayson had the self-control to show no surprise when Van Allan introduced his ex-wife, Heleen, but when he was presented to Katrina Somers, it was all he could do to pretend he'd never heard the name before. She'd been prominent in the photos from the funerals of Van Allan's children. She was Sofia Van Allan's best friend, and engaged to the son, Franz. Grayson smiled, made small talk, and played his part as the gracious celebrity entertaining his boss's guests, while trying to figure out if it meant anything that these three women were on the island at this time.

"What brings you to Savage Island, Ms. Somers?" he tried, as they selected appetizers from a tray.

He saw her eyes go a little blank as she answered off-handedly, "Oh, Jules invited me ages ago, and I thought I'd come and see what it was like."

Lying, Grayson concluded to himself. He glanced over at Lucy, whose engaging smile was frozen on her lips as she shot him a sharp look in return. "Lying!"

"I hope you enjoy your stay," Grayson said smoothly.

Grayson took the seat of honor at Heleen Van Allan's right hand at dinner, and did his best to entertain her. She knew all the right people. She lived in Los Angeles in the spring and fall, wintered at Klosters or Aspen for the skiing, and summered wherever people were going that year. Money, Grayson thought. Lots of money. If he worked at it, he could have a lifestyle like that of Heleen Van Allan.

She wasn't giving him all her attention, he noticed, keeping up his end of the conversation by asking her flattering questions. She was tense, distracted, and she drank steadily throughout the meal. Where, Grayson wondered, was that hint of desperation coming from? He glanced down the table at Katrina Somers, the former fiancee of Jules Van Allan's dead son, and saw the same distracted look in her eyes. Margot Verhoeven left the table after the first course, and wafted past him on her way back, smelling of cigarette smoke. If you bottled the tension those women carried, Grayson thought, you could light the whole island.

He spent a little while framing his question, before he said to Heleen, "Can I just say how nice it is to see two people who've been through a divorce able to still socialize?"

She focused on him, and waved a hand. "Oh, it wasn't that kind of divorce. After the children . . . " she blinked hard for a moment and took another drink. "We found we had such different interests. It's better this way. But I still like him," she smiled down the table at her ex-husband. "In his own way, he still is a hell of a man."

"How did you meet?"

She shook her head. "Back in the depths of time. When the world was young. And everything was going to be one big long party."

"I am so sorry," he said quietly, "for your tragedy."

"Yes, well," she said. "So am I." She took another long drink, and then turned away from him to Dr. Mukhtar, on her other side.

"And how," Jules Van Allan spoke from down the table, "do you think my little project is being received?" he asked the newcomers.

The silence following this query was a little long, until his sister Margot replied.

"I think people are fascinated. And revolted. People are talking about it everywhere. The numbers on the downloads speak for themselves."

"And the online subscriptions," Ken Frize put in. His smile was like a cat who'd learned to use the can opener.

"It's a smash, Jules, truly."

"They love to talk about it," Katrina Somers said. "Whether they argue that it's totally evil, or just that it's really exciting, everyone is talking about it. Talk shows go on about it every day. I've seen Lone Eagle on talk shows half a dozen times."

"Death does so focus the mind," Heleen murmured.

Van Allan smiled and silently lifted his glass to her. She lifted hers in return and they both drank.

"The ratings are just tremendous," Ken Frize told the table. "The new subscriber system is up and running, and the servers were just about flattened by everyone trying to get on. We've had to expand server capacity about four times."

"People like stories about heroes," Lucy Tran put in. "We always have."

"Yes," Van Allan said, nodding to her. "Your contributions in that regard have been very valuable."

"Is it all that you hoped for?" Margot asked.

"Not yet," Van Allan said. He signaled for the next course, and the conversation became general again.

When the last of the after-dinner liqueurs had been served, and the Belgian chocolates denuded, Van Allan escorted his employee guests to the front door and let them go. On the patio, the colored lights were being extinguished one by one. Grayson took Lucy's arm and they set out for his bungalow, to spend the rest of the night together.

"That went all right," Lucy said. She was still ebullient from Van Allan's acknowledgment of the profiles she'd added to the show.

"Yes," Grayson agreed, "but I'd love to be a fly on the wall and hear what Van Allan is talking to those ladies about now."

### Chapter Thirteen

Van Allan led the way to his den, where the large-screen monitor stood loaded and ready. The women trailed into the room holding their drinks, and perched on the furniture. The air of expectation that they'd worn all evening had hardened. They looked at Van Allan And he raised his glass to them. "To my three Furies. Tonight you will finally see blood."

"You did it," Heleen said. "You got them."

"I got the first one. I got Emilio Sanchez."

He touched the screen, and they saw a long shot of an armed figure lying in the surf. He wore an over-sized helmet, and held a large axe in one hand, and a large spear in the other.

"That's him?"

"I promise you." He fast-forwarded the clip, showing Emilio waking up, trying to get up, casting around, shouting at any camera that he could see.

"Can't he talk?" Margot asked.

"Yes, but he's wearing a chinstrap that cinches inside his mouth, so he is very difficult to understand."

The women followed Emilio's progress as he blundered into the trees, chose one trail and then another, tried to scrape off his helmet, his right gauntlet, his left. The ferocious attention of the three women was palpable. Van Allan poured another round of drinks. The sun rose on Emilio's last day.

"How long is this going to take?" Katrina asked.

"Not long now," Van Allan said.

No one spoke while Emilio turned suddenly to find the Man of Might watching him. Man of Might saluted him with his sword, and paced forward. Emilio shouted at him, waved at him, and then turned and ran.

Man of Might followed him as he blundered into the trees. When Emilio turned to face his opponent, Man of Might brushed aside his weapons and pinned his right shoulder to the tree with his Roman-style shield. Emilio banged at him with his weapons, but his axe arm was pinned and his spear was too long, so Man of Might had all the time in the world to drop his spear and grab the short sword on its lanyard, lever it beneath the edge of Emilio's helmet, and insert it into his throat. Emilio screamed and screamed.

Van Allan, who had seen it several times already, watched the three women watch Emilio die. Horrified, intent, fascinated, each woman held her glass as though to protect themselves from the reality of Emilio's death. And yet none of them looked away.

Emilio collapsed against the tree, blood spurting from beneath his helmet, his scream becoming a gurgle. Then Man of Might let him go, and he fell.

When the Man of Might had finally cut the strap of his helmet and gotten it off, all three women leaned forward for a look at his face. And then all three leaned back again in satisfaction.

"He's the shooter," Katrina stated. They all knew.

"He was the shooter," Van Allan agreed.

"Good." Katrina said. "Play it again."

They watched it again, and this time Katrina wept while Emilio died. They watched it four times, and then Margot got up to go to bed. She held her brother hard, and took her glass with her to her bedroom. Katrina trailed after her and shut the door, leaving Jules and his former wife together in the den.

Heleen held out her glass, and he refilled it.

"How are you?" he asked her.

"Much better," she said. "Much, much better."

They watched it through again. He noticed she was smiling. "Did you choose the man who would kill him?" she asked.

"No, no," Van Allan said. "Any one of them will do. That doesn't matter."

"No. It doesn't matter. And the others? You'll get the others?"

"Every one," he said. "I promise you."

"Yes," she said. "You did."

He took her hand and kissed it.

"Jules," she said. "Thank you."

Two days later, Robert Macias disappeared from the community center where he had been playing pool with three other men. He went off to the bathroom, and never came back. There were no signs of violence. His car was still in the parking lot. The three men he'd been playing with left soon after. None of them were identified. Robert lived half a mile away with his girlfriend and their two kids. She never saw him again.

"Mr. Van Allan?" Elena Carmine stood in the doorway to Van Allan's office. "Will Zalsman is here to see you."

"Is he? Send him in." Van Allan got up to greet Zalsman, dismissing Elena and closing the door behind him.

Will Zalsman accepted a glass of orange juice, by which Van Allan understood he was flying out again soon. Zalsman was in charge of his helicopter fleet, which also put him in charge of bringing combatants, guests, and staff to and from the island. Handsome, muscular, with a trim mustache and a light, cynical smile, he had an air of being not quite part of any company he kept. Van Allan had found him both dependable and innovative; the best kind of employee.

"What can I do for you, Will?" he asked.

"Thought you should know," Zalsman told him. "one of the latest applicants we picked up in Tokyo had a miniature transceiver on him."

"Mm," Van Allan said. "Not unexpected."

In working out how Savage Island might be defeated, Van Allan and his team had realized that planting someone with a GPS locator was an obvious ploy to look out for. Thus, once combatants reached Tokyo, before they made their next leg of the journey, they were drugged and landed on an island at an abandoned military base that Van Allan leased, where they underwent a medical examine and a strip search, while unconscious. This also ascertained that only men would arrive on the island to become combatants, though thus far no biological females had tried.

"I dropped him on that rock we agreed on, forty miles from anywhere, with a crate of MREs. As long as there isn't a storm that floods the spring and wrecks it, he should be all right for a month or two."

"Good," Van Allan said. "Thank you. He won't be the last."

"I know. We're keeping an eye peeled."

"It is much appreciated."

They went out to the balcony and watched Red Baron in his stand off against Cuachicqueh. Red Baron carried a morning star and shield. Cuachicqueh carried a spear and shield. They'd been facing off for over ten minutes without exchanging a blow. Van Allan and Zalsman leaned on the rail and watched.

"Someone else could come along any minute now," Zalsman remarked.

"Someone usually does."

"I might be like to go out there myself," Zalsman suggested with a laugh. As he watched the two combatants, his eyes were calculating.

"I wouldn't blame you," Van Allan said. "Any man of courage must be tempted to try his mettle. But casualties are running at nearly forty percent these days."

"Yeah," Zalsman grinned, "and you already pay me a fortune."

"You'll have a bonus for catching the spy," Van Allan said.

"Thanks."

"Not at all. Thank you."

Georgie Bederman burst into the security office at Biological Developments, regardless of the fact that he was not on duty that day and had no excuse for being in the building. Ronnie Schofield, his cousin, was on the phone, but that didn't stop Georgie from delivering his news. "I got the call! I am there! I am so there!"

Ronnie kept on talking in a measured tone, while his cousin did a war dance around the tiny box of a room, posturing and gloating, but his eyes blazed. He put down the phone at last. "What the fuck are you doing? That was Ederson!"

"Fuck Ederson!" Georgie replied, "And fuck you too! I got the call! I'm going to Savage Island?"

"When?" Ronnie asked him. Georgie looked for the naked jealousy on his face, but didn't see it. "Saturday. I'm to be at the Minneapolis airport on Saturday morning at eleven a.m."

"Then we can share a ride," Ronnie said. "They called me yesterday."

"Fuck you!"

"Yeah," Ronnie grinned at him. "We are so there."

"We are going to make a killing!" Georgie exulted. "And we're never coming back here no more."

Ronnie and Georgie had filled out their applications from two different states, using the addresses of their respective fathers. Their strategy for Savage Island was to bring one extra weapon that would give them an advantage over everyone else ― each other. Their applications had been bumped to the top of the pool by the computer rubric, because both of them admitted to having committed felonies in their youth. Why that was a special qualification to prove themselves the bravest men on earth, only Jules Van Allan knew.

"What about Win?" Georgie asked, referring to another cousin of theirs, who had been contacted and asked to join in. It was always a good idea to have a back-up plan.

"I don't know," Ronnie said. "I haven't heard."

"Well, call him, douche-bag!"

Ronnie turned on his cell phone, since calls from the building were monitored. "Hey, Win left a message." He put it on speaker, so they could both hear their cousin exulting that he would be on Savage Island in a few more days. They were all three due to fly out on Saturday.

"Hot damn!"

"We are going to rule Savage Island!"

The Scorpion lay buried under a foot of dirt and detritus between two trees, partly curled around one of the trunks. Rays of light penetrated the pile of leaves that hid his head. It must be day. Mid-day. He'd stopped shaking. Several nights he'd lain wracked by shivering so violent his muscles had ached. He'd been cold. So cold. He'd gone looking for his tent, his sleeping bag, the quilts his grandmother had given them when he and Trish got married, anything to keep him warm, which he'd left in other camps, on other beds, in times gone by. Crawling along the side of the gorge, knowing he was on Savage Island, and what he was looking for wasn't here. He'd slipped and fallen into the stream. That was it. And then he'd buried himself in the ground to try and get warm.

One of his hands was swollen and sore, he wasn't sure why. His face was swollen with insect bites. One of his eyes was partly closed. He'd lost his insect goop a long time ago. He was beginning to think that coming here was not such a good idea after all.

His fever must be down. He wasn't sweating, and he didn't feel hot. He couldn't stay here. He needed to find his last camp. He needed to make sure that all the signs of his presence were hidden. And he needed to locate his water bottles. He wasn't going to be able to stick it out unless he had a supply of water to hand. He'd spent so many precious points on those jerrycans. He couldn't remember now just where he'd left them.

He lay listening to the jungle. The clicks, hums, buzzes and whines of the daytime chorus were continuous, unbroken. The raucous cries of the birds in the trees, and the little gang of monkeys who chattered and screamed at each other as they played, was undisturbed. He smiled to himself. His alarm system reported all clear. Then he thought that there could be a guy sitting out there, waiting for him to break cover, who'd been there so long everything around had gotten used to him again. If he moved, he would be seen. He lay still and thought about that.

When he woke again the light had faded. The sound of water trickling over the stones nearby had entered his dreams. He'd been so thirsty, he'd lain in the water and drunk himself full, and still he was thirsty. He was going to have to chance it. He was going to have to move. He would fill his water bottles, find another position and go to ground again where he could reach water without moving. He'd rest, eat a little, get some strength back.

He didn't know anymore how long he'd been out here. It must have been long enough to clear some of their debts. They'd be better off. But only if he made it back.

The light faded. The daytime chorus was augmented by the song of the night-time frogs and insects. If there was another guy out there, he was probably being eaten by insects, or maybe snakes, and would be too distracted to go after Scorpion.

He inched his hand to his belt. That was his knife hilt sticking into his side. If there was someone waiting for him to emerge, he didn't have to be easy to kill.

He rose from his nest as quietly as he could. His head was spinning. He pressed himself against a tree while the dizziness passed, and the insects resumed their noise. Nothing else moved. That way, up the slope, upstream, he'd find his last encampment.

His feet were strangely clumsy. Fleeting bits of color in the corners of his eyes distracted him. But that was just the relict of the fever, bringing his dreams into his mind as though they were real. Trish sat on the brown couch, clutching the leather pillow her dad had brought her back from Morocco that time. She was staring ahead so fiercely. But that wasn't real either.

The stream came up to meet him. The crash as he hit the ground silenced every living thing for fifty yards. But he didn't notice.

When he opened the floor to questions from the audience at his campaign stop in Fresno, California, he got the question once again. "Mr. Savage, is it true that Jules Van Allan named Savage Island after you, because you let the gangsters who killed his kids walk?"

It was the fifth time in as many stops. Thornton and Applegard had tried vetting the people who came to his speeches, had tried controlling who could get to a microphone to ask him questions afterward, but still he got the same question again and again. Some were plants, of course. But some, it seemed, now echoed the question because they wanted to know. Savage Island was in the news every day. Polls sprang up on the best fight, the greatest hero. Blogs overlapped on questions of violence, glory, heroism, and applications of martial arts. The insatiable news cycle reported the day's deaths, tut-tutting about the despicable values that Savage Island represented, but feeding off the info with the indifference of a carnivore for the life of the animal it devoured.

The fights were incredibly popular. Millions downloaded them, and tens of millions downloaded the best ones, the funniest ones, the most brutal, the most audacious. Victorious combatants had fans who wore t-shirts with their image. Combatants who had returned went on lecture tours, for God's sake.

Craig Wells, speaking from an undisclosed location, had earned hundreds of thousands of dollars in fees since his victories as the Shadow. Lin Tan, the first to walk the Island and return without a fight, had been hailed as a new hero of peace and non-violence, and compared to Gandhi. It was absolutely ridiculous. Even the families of combatants were enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame. The wife of the longest-lasting combatant on the Island, Scorpion, had done half a dozen television shows, and interviews, racking up thousands in fees. Scorpion had dozens of fan sites, rooting for him to stay hidden, and to come home soon. Scorpion represented the longest-running book on Savage Island, and pools on how much longer he would last, and whether or not he would return, now held millions.

John Savage relaxed against the surge of anger that flared up in him when the question was asked once again. They'd rehearsed this. He needed to look unconcerned. He needed to look in charge. He needed, always, to look presidential.

He gave a slight smile, but he kept his voice serious. You couldn't condescend to these people, no matter what kind of stupid, ignorant dupes they were. The pretense that they were members of the important voting public had to be kept up.

He said, "I don't know why Jules Van Allan has set up this barbaric gladiatorial game for his own amusement. I know that the shock and despair of losing someone important to you in a senseless act of violence can cause a man to do strange things." He shook his head, seeming to focus inward. "I once knew a man who wrote to his daughter every week, and published his letters on her blog, for three years after she had been killed by her boyfriend." He looked up, his eyes hardening. "We got that one. He's in prison as we speak, and I was able to personally hand back to her father the jewelry the perpetrator had taken from her as a trophy." He bowed his head. "It is a certainty that no matter how hard we try, we will not get them all. But I promise you," his head came up, his voice rose, and if there'd been a soundtrack, the drums and trumpets would have started in at this point. Later, when they put this speech up on the web, he made sure they did. "I promise you, that when I am governor of California, no stone will be left unturned to bring any lawbreaker, great or petty, high or low, to face the justice that he or she deserves. Thank you, my friends. Thank you, and God bless the beautiful city of Fresno."

Lucy ran the pan across the harbor one more time. She and Shang-zu had been filming the arrival of a new batch of combatants for a segment that would follow one combatant from his arrival on Savage Island until the end of his adventure. She'd gotten Shang-zu to shoot the harbor while they were there.

"That's it," James said, and Lucy stopped the clip. "It's too small," he concluded. "I can't make out anyone on board.

"I couldn't ask her to zoom in."

"I know."

"Everything gets back to Mr. Van Allan." She keyed on the clip for it to continue.

"What's that?" James pointed to a crowd of people off-loading from the elevator up from the dock.

"Oh. New staff."

"New staff? More staff? What kind of staff?"

"The Filipinos who do the cleaning, cooking, and maintenance had a six-month contract, and a lot of them are going home."

"They don't like it?"

She shook her head. "They made a lot of money. They can't spend it here."

It was late at night, and they were sitting together at one station in the far corner of the editing studio, pooling information in private. James often stayed late, poring over the day's footage, choosing the best fights and the best moments to comment on in his next recording session. Lucy, who had been promoted to producer, worked all hours these days as well, coordinating and editing the profiles that now came to her from all over the world, in addition to the interviews she did on the island.

James pulled up a file, found the clip he wanted, and opened it. "There," he said, pointing. "A new rice man."

Grayson had grown up on stories of heroes partnering with beautiful women and having adventures. Here he was living a fantasy where the most beautiful, exotic women he'd ever known was also his partner in an investigation into their boss, whom James liked to think of as their billionaire criminal mastermind opponent. At least, that was how he phrased it as he worked in his head on the outline to the book he was going to write one day about his adventures on Savage Island. He leaned a little closer, too, and caught her scent.

"You're sure?" Lucy glanced over and caught him looking at her. She grinned, and for a moment allowed her bedroom look to come into her eyes.

Grayson smiled back. "Of course I'm sure." He pointed at the screen. "Check this out." He brushed her wrist with his fingers. A promise for later.

"There he is. See?" James rolled the clip. They watched the latest arrival at the rice men's camp drop his burdens and hurry over the stream to greet the others, who ran to meet him, shook hands, touched themselves on the chest over their heart, shook hands again, and then picked up his burdens and ushered him to the fireside, talking the whole time.

"Yeah," Lucy conceded. "New rice man."

"And here's another thing. That one, whose signal lists him as Mr. New Beginnings, didn't come onto the Island through any of the gates.

If you plug him into the search program, he first shows up over on Flag Beach."

She screwed up her face in puzzlement. "Could be a computer glitch?"

"Could be. But this guy, Mr. Hope, didn't come through a gate either. So, a computer glitch that only applies to rice men?"

She deadpanned, "But that would be a conspiracy theory."

"Yeah," he said, grinning. "Right. So that's seven now. And we don't know where they're from yet?"

"Not yet," she said. "Still working on it. But if you ask about them directly, everybody clams up."

"People have been told not to talk about them? Doesn't that prove there's something they don't want us to know?"

"Yeah, but it still doesn't prove there's necessarily anything wrong."

"It stinks, it's obvious that it stinks."

"Well, I can smell it, but we haven't proved anything yet. Here."

Have you seen this?" Lucy inserting another card into the computer. She opened a file and chose a clip. Jules Van Allan sat in James Grayson's studio, answering questions relayed from an American talk show.

"Huh!" Grayson said. "When did he do this?"

"Must have been a couple of nights ago." Lucy ran the cursor forward and then brought up the volume a bit. "Here's the important part."

" . . . Van Allan, is it true that you built Savage Island as a response to the tragic death of your son and daughter in a drive-by shooting at the Crimson Club fifteen years ago?"

"I asked him that question in an interview a couple of weeks ago," James said. "He terminated the interview and told me never to bring up his kids again."

"So I heard. He did this two nights ago. My friend Amy Phan ran sound."

Van Allan answered the question. "The loss of my children to gun violence did change my life. My first response was to throw myself into my work, day and night, and never think at all. It was too painful. This resulted in the loss of my marriage as well. And then I stopped one day and thought, what is all this for?" He shrugged and looked away from the camera.

"I am very sorry for your loss," the female interviewer said quietly.

Van Allan smiled a little. "I have, necessarily, done a great deal of thinking about how it came to pass that these young men sprayed a crowd of club-goers with their bullets. One of them, a child of fifteen, said that they had to do it to be men, to show their worth. That haunted me. "Have these young men no better models for what they should be than bullies with guns? The old values of courage and honor have been degraded. I began the idea of Savage Island as a way of bringing back what that meant in times of old."

"So you are anti-gun?"

"No, no, that's too simple. Guns are an important tool in their place. But let us not conclude that the gun endows the possessor with either courage or honor. And in fact, to truly show courage, you can't be the man with the only weapon. You can't be the man with the biggest weapon, so that you are not, yourself, in any danger."

"So to prove yourself a man, you must be a warrior? A killer?"

"There are infinite ways to prove your courage as a man. The man who tirelessly and selflessly supports his family, and is caretaker and comforter, teacher and guide, he is a hero to me. But there will always be men who wish to prove their worth through violence. On Savage Island they may do so, in public, without endangering innocent by-standers, and people who do not wish to fight."

"But isn't the name of your island, Savage Island, a dig at Los Angeles Attorney General John Fowler Savage, whom many hold responsible for losing the case against the shooters in the Crimson Club killings?"

Van Allan's expression was bland. "I think 'Savage Island' is a natural name for an island where men will fight to the death."

"And it had nothing to do with John Savage?"

"I can't say I hesitated when I was reminded of the name of the attorney general. Why should it matter?"

"You know he is running for governor of California?"

"Is he?" Van Allan's face showed just enough surprise to make a thinking person conclude that he was not surprised at all. Grayson, a good actor himself, thought he'd hit it just right. "Well then," Van Allan opened his hands, "I wish him the very best of luck in the race. May the best man win."

And that, thought Grayson, was about as loaded as it could get. "John Savage is running for governor?" he said to Lucy.

"I guess. Do you think it's a coincidence?"

"The Island starting up just when Savage gets into the governor's race? Not for a second."

Lucy said, "Neither do I."

The second time Doug Planchette was found in an area a combatant was not allowed to go, he was told that if he trespassed again, he'd be sent off the island. He apologized profusely, tried to sound confused, and stupid, and anything but what he was: An operative on a mission to discover as much as he could about the lay-out and operations of Savage Island, and live to bring the information back.

Planchette was the second man sent on this mission. He was aware that the man who preceded him had disappeared. It was assumed he'd been identified because of the GPS locator he carried, so Planchette had gone in naked. Just like the olden days, when spies went forward of the lines to scout out the enemy, and the only means of reporting was to make it back themselves.

Planchette had been on Savage Island for three days now. He'd undergone orientation, he'd been offered the catalog to make up his choice of weapons and equipment. He'd feigned indecision, changed his mind a couple of times, asked for special equipment, sent it back. If he waited any longer, they'd know he was stalling.

In orientation they'd told him you could back out anytime. He could just ask to leave tomorrow. He didn't have to pick a number, join the line-up, get tagged like a steer, and go out onto the Island and take his chances. But if anyone he knew ever found out that he'd come here, and then backed out, well. He'd never hear the end of it. He could tell people his mission didn't require it, but he could hear the raucous, disbelieving laughter already.

Since Savage Island went on line, half the conversations in his mess were about what weapons you should take out with you, and what were the best tactics both for survival, and to maximize kills. And it was assumed, if you were a professional soldier, in the greatest military force in the history of the world, then whoever you met out on Savage Island, you'd be more than a match for them. He'd believed that, until his first night, when he'd gone for a drink at the Last Resort.

Some of men, yeah, they were martial-arts wannabes. Tough guys who thought they were something because of the lineage of their dojo and the adulation of their students. But he'd seen the other kind, too. He'd seen a couple of men whose glances made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. All you could hope for when you faced one of them was that they'd make a mistake. Never fight until you're certain of the outcome. That was the rule. Overwhelming force, shock and awe, and the best equipment money could buy. Out there, he wouldn't be able to call in an air strike. Still: he'd had the best training in the world. That would be enough. Of course it would.

He had learned one important bit of information, which he needed to report. The transmission tower that stood on the west side of the island, just behind the Wall, on all the maps he'd seen before his arrival: it wasn't there. There was an aerial on the administration building that housed the studio, and that was all. He needed to report that. So, logically, he should get sick or something, or just opt out and go home.

He just didn't think he could face himself in all the years to come if he did. Besides, there must be something more to be learned, once you got out on the other side of the Wall. Maybe the whole thing was fake after all.

"That's the man." Charles Gordon, the Savage Island armorer said, pointing at the screen. Beside him his assistant, Tom Biondi, nodded agreement.

Ken Frize fiddled with the controls to close in on the figure crossing the grass toward the combatant dormitory. Beyond the Wall, just about every meter of ground was covered by cameras. It was not unexpected that cameras would be monitoring activity on the administrative side of the Wall as well.

Ken closed in on Doug Planchette, his tall, heavy-set, well-muscled form, his easy grace that marked an athlete. "Why do you think he's a plant?"

Tom and Gordon looked at each other. "He doesn't act right," Gordon offered.

"We've seen hundreds of guys go through," Tom said. "They're excited, and they're tense, and they're fixated on their equipment. Every tiny detail. Everything has to be right. But not this guy."

"He picked plate armor, chainmail skirt, Roman-style shield, morningstar and sword. Sound familiar?"

Ken looked up at them in query.

"Shadow wannabe," Tom informed him. "For a couple of days after the second wave got here, every third guy wanted a morningstar. And a couple of them wanted exactly what Shadow was wearing. But that's passed now. Since the three days of morningstar-on-morningstar fights, nobody does that anymore. And everyone knows now that you can beat a morningstar with a spear and shield."

"Maybe this guy just missed the lesson. Maybe he still is a Shadow wannabe."

"Yeah, but then he changed his mind. Asked for camos, a reinforced military helmet. Piano wire. A quarterstaff and some short blades. But when he got the message that his new equipment was on his table, he didn't even show up until the next day."

"Also," Gordon put in, "he's been caught twice in unauthorized areas. And last night he was snooping around out of uniform. Tried to get in to the admin building."

Frize looked up sharply. "Where did he go?"

"Guard turned him back. He pretended to be drunk. But he wasn't so drunk he hadn't changed out of his orange shirt."

"I see," Frize said.

"Just thought you should know," Gordon said.

"Thank you," Ken told him. "What's his name?" Frize made a note of it. "Thank you both. We'll deal with it."

"You going to send him home?"

"Is he going out onto the Island?" Frize asked.

"He's supposed to draw a number tomorrow, and go out the next day."

"Let's see what happens," Frize said. "There's no way he can get unauthorized equipment out there with him."

"No way," Gordon said.

"So, the time to figure out what to do with him, is if he comes back alive."

"What's the status on Operation Periscope?"

Colonel Fontaine looked up, since that was his cue. Through the window blinds, it was a perfect day in Washington, D.C. Out on the mall, the cherry blossoms were at their height. Here, in the air conditioned conference room, it was a day exactly like any other. Seven men and one woman around the table took part in the briefing, which Fontaine thought was probably the most inefficient way of getting information up the chain of command that you could create, if you ordered a study to design it. But he was here to obey orders, and so he did. "Sir, we sent out two operatives, neither of whom have yet reported back."

"How late are they at this point, Colonel?" Colin Underwood, the Assistant Deputy Security Adviser to the President, and the chair of the meeting, tapped on the screen of his hand-held computer, ready to make a note.

"They're not late yet, sir," Fontaine clarified. "They're just not back."

"Have they been seen, out on the Island?" Charlson, the quiet-voiced NSA liaison asked.

"No, sir, not yet."

"Are we expecting them," Lieutenant Commander Catherine Dabney, the female Naval attache asked, "to go out on that Island and kill people?"

"They're undercover, ma'am," Fontaine said patiently. "They'll do whatever they need to do to blend in and get the job done."

"Tell me," she said drily, "that half of you haven't been fantasizing about how to get out there yourselves." She smiled at the general laugh that followed, and nodded as if she'd just won a bet with herself. "So, we'll be expecting two American agents to be out on the Island killing for their nation's good any day now. I'll be sure and keep my eyes peeled."

Underwood, who didn't have a sense of humor, asked, "How will you know which ones they are, Lieutenant Commander?"

"I expect because they'll be better than anyone else out there, sir."

Underwood didn't care for the laugh that followed and silenced it with a cold look around the table. "How many deaths have there been on Savage Island so far?"

Fontaine answered, "Our last count was two hundred thirty-eight. Bearing in mind that we only know what they allow to be broadcast. It could be many more."

"Or the whole thing could be fake."

Underwood frowned. "I thought we'd investigated that. Talked to family members? Autopsy reports of the bodies that came back?"

Charlson opened his hands. "Van Allan's got a lot of money. He's had time to set something up that's this elaborate and make it look real."

"One thing our operatives will accomplish," Fontaine said, "is to determine exactly what is going on out there."

"Four hundred deaths, the majority of them Americans," Underwood said. "This is unacceptable."

"Yes, sir," said Fontaine.

"Your operatives are not going to be able to stop this thing by themselves."

"No, sir. That is not their mission. We expect them to observe, and bring back any information they can gather."

"You're monitoring them?"

"We sent one of them out with a GPS transceiver, but we're not getting his signal. But even without GPS they can bring us a latitude of the island, which will help us pinpoint the location."

"I thought we had the location?" the Marine Colonel down the table put in.

"We have what we think is the location," Fontaine said. "But on-the-ground observation will help us be certain."

"Without any equipment?" Undersecretary Underwood said. "He's going to bring us the latitude?"

"For hundreds of years, navigators calculated the latitude with what amounts to a pair of sticks," Lieutenant Commander Dabney reminded him.

"If he's still got his watch," Fontaine added, "he can bring us both the latitude and the longitude."

Assistant Undersecretary Underwood stared at him. He did not ask how their operative would do that. Everyone else at the table did know, and they knew that he did not know, and they left it at that. He said, "Well, give me an update when your men report in."

"Yes, sir," said Fontaine. He did not smirk at the man. But he enjoy the laugh he got that night, recounting the moment at a dinner dominated by military personnel.

After nearly six weeks of broadcasting, the popularity of Savage Island continued to grow. More viewers found their way to the online sites. Downloads increased, and DVD sales expanded. Sports bars devoted to Savage Island broadcasts opened in cities all over the world. The massive multiplayer online game had nearly a million pre-sales, and wasn't due for release for another month. Dojos teaching Savage Island-style combat, offering testing of various weapons forms, and help with applications, opened in a number of locations.

After weeks of dozens of combatants heading out onto the Island, James Grayson was having trouble distinguishing them. And yet that was his job. It was in part his enthusiastic commentary that made Savage Island such an enormous success. It wasn't enough to feel that something was great. To be told that it was great, especially by someone who had become an icon, made it believable.

The days were long gone when he resented Lucy or Colonel Dawes's presence on what he'd thought of as his set. He relied on Lucy's personal profiles to make each combatant seem unique. He'd learned to be grateful, also, to Colonel Dawes' ability to talk knowledgeably and with genuine interest about any weapons form, even when it spectacularly did not work.

So often one of them had stepped in when he lost his train of thought, or carried him when he was so exhausted he could hardly string together a comprehensive sentence. He thought of them as his team now, and depended on them.

He was supposed to have three days of leave every month, but he hadn't taken it. He wanted to go to Bangkok, or Hong Kong, with Lucy, and their schedules had not been compatible. He thought that he ought to go. He needed a break. He had a tremor in his hand. Not often, just now and then, his right hand would twitch for a few minutes. Or an hour or so. He wondered if it had to do with the fact that he was drinking more. He'd gotten into the habit of taking a drink before he went to bed. Sometimes two. Sometimes he couldn't remember how many he'd had, before he got to sleep. He had the excuse that he was working harder than he'd ever worked in his life, and he needed a drink to unwind. But he was also having bad dreams. He was grateful that he didn't remember much about them when he woke.

He became conscious of the effect his work was having on him the day North Star stepped on to the killing ground. A tall, rangy guy with long arms and legs, he wore a broadsword at his side and carried a six foot spear with a crosspiece, and a black pennon with a white star on it. He wore a black tabard with dagged sleeves and the same compass star over his armor. The killing field was empty when he came out the gate. He didn't stay, but headed across to the west side, to take the path along the cliff toward Shark Tooth Beach.

He moved quickly, as though he was one of the guys who simply planned to make a circuit of the Island, walking the sands, they called it, and then come back in, their courage proved without offending anyone. But North Star, in fact, was hunting.

He was the fourth candidate released on the fortieth day of Savage Island, the rising sun still glaring on the water in the east, the day's heat only just beginning to make itself felt. North Star spotted Invincible Sword adjusting his armor after taking a leak down on the beach. He loped forward and found the path that led down to the sand. Like most combatants these days, he'd made himself familiar with the Island before he arrived.

Down on the beach, North Star shouted a challenge, garbled by the roar of the surf on the rocks, holding his spear at salute until Invincible Sword noticed him, did a visible double take, and reached for his greatsword and targe. North Star waited until Invincible Sword cinched up his helmet, adjusted his gauntlets, and saluted him in return. Then he stuck his spear in the sand, pennon waving in the breeze, and drew his sword. And then the two of them charged each other.

Invincible Sword had felled two men the day before. He'd lost the third one, Perseus, who, cut about and losing strength, had waded into the sea to evade death by his hand. Invincible Sword had spent the night on the beach, assuming that by morning the tide would have washed his opponent's body back to him. But that had not yet happened.

North Star crashed right in to Invincible Sword, pinning his hands and his greatsword to his body, and struck him blow upon blow to the back of the head, until the man fell. Colonel Dawes opined that Invincible Sword was probably dead before he hit the ground. One of the sword blows had opened up the back of his neck under his helmet.

When Invincible Sword fell, North Star paused to salute him with his sword. He then checked his perimeter carefully, before he cut off his helmet and took his eartag. He then searched every inch of his gear and his pack, and found the two eartags Invincible Sword had stuck down his boot. He drank off half a liter of Invincible Sword's water, and took his rations. He looked around carefully again, and then took the time to straighten Invincible Sword's body, and lay him out with his hands folded over his greatsword on his chest. He then picked up a handful of sand and sprinkled it on his body. He spoke over him, but again his words couldn't be heard over the roar of the surf. Grayson thought that was just as well. The gesture was so perfect, words would have diminished it.

North Star put the three eartags in his pack, picked up his spear and loped back up the western ridge trail and continued on his way.

Halfway along the Island he chose the difficult steep path that was a short cut to the top of the Ridge. There, with the whole Island laid out for him, North Star took off his helmet, revealing a young man with unruly brown curly hair, a crooked nose, and an excited gleam in his eye. He drank half a bottle of water and ate part of a rat bar. Before he'd finished he spotted another combatant coming along the ridge trail, put his helmet back on, chose his ground and stood waiting.

The fight between North Star and Ice Giant was forever after one of the iconic fights of Savage Island. And one reason was that it was the first fight worthy of the name that took place with the whole Island as the backdrop. Another reason was the gallantry with which it was fought. Both men saluted each other before the fight began. When Ice Giant stumbled on the rocks and slipped to his knees, North Star did not press in and finish him, but backed up and allowed him to get to his feet again. When North Star backed off to adjust his helmet that had turned slightly in the fight, Ice Giant waited, and they both took a rest before they saluted and started in again.

North Star killed Ice Giant with a feint that began as a shift onto the right leg, a drop of his shoulder signaling a leg blow. When Ice Giant reacted by dropping his shield, North Star's sword changed direction. Ice Giant, having lost sight of where his opponent's sword was headed, backed away at this point, but North Star followed, arcing the sword over his own head, and when Ice Giant shifted his shield slightly for a look, North Star's sword struck the right side of his helmet, stunning him. Ice Giant's shield dropped, and North Star stabbed him through the eye slot.

He backed away as Ice Giant fell, and held a salute as his opponent died, not forgetting to check his perimeter for anyone who might come upon him from behind. North Star's salute as Ice Giant fell, the scarlet blood in contrast to the blue, gold and green of the Island, became the image of the Savage Island webpage, and the opening page of the Savage Island massive multiplayer online game that opened a few weeks later.

Ice Giant had an eartag in his pack. North Star drank his water, laid him out with his shield covering his body and his sword at his breast under his hand, and sprinkled dirt over him before going on his way.

North Star killed Dogcatcher on the North Beach. Dogcatcher called himself Ulysses, but his chief strategy was to catch his opponents in a coil of wire at the end of a twelve-foot pole, swing them around until they fell, then stand on the pole, holding their heads to the ground, and stab them while they lay prone. He'd killed three other men when he ran out of the trees at North Star. He had the loop around North Star's neck from the back, but North Star didn't turn and fight. He ran down the beach. He ran down the beach so hard and so fast that Dogcatcher couldn't keep up, and let go of his end of the pole. Whereupon North Star unhooked the loop, caught up the pole, and came back after him. He hooked the loop around the Dogcatcher and then dropped the pole, ran in and cut him down with a single blow of his sword.

The next combatant he met wore a hakama and carried a great moon spear, and a sword and short sword tucked in his belt. North Star met him on the beach and saluted him. Spirit of Water bowed, but did not come forward. North Star waited, and then saluted him again. Spirit of Water bowed. He stood in a defensive posture, but he did not move forward. After another minute, North Star saluted him again, and walked down to the surf, made a big half-circle around Spirit of Water and continued on his way. Spirit of Water, out on the Island walking the sands, bowed to North Star's back and continued his pilgrimage of courage.

North Star put down his spear and fought a close-in fight among the palm trees above Flag Beach against the swiftly-darting double long knives of Shannon the Bold. It was so quick some people thought it was filmed in fast motion, and Savage Island fans called it the Dance in the Woods. He fought the heavily armored Teufelberg on the path along the stream. This was a long fight, and he took a couple of heavy strikes to his shoulder. He was armored there, but it could be seen that the armor had been damaged, and blood was seeping through the gaps. Nonetheless, he dragged the heavy pack of Teufelberg down the path to the camp of the rice men. They got up in a body when he came in sight, shouting threats, spears and machetes bristling. He saluted them, tossed the pack onto the Trading Stone in the stream, and then sat down nearby and proceeded to try and staunch the blood of his wound. After some minutes a couple of the men crossed the stream, and two of them stood over him with weapons, while the third gently and deftly clean his wound, packed it with bandages, and mended the armor as best he could. He thanked them, and remained seated until they were back inside their compound, taking Teufelberg's pack with them.

Then North Star got up, held himself still a moment, fighting dizziness, and headed down the path toward the killing ground, the Wall, and safety.

North Star was struck down as he crossed the killing ground, by Makuuchi, who struck him down from behind with a war hammer and then butchered him with an axe. Makuuchi had waited a good hour in ambush. He picked over North Star, harvested his ear tag and the eleven others he carried, and sauntered back through the gate only breaking a sweat because the day was so hot.

He was unmoved by the lack of enthusiasm of his reception. He had brought in more eartags than anyone in the history of Savage Island. He planned to live out his days as a wealthy man, and so he did.

In the studio, Grayson found himself unable to comment on North Star's death. Colonel Dawes stepped in and made noises about the strength of Makuuchi, the timing and skill of the throw, and the tradition of sumo wrestling from which his name seemed to have been derived. He managed to make Grayson's sudden silence not appear like a judgment on the fight. Grayson thanked him, took a break and went to the bathroom, washed his face and tried to get the picture out of his mind, of North Star jerking forward under the log strike, and the big man running him down and spilling his blood into the sand. His hand was trembling. He held it hard with his other hand, willing it to stop. He pressed it to his face, feeling the tremor against his cheek. His cheek was damp. He washed his face again. He made a minute adjustment to his hair. He tried on his professional smile. And with his right hand in his pants pocket, he went back to work.

He went to the Last Resort after his final session that night, and had a few more drinks than usual. He accepted a ride home from a groundsman in a cart, and stumbled into his bungalow. He took a shower, pleased that the tremor in his hand had stopped, and wondered if the alcohol had done it. Then, instead of going to bed he took a bottle of Scotch out onto the patio and sat there in his robe, listening to the surf, the chorus of frogs, and staring up at the stars. He stopped counting his drinks, sipping straight from the bottle. He thought he fell asleep. His face was wet. He wiped it hard on his sleeve and went to bed.

This time, with his pillow to stifle the sound, he didn't stop himself when he began to sob. He'd liked North Star. He'd admired his style. He'd looked forward to talking to him when he got back; an interview would be a good excuse for a drink and a chat. And to see him butchered like that, with all his prowess and gallantry rendered to so much meat, from the back, in ambush, hurt.

All the deaths he'd seen and tried to forget came back to him, and he cried as he had not since his first girlfriend left him, a long, long time ago.

He came awake in Lucy's arms. He knew it was her by her scent. And besides, he'd left the light on for her. He stared up into her eyes.

"Don't leave me," he said thickly. "I don't know if I can do this without you."

She smiled down at him. Her eyes were luminous.

"I liked him," he said after awhile. "I liked North Star."

"I know. I liked him too."

"Why did he have to die?" Grayson heard himself say. And that was stupid. Everybody died. And North Star had gone out there, onto Savage Island. "He was so careful. I didn't want him to die. He was one of the good ones."

She said, "There are all kinds of men on Savage Island, as everywhere else. And all of them will die. What matters only is what they do while they live, for better or worse. Savage Island simply concentrates this process into a very short time. And they come here by choice for that very reason. You saw his courage and his gallantry on display for all the world. Is there a better way to have lived and died? And you can make certain that his short life achieves eternal fame. It is the choice of Achilles and Alexander. And who is to say that it is a wrong one?"

He didn't hear all of her words. The sound of her voice comforted him. In her arms, in that moment, drunk as he was, uncertain and unhappy as he was, he was safe, he was at peace. He was home.

Part Three

Blowback

### Chapter Fourteen

Doug Planchette chose the fighting name Hiawatha after the code name of an infiltration operation he'd taken part in several years ago. Even with a helmet on, with that name, his handlers would have no trouble spotting him.

You could plan to stand and fight on Savage Island, and that meant armor and heavy weapons; a sword, a shield, a spear, a helmet. But if you were in good enough shape, you could go light. There was plenty of room out there on the Island to run from your opponents if you had to. And if you knew what you were doing, you didn't need a weapon to deal sudden death. Doug Planchette was pretty sure he could take any one of those prancing dojo warriors out there. Men who had never been in battle, men who had never been on a hopeless mission before, and survived through their own strength and cunning, were not going to be able to stand up to him. And he would prove that, before he went home.

He carried a quarterstaff, to keep the long-range weapons guys off him. But a quarterstaff could knock down a swordsman if you knew what you were doing, and beat to a pulp anyone who wasn't armored. Because he couldn't resist it, he also wore a Patton saber, a sword designed by a great soldier, for the modern age. He wore a dagger in his belt, and he'd hung a machete on his pack, just because it was so cheap in points.

He would go out, do a bit of a circuit, check a few things out, kill anyone who got in his way, and then come in. And if he happened to come in with a couple of eartags, well, he'd earned them over and over again in the past. This time he'd actually get paid what they were worth.

He'd drawn number fourteen, which let him sleep late, eat a good breakfast, and limber up before it was time to go to the med center, where all his gear waited in a cubicle for his final check. Here a med tech came and administered a local anesthetic, before stapling on his eartag. Doug dressed and packed, and when the time came made the walk across the grass to the left-hand gate.

He felt himself getting exciting as the digital clock over the gate counted down. Thousands of men had dreamed of an adventure like this. Half the guys he talked to had plans for what they would do if they managed to reach Savage Island. And here he was. The girl who had brought his Scotch the previous night. That was a nice touch. She hadn't been very exotic, after all. She'd spoken English with a distinct Brooklyn accept. But she'd been fun in bed. She was out there seeing him off with tears in her eyes.

The gate opened. He waited. Combatants were not allowed to kill anyone inside the gate, but there was nothing in the rules that said one couldn't be waiting in ambush right outside. He drew his knife and slipped along the left side of the wall. He looked out. No one there. Right.

He dashed out onto the sand, imagining the voice of Mister Savage Island himself announcing the arrival of Hiawatha, and the discussion that would follow with that old kook, Colonel Dawes, about what his strategy was, based on what they could see he was carrying.

Then he stopped thinking as he saw the three men across the sand on the killing ground. One was on the ground, obviously wounded, crawling away from the other two who were locked in combat, having grasped each others' swords, trying to get control of the blade, and meanwhile each was pounding the other with his shield.

Hiawatha thought about going over there and taking out both of them, and then the wounded guy afterward, but then another guy came out of the trees swinging a morning star. Hiawatha thought he'd go and make the tour of the Island that he planned, and then come back and see which one of them was left. He crossed the killing ground to the trail along the western shore, keeping well clear of the four combatants.

"This guy," the control room tech said to Ken Frize. "Check this out."

Ken had been called down from his office by Dr. Mukhtar to look at a problem they'd found in the control room. The monitor was following a man in a lightweight leather boxing helmet, dressed in comfortable camos, carrying a quarterstaff and a number of blades on his belt.

"What am I looking at?"

"Show him what you showed me," Dr. Mukhtar, looking over Manny Kwang's shoulder, told him.

"I got that right here," Kwang said, opening another window on the computer.

Ken Frize saw a combatant approach a camera on the west side of the Island, and make signals to it, and then repeat them. "Okay, that's not right."

"That's what I thought," Kwang said.

"He taps his wrist, there, as though referring to a watch," Dr. Mukhtar pointed out. "He may well be signaling his location."

"How can he be sure this footage will be broadcast?" Ken asked. "Are they planning to hack us?"

"No," Dr. Mukhtar said. "As I told Mr. Van Allan, that's not possible. These computers are not connected to an outside server. They're self-contained. When we broadcast, we take the finished material to an external computer and upload it from there."

"So how does he think this will be seen?"

"He created a proximity alert," Kwang said. "See? That's Nimbus over there. Hiawatha's been stalking him. He came over to this camera after he got close. Here, he goes after him again. And on to the next camera, and again."

"It's the kind of behavior Mr. Grayson may well choose to comment upon," Dr. Mukhtar said. "And then it would be broadcast."

"Huh," said Frize. "So, what are you thinking?"

"He's a spy," Kwang said.

"It is possible," Dr. Mukhtar agreed.

"What's his real name?" Ken Frize asked, getting out his electronic notepad.

"Doug Planchette," Manny Kwang told him.

"Ah!" Ken looked at the notes he'd taken at his meeting with Charles Gordon and his assistant. "You're right. He is a spy." He sat watching Hiawatha for a few minutes, as he continued to stalk Nimbus. Then he said, "Dr. Mukhtar, it's time to try out one of your toys."

"Are you certain?" Dr. Mukhtar asked, surprised.

"This is what it's for," Ken said. "To maintain the security of Savage Island. You've got one armed and ready, right?"

"Of course," Dr. Mukhtar replied. "Always. But we should clear this with Mr. Van Allan first."

"Mr. Van Allan is not to be disturbed just now. I have his authority. And this can't wait."

Dr. Mukhtar held his gaze, trying to decide just how much trouble this might cause. But Frize did not back down. "Very well."

"All right," Frize grinned. "Let's do this thing!"

Frize sat himself at the computer station that controlled the drone.

"Mr. Frize," Dr. Mukhtar protested again, "you are not trained on this equipment. You are not a designated operator."

"I've done the sims," Ken said. "Come on, let's get this done before he does anymore harm."

Doug Planchette followed Nimbus along the beach. He still hadn't been spotted. Honestly, a professional in a land of amateurs really had to be careful not to shine too much. Nimbus wore a big round helmet and body armor. He had a spear with a pennon on it, a shield shaped like a kite, and a sword at his side. He didn't look very dangerous. No one was around. This was going to be his kill. He'd try not to make it look too easy.

He needed to get this done and get back. He had information that his superiors needed to have. Several of the major landmarks that they'd identified on satellite photos of Savage Island didn't exist. The pair of towering rocks that should have stood out to sea just beyond the Wall off the western shore of the Island weren't there. And neither was the half-sunken old Liberty ship that should be visible from the beach on the north shore. He'd tried signaling that something was wrong with the photos, but the fact was, they didn't have a code for that, so he'd had to improvise. The best way to ensure that this information made it back was to take it himself.

A sound behind him caught his attention. It took a moment for him to look up and see the drone coming. One of those camera drones, he thought, getting a good shot of the upcoming fight. He took the opportunity once more to signal to his handlers the things they needed to know, in case, for some reason, he didn't make it. Then he turned his attention back to Nimbus.

He was surprised to see the sand kick up ahead of him. He turned and looked behind him but saw no one. Something flew passed his hand, almost nicking him, and he wondered with sudden anger if someone had gotten around the rule about no projectile weapons. And if they had he really was going to kill someone. He dove for the rocks in the same instant, and his second thought, that the drone wasn't a camera drone at all, that it was shooting at him, had just occurred to him when the dart struck him in the back.

"Got him!" shouted Ken.

"You wasted three darts. You are not cleared for this equipment," Dr. Mukhtar seethed.

"It's all right," Ken Frize said. "I got him. Check it out." He got up from the computer and went over to a monitor, in his excitement forgetting that someone had to fly the drone back to its base. Fortunately, Kwang had put an urgent call out, and one of the drone techs had finally arrived. Mickey Van slipped into the seat that Ken had abandoned, and after some cursing under his breath, got the drone heading back where it belonged.

Hiawatha got the dart out his back by scraping it against a rock, but it sure did hurt. This probably meant he'd been made, which meant he needed to get the hell out of here and off the island as quickly as he could. It's not that anyone could prove anything. If they'd seen his signaling, he had a perfect cover for that; he and his brother had made up some kind of code. Something like that. He'd tell them he had a semaphore exam when he got back to basic training for the railroad company. Or his brother would be smacking him with his baboon hands by the time he tied up the barbecue apron.

The rock he was clinging to exploded into colors that ran like the lava it had once been. His hands sank into it. He pulled himself up. Drugged. He'd been drugged. He had to stay awake. He had to stay conscious, or else that bat-headed hulking monster trailing feathers of surf from the sea was going to chew him up and eat him alive.

Nimbus came up to Hiawatha, who came on guard, holding the quarterstaff in the approved position. Nimbus speared him through the gut. When Hiawatha was dead, he cut off his eartag.

"Got you, you fucker," Ken Frize said to the monitor as Hiawatha died. "Got you."

Jules Van Allan closed the door of the sitting room in his villa. The large-screen monitor stood ready. He set his glass of wine on the table before him. Then he went to his desk and took out the pictures of his children and lined them up on the table in front of him. He picked up the remote, and started the clip.

Robert Macias had been dropped at the north end of the Island. Like Emilio Sanchez, he had on a big, heavy helmet. Like Emilio, too, his weapons were attached to his hands, and wouldn't come off without outside help. But no one who looked at Macias would associate him with Sanchez. He wore samurai armor, and his helmet was painted with a big grinning demon face. His gauntlets were glued to a twelve-foot spear. His belt bristled with samurai swords, a long and short sword on his left, and another short sword on his right. Whoever looked at him would wonder what the hell this guy had been thinking, but in fact he couldn't draw any of his swords, since he couldn't get his hands out of his gauntlets, or his gauntlets off his spear.

Jules Van Allan watched Robert Macias wake up from the sand. He'd looked forward to this part, where Robert became conscious, and thought he had gone nuts, or was in some nightmare. He'd felt that way, in the days after the police came and told him his children had been shot.

He raised a glass to his son, Franz. Straight-A student at USC, studying business with a minor in music. Franz had wanted to play the piano like his mother. He'd kept at it all the years he was growing up. They'd found bits of music in his dorm room. He'd begun composing. Now his music would never be heard.

Macias stumbled to his feet. He staggered one way and then another way. He tried to shout, to scream, but he could only moan inside his helmet, since the chinstrap had been specially designed to cinch very tightly across his mouth. Macias waded out into the sea, looking for a boat, calling for help. After he fell down a couple of times, he went back to the beach.

There were days when most of the combatants stayed on or near the killing ground, and the majority of the fighting happened there. Those tended to be the days with the most kills. There'd been one day when sixteen men had died in a single day on the Island. Seventeen, if you counted the guy who'd made it back through the Wall and later died of his wounds.

But the previous day had been one when just about every combatant headed out into the hinterland. They wandered trails and hunted one another, or missed on another, or lay in ambush, or stalked the roads and ridges. Several dozen men had slept out the previous night. Van Allan wondered which one would stumble upon Robert Macias.

Macias walked along the beach. Maybe he thought if he just kept walking he see ahead of him the pier at Santa Monica, and the nightmare would be over. He made it over half a mile before he came upon Saif al Din, bearing two swords and dressed in flowing desert robes. Macias, trudging along the beach with his head down, didn't notice Saif al Din until he was only twenty yards away. Saif al Din drew both swords and flourished them in a salute. Macias stood and stared at him. Saif started forward. Macias gave a yell, raised his spear and started backward, speeding up as Saif began to run.

When Saif came upon him, Macias managed to get his spear between himself and Saif, so it did actually look like a fight for a few moments. Macias stabbed awkwardly with his spear, Saif blocked and pushed the spear aside, holding the spear off with one sword while raising the second to strike. Macias scrambled back, making desperate noises as death came toward him. Saif's scimitar was designed for cutting from horseback, and the Japanese armor didn't offer him much of a target, but he lined up the point and tried to wedge his sword under Macias's chin. Macias jinked and dodged, and finally broke free and ran.

Saif al Din ran him down, cutting at his lower legs until the edge of his sword bit through the straps of his armor, and Macias gave a choked scream and stumbled to the sand. Saif al Din stepped on his back, holding him in place while he worked the tip of his sword through the armor until it bit into his back.

One of the lessons that Savage Island had taught was that death dealt by edged weapons is painful, and it is often not quick. The body struggles hard to live, and finding a vital organ or spilling sufficient blood to make all the intricate network that keeps a body alive can be a drawn-out process. Saif al Din finally knelt on the struggling, bucking Macias and cut off the back straps of his armor, and then stabbed him in the back half a dozen times. Even so, it was a number of minutes before Macias lay still. When Saif cut off his helmet, the eartag still wasn't black, and Saif drew his knife at that point, lifted Macias's head and cut his throat from behind.

Van Allan sipped his wine and watched it all. His daughter Sofia, that bright and curious soul, a second-year astronomy major at UC Berkeley, home for spring break that ill-fated night, had lived for two weeks in a coma after being shot in the stomach and spine, and going into shock. He and Heleen had spent days and nights at her bedside, trying to hold the life in her body with their presence, their words, their love. But she had gone. It had been an abomination that those smirking boys had walked out of the courtroom, free.

Well, now he had sent this one after her, dog that he was.

Victor Bustemante was now en route to Savage Island and would arrive in a couple of days. He had been kidnapped from the parking lot of the restaurant where he worked, after doing the late-night closing. His car was found downtown across the street from a strip joint. Jose Ayala had been picked up last night on his way to his car after seeing a movie. He would arrive a few days later.

He would have them all, eventually. He needn't hurry. It had taken this many years to get two of them. He could take whatever time he needed in getting the rest. He'd worried at first if he could keep the island going long enough to complete its purpose. But now, that didn't look like it was going to be a problem.

James had not yet reached the dining room when he saw Lucy hurrying to meet him. He went to meet her and hold the door for her, but she took his arm and guided him away. They had been planning to have lunch together. He looked at her questioningly. "Come with me," she said. "We need to talk."

She strolled with him through the garden where a number of people took their lunch or their snack this time of day, and headed for one of the maintenance roads that led to the less populated part of the island.

"Where are we going?" he asked in a low voice, when there was no one to overhear them.

"It doesn't matter," she said. One of the maintenance workers passed them in an electric cart and she clutched James's arm and smiled up at him as though she couldn't bear to let him go. But this was not her real smile. He knew her that well by now. He gave her back an electric smile of his own.

She led him off the main road and along a cliff path on the eastern shore of the island. They had to duck through tangles of foliage, as this part of the island wasn't kept manicured by the small army of gardeners. When they emerged onto a headland overlooking the harbor in the distance, Lucy stopped and let him go.

"What's this about?"

"I found out who the rice men are."

He felt a surge of excitement as he had when he was a young reporter, and a story had broken open at last. He'd forgotten, after all his years of being a sportscaster, that he'd started out as a journalist, and he'd chosen journalism because he loved it. "Tell me!" he said. "Tell me everything."

"Do you remember last week when one of them got sick?"

He didn't, but he should have. "Yes," he said.

"Did you notice the morning that he was suddenly much better?"

"Actually, no."

She gave him a look, and he smiled apologetically. She said, "Someone went out to the camp and brought them drugs for fever. Someone from this side of the Wall."

"They sent out a maintenance team? Non-combatants?"

"No. One of the staff took it upon himself to go out there. He went to the infirmary and drew the drugs, and he went out the gate at about two in the morning, after the moon rose. Some of the tech staff watched over the location monitor, and guided him there and back by radio."

"And he made it?"

"He had to identify himself to the guys at the rice camp. And he stayed with them for an hour or so drinking tea, until he was sure Mr. Free was responding to the drug. And then he headed back."

"So who are they?" he prompted.

She stared out to sea. He followed her gaze. One of the fishing boats cleared the point of the harbor and raised rail. "You know we've had a lot of new workers lately, and that almost all of them are Chinese Indonesians."

"Sure."

"There was a movement, an independence movement, led by a group of the Chinese on Bali. They started agitating for autonomy and self-rule. The government didn't like it. About seven years ago all the leaders were arrested. Since then, no one knew where they were." She looked up at him. "They say that the guy called Mr. Free is their leader."

"They're terrorists?"

She made a face. "The government used to call them Marxist Communist revolutionaries, but now all opposition groups are called terrorists."

"You think maybe they were offered a choice between this and whatever prison they were held in?"

"It's possible. They're together. They're on their own."

"But this means they aren't really combatants. It means that, unlike the others, they can't leave.

"So Van Allan is doing Indonesia's dirty work for them. Maybe it was the condition under which they let him have the island."

"I thought he already owned an island."

"Easier to hide if it's not the same island." Grayson put the pieces together. "So Indonesia wants them kept prisoner, but not killed. And Van Allan is making sure they get to the rice men camp, where they've got a chance at survival."

"But Van Allan didn't send the medicine," Lucy pointed out. "It was people on staff who organized that. So maybe Indonesia doesn't care if these men are killed, they just don't want to be responsible. But there are others who do care."

"So how do we prove it?"

She shrugged. "Why does that matter when we can't tell anyone?"

James thought about it. "Not yet," he agreed. "But one day. And for that day, we should gather all the proof we will need."

She nodded, staring out over the harbor at the fishing boat still moored inside the sea wall. "I wonder how many more of them there are."

"So, is that the only reason you brought me out to the trackless wastes?"

She smiled. "Maybe I thought if I did, you'd give me some good memories to take back with me."

He cupped the back of her head with his hand, gently, and waited until she looked up at him. He thought about saying it, telling her he loved her. And then he wondered if it would sound to her like he was paying her back for information. So he kissed her instead, taking his time. It was another way of telling her, after all.

Later, they walked back to the studio holding hands. Beautiful, sexy, smart, exciting, Grayson thought. What had he done to be so lucky?

John Savage looked up at the row of senators seated in front of him. His hair was a little askew under the lights, which he was aware would make him look, on camera, like he was working hard. He altered the timbre of his voice, to sound with passion and conviction. When he'd been proposed as a candidate for governor of California, the Republican National Committee had set up this senate hearing, and invited him to come and testify. Two months into his campaign, the plan was for this appearance to carry his presence onto the national stage. It would show voters in California that he was a leader not only of the state, but for the nation. It would set his national career into motion in a way that was both series and important.

"In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to state that this legislation for gun control, while attractive, would cost us much more than we can afford. Our Second Amendment rights cannot, nor should not be abridged. And while evil men will take advantage of the right to bear arms, it is for law enforcement to control that, not the government to prevent it. Thank you very much."

The Republican leadership planned to seize the issue of law and order, just as they'd seized defense and fiscal responsibility. Once all important issues were Republican issues, it hardly mattered what the Democrats did. They'd be playing catch-up and me-too on everything that mattered. It would make them look like the weaklings that they were.

The liberal senator from Colorado, Arthur Mudbanks, gave Savage the set-up he'd been waiting for. "Mr. Savage, no one values our Bill of Rights as much as I do." (Hah, thought Savage, wondering how long it had been since he'd read it). "But our Founders lived in a different world, where a rifle was a farm tool for home defense and hunting. In more than two hundred years, times have changed. Weapons have changed. And our Constitution needs to change. Because one more school shooting, one more crazy man in a crowd, is one more innocent victim too many. Don't you think?" The senator remembered to put a question after the sound-byte from his re-election campaign, and sat back with a nod.

John Savage leaned forward into his microphone. This was the money shot. He wondered briefly what Thornton had done to get Mudbanks to set him up like this. He pitched his voice just right. "Senator," he said, "if you had the people behind you, instead of this half-assed measure, you could write a bill to repeal the Second Amendment. But the people are not behind you. The people know, just as you know, and I know, that the purpose of the Second Amendment is not about home defense, or hunting. It is in the Bill of Rights now, as it was the day it was passed, to insure that if another revolution ever becomes necessary, the people have the means to carry it out."

The flashes light up the room like fireworks, and for a moment, the noise of the applause in the room was too loud for anyone to talk over. John Savage sat back, remembering to look grimly determined, and not smile. He nodded at a few soft congratulations, and took a drink of water. He'd nailed it. This reply would rule the political airwaves for the next three days.

Or it would have, except that the following morning a fight from Savage Island was posted, where two heavily armored combatants with rapiers had been reduced to pounding each other with rocks for nearly an hour, before one of them had fallen insensible. The rock-smashing section led the news and talk shows for three days, with comments rising to a hysterical note, about man's inhumanity to man, and what could be done about it.

John Savage's masterful statement of his position on gun control was lost in the noise. Savage, and his whole team, was furious.

Ronnie sat on the tiny puddle-jumper clutching the carry-on bag that held bags of jerky that he'd bought in the airport in Sydney. Ronnie knew where Georgie was sitting, three rows ahead and across the aisle, but they'd both agreed that they'd pretend not to know each other until they got to the island and through the gates.

Both of them were pretty sure they could hold their own for awhile once they got out there. One thing was for sure, neither of them was going to try and take on some armored dude with big hairy weapons by themselves. Ronnie's secret weapon, his back-up plan, had always been his cousin George, and George's had always been him. Together, they were going to take that whole island for everything that it was worth. The rest of these guys would just be so much meat. He sat hugging his carry-on bag. This was going to be great.

A pretty Asian stewardess handed out bottles of beer, soda, juice or water. Everybody had some. And soon, all the passengers fell asleep.

James Grayson liked the Wolf Spider. He'd livened up a long string of sword, spear and shield men, about half of whom chose to stay and hang around the killing ground and engage whoever showed up. When Wolf Spider came on to the killing ground at the end of Grayson's morning session with Dawes and Lucy in the studio, James was planning to take a break. But then the gate opened for Wolf Spider, and no one came out.

"Where is he?" Dawes asked. "Did he forget to come out?"

"He's being careful," Grayson suggested.

"Maybe he got lost," Dawes said.

"Or he could have turned back." Grayson took the moment to remind everyone. "You're allowed to turn back at any time. No one is forced to go out onto Savage Island." He stopped there, because he was pretty sure now that that might not be true, at least in the case of the rice men.

"Well, it looks like Wolf Spider changed his mind and isn't going to ― "

"There he is!" Grayson exclaimed. A head could be seen emerging from the gate. Grayson thought the combatant must be lying flat on the ground for his head to be so low. "What is he doing?"

"Taking a look from a vantage point that isn't at eye-level can give you just that one more moment to see without being seen," Colonel Dawes opined.

"Unless there's a guy with a long spear, waiting right outside the gate." That had happened once. "Whoops, he's ― there he goes!" Grayson called, as Wolf Spider's head disappeared, followed by a short, lean form charging out the gate, running to the left, keeping close to the Wall. "He's running for the cliffs. What's he got in his hands?"

"Looks like ― a grappling hook!" Colonel Dawes said, his excitement bubbling through.

Wolf Spider dashed to the edge of the Wall that was built out over the cliffs. Then he turned and jogged more slowly along the edge of the cliff. He wore jungle camo a vest with lots of pockets, and straps around his body. He had a tight-fitting helmet on his head that Grayson realized he'd seen mountain climbers wear. His bulging pack was hung about on the outside with ropes, hooks, claws and hammers. Two long knives hung in sheathes from his belt.

Wolf Spider stopped all at once and dropped to the ground. In a fluid motion he swung himself over the edge of the cliff and was gone.

"What the ― ?"

"Well that's a new and unique strategy," Dawes exulted. "He's got ropes, knives, grappling hooks and he's wearing a rappelling harness."

"Have we got a shot of the cliff edge?" Grayson asked, with the feeling growing that this combatant had eluded not only any possible opponent, but the production team as well.

Farley spoke in his ear. "We're on it. Give it a sec ― there you go."

One of the helicams over the island zoomed along the cliff edge on the western shore of the island, and soon a long shot showed Wolf Spider climbing slowly down the face of the cliff.

"Wow, what a guy!" Grayson said.

"I wonder what he's going to do when he runs out of cliff?" Dawes wondered.

"Find a cave?" Grayson suggested. "Isn't that what wolf spiders do? Let's see where everyone else is, and who might be the first combatant to spot the Wolf Spider."

"Dave, thank you for coming up."

Dave Thornton shook the outstretched hand, and endured the obligatory clap on the shoulder from Hamilton Graves that went with it. John Savage had once told him that the more a man touched you during a hand-shake, the more you should look out for your wallet, and guard your throat. He looked around the room. Three other members of the Republican leadership had gathered up here while the official meet-and-greet drinks party to honor John Savage went on down stairs, with Hamilton Graves's beautiful young wife Tracy Orr-Graves, as the gracious hostess.

"I'm not sure why you wanted to see me," Thornton said diffidently. "John's the man you want to talk to. Let me just get him for you . . ."

Graves's arm came around his shoulder again, leading him away from the door. A fake fire burned in the grate. Comfortable ― expensive ― red leather chairs defined conversation groups in front of floor to ceiling bookshelves that contained more art objects than books. The heavy red velvet curtains blocked out the view of the river outside. "No," Graves said, guiding him to where the other three people stood nursing drinks by the fireplace. "We need to talk to you."

"Senator Stearns," Dave stepped forward to offer his hand. "Good to see you again. Your nephew Michael has been doing great work for us, in California."

"Glad to hear it," the tall, aging senator replied, though his tone was distant. Not a good sign.

"Ms. Munroe," Thornton nodded to the late governor of Tennessee's wife, who was running for the office now herself.

"Mr. Thornton, good to see you." Big smile. Hearty handshake. But her eyes remained cold. Thornton nodded to Max Wisenberg, more and more certain he wasn't going to enjoy this meeting.

"Sit, sit!" Graves urged them. "Dave, you don't have a drink. Can I get you something?"

"I'm fine, thank you." Dave sat warily, feeling more and more like a vegetarian at a hunting convention.

"New polls are out," Senator Stearns said without preamble. "Savage is down four points."

Thornton nodded. "Yes, I saw. We expected that. His opponent, Dickerson, just announced; he had a big spread in the Times and the Chronicle, and he went on the Colbert show and didn't make a complete fool of himself. This is Dickerson's opening charge. You always get a bump right out the gate. But notice, we're still ahead." He smiled, and invited a new topic. "John did well before the Senate, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did," Claudia Munroe's eyes warmed for the first time. "Great speech. Great statement."

Graves raised his voice. "Yes. Good to have an articulate voice like that on our side of the issue!"

Senator Stearns nodded fondly. "I remember when I used to go hunting with my father ―"

"He lost the news cycle," Wisenberg broke in. "Savage Island rock fights. That's what they're talking about. He might as well have said shit."

Thornton's smile hardened. "We'll pick up the statement in our next round of ads. It won't get buried."

"You're being buried," Wisenberg said. "You pissed off Jules Van Allan. I don't know how that got past us, but Van Allan has a lot of resources, and he obviously doesn't intend John Savage to win." He leaned forward, glaring at Thornton. "So he's not going to win!"

"The Savage Island problem is being taken care of," Thornton said, with as much quiet assurance as he could project, while thinking furiously about how he could get Savage to bring more pressure to bear on Colonel Fontaine. He smiled. "It's in hand, at a level I'm not at liberty to discuss."

"I haven't been briefed," the senator said, in an offended tone.

Munroe's eyes gleamed. Thornton could just about see her running through the rolodex of her mind, for people who could give her the skinny on measures being taken to shut down Savage Island. And that, too, would bring more pressure to bear.

He got up, still smiling. "Don't give up on us yet," he said. "California is ready for John Savage." He paused at the door. "You don't want to be behind that curve." His smile faded as he shut the door behind him. He'd have a word with Savage, and then get somewhere private and call Colonel Fontaine.

Javier Moreno met the three guys in the park during an extended family picnic. They were at the next table over, having trouble with their barbecue. Javier responded to their good-natured jibes, and accepted their really good beer while he showed them how to get their fire going. They had a bunch of tuna steaks in a cooler, and if they didn't understand fire, one of them sure could cook.

Javier Moreno had been a sixteen-year old in the back seat of the second car when the two passenger-side windows opened to spray bullets into a crowd of rich kids in line for some high-end club. He'd turned in his seat and watched the bodies jerk and fall, the turmoil of the mob, the charging and retreating chaos they'd left in their wake. He'd been on fire. He wished he'd had a gun. It had been so cool! To be the secret hit man, to scrape your fingers across an anthill and watch them die. If he'd had a gun, he'd have leaned out the back window and gone on shooting until they were out of sight. He still thought about it sometimes. And they'd gotten away with it. That was the kicker.

He'd been in prison twice in the fifteen years since. Once, for robbing the convenience store, when he'd popped that guy in the butt. The guy'd run, and never even told the cops, cause he knew Javier from the neighborhood. He knew what would happen. He'd done three years the second time, when he and his cousin held up a gas station. And they'd gotten shit for it too. Guy didn't have any money at all.

The barbecue guys told him about deep sea fishing, how they left at dawn out of San Pedro and went out to the deeps and fought the big fish, and brought back a freezer full. They were supposed to go out again, but their fourth guy had bailed, his grandmother in Mexico had died. His slot was all paid for, but no one they knew had the time. They talked about fishing trips, the fun they'd had, and the fish they'd caught. Javier drank more beer. In the end, they offered him the fourth slot, because they thought he was such a great guy. And he thought it sounded like fun, so he said he'd come.

They met him at the gas station on the corner about half a mile from his house, just like they said. He brought a coat, because it might be cold, and a hat, and sunscreen, like they said. He got in their car, and no one ever saw him again.

Ronnie winked at his cousin during orientation. They were here! They really were here! And none of these guys looked like much. Georgie glared at him, and then looked away like he hadn't seen him. Right. They didn't know each other. Not till they got out there.

He'd picked out a leather coat of steel rings from the catalog on the Savage Island website, because it looked bitchin. He liked the articulated metal leg armor with the wings at the knees that buckled in the back, because he'd seen enough guys on the Savage Island broadcast bleed out from a leg wound to know that it could save your life. But now that he was here, and it was so hot, he was thinking he might not need that much armor. And anyway, if he took less armor, he could have a really tall spear, and a long sword, and a short sword, and a long knife, and a knife in his boot, and an extra short sword down his back and he could reach back with one hand and pull it and throw it and it would stick in the guy's neck and he'd die before he even got close.

Ronnie really loved Savage Island. And the food in the dining hall was great.

It took John Savage two days to get through to Colonel Fontaine, and when he did, the news was not good.

"I cannot meet with you at this time," Fontaine said over the cell phone.

"When?" Savage said. He pressed the phone to his ear in the pause that followed.

"Not for awhile. This is not a good time."

"Al, it's important."

"Yes," Fontaine replied. "Which is why you need to keep your distance." He added, "Understand?"

Savage thought about that. If Fontaine had something going, it was possible that any connection to his campaign would represent a political blunder. As long as Fontaine was on it, he could trust the outcome. "I understand."

"Good," Fontaine said. Then his voice rose sharply and he added. "Next time use a land line!" and he disconnected.

Savage grimaced. He should have known. Talking to the Colonel about important matters on a cell phone, in Washington, D.C., was something only an idiot would do. He ran through the conversation again, but couldn't remember saying anything that might pose a problem. He took heart, because if any connection with Fontaine at this point was that toxic, then something consequential must be in the works.

Grayson's tremor was back. He had as much right as anyone to use the medical facilities on the island, but he didn't want it known that he was experiencing this weakness. He'd taken to keeping his hand in his pocket. He'd decided, too, that a little bit of alcohol, if it couldn't make it go away, would at least make it less noticeable. If only to him.

He was pretty well in charity with Dawes these days. Two nights ago, Dawes had joined him at his table at the Last Resort, when he sat nursing a bottle of excellent single malt. He'd offered Dawes a glass in silence and sat cupping his right hand in his left, so the tremor didn't show.

"Hard day," Dawes said.

Grayson nodded. You wanted the good guys to win. When an enthusiastic kid with a fascination for armor and tales of quests and daring-do left his college where he was majoring in history and minoring in game design, and took his scale armor, his broadsword, his round shield, and probably a spell of misdirection out onto the killing ground, and met a retired mercenary soldier who'd been killing people as far back as Kosovo, and took the kid out with one blow, that was hard. The sounds of the kid gurgling his life away while his feet churned in the sand, still ran through his mind. The killer walked back in with three ear tags, and asked to be dropped in South Africa. Later on, one of the sand walkers had been ambushed on the western shore by a guy who'd sat for two days on top of one of the big rocks, and then dropped a lasso on him. He'd stuck him with a spear while he was trussed, and then dragged the body to the sea so it wouldn't give his position away.

"It's always like this," Dawes told him. "At the start of the war, you're excited. You're going to right wrongs and teach the bad guy a lesson. Might seems like the best way to show your worth, and there's send-offs with speeches, and marching on to the transport with men you've trained with for years. And tons of new equipment, the best. And everyone is charged up. Going off to war. Nothing like it in the world." Dawes took a slow drink and nodded appreciatively. "Good stuff," he said.

"The best," Grayson agreed.

"Then," Dawes continued, "you get there. And it's hurry up and wait, over and over again. But finally you're out there, in harm's way with your weapon in your hand, scared enough to shit yourself, and any second you could get your head blown off. And you're still charged up, because this is what it's all about, all that training. All that history. War. The thrill of it. Kill or be killed." He took another drink, staring off into a place Grayson had never been. "The first time you see someone you know splattered into shreds. The first time you hear the screaming. The first time you get blood all over you. And that's when you know." He met Grayson's eyes with a hard smile. "War is fucked. It's stupid. Us here, with artillery, with bombs dropping from the sky, those guys there, and we cap em. We take them out. Sometimes from miles away. Rags. Tangled bundles of rags lying in the street." His glass came up again, and he drained it with a jerk. "What a fucked up way to solve problems." His smile became a sneer and his head went back. "Who are we kidding. We're not solving problems. We're killing people and taking their shit. Killing people. Taking their shit. That's war.

He pushed his glass over, and Grayson filled it for him, right to the top.

"Thanks." Dawes took a sip. "At least here, there is some honor in it. And the gain goes to the soldier, not to the business interests pressuring for more and more war."

"I'm not used to killing," Grayson ventured. "It's not easy to see so many men die."

"Good," said Dawes. "You get used to it, you stop feeling it, and you're really fucked up." He drained his drink and rose, laying his hand on Grayson's shoulder, but not to steady himself. "You're a good man, James. It's a pleasure to work with you." He patted his shoulder, gave him a nod, and left. Grayson watched him go, not seeing a trace of the drinks he'd had.

### Chapter Fifteen

"Ken," Van Allan called through the door. "Come in here a moment."

"Yes sir?"

Van Allan nodded behind him. "Close the door."

"Sir."

Van Allan took a seat behind his desk, leaned back and steepled his fingers. Ken Frize felt a frisson of fear as he met Van Allan's cold blue eyes.

Van Allan regarded him steadily for a moment until Frize dropped his eyes. He said, "Did I ever tell you about the time my son took my car?"

"No, sir."

"I was away on a business trip. He borrowed my Jaguar XJ, and took a friend for a drive on Highway One, up the coast of California. Do you know what I did to him?"

Ken shook head. He knew what this was about now. "Sir, I can explain ―"

Van Allan lifted one hand. "No need, I assure you. I got my son a job in an auto body shop, painting cars. He supported himself, and paid me the remainder of his wages until he'd paid his debt."

"Did he wreck the car?"

"No, no. Brought it back without a scratch on it. No, I simply charged him rent for it. And a Jaguar XJ is an expensive rental. Especially when you add in the insurance. It took him four months. He had to be tutored all summer so he didn't have to repeat his junior year."

"You took him out of college?"

"I took him out of high school. He learned a great deal in that factory. And the next time he wanted to drive my car, he asked me."

"You were unavailable," Frize stated. "You said you didn't want to be disturbed. The man was signaling. You can see it on the tapes."

Van Allan sat forward, holding Frize's gaze until he stopped talking. "You are perfectly aware that nothing is broadcast from here that we don't permit."

"I couldn't be certain . . . "

"But that was not for you to decide. You wanted to take my drone for a spin. And you got a man killed."

Ken's temper fired up. "But he was out there already. He has just about a fifty-fifty chance of getting killed anyway."

"And you made certain he did."

"He had to be stopped," Frize said doggedly.

"Very well. If you were so certain, why didn't you bring it to me afterward? Why wait and let me find out when I reviewed the week's reports?"

Ken was silent. Van Allan nodded. "You acted disgracefully, and you know it. You wanted to try out the drone, and leaped at the first excuse."

"I only acted to protect Savage Island, and all it stands for."

Van Allan lost his temper. His voice grew distant, measured and cold. "By shooting a man with a drugged dart from a drone? Yes, that is exactly what we stand for here."

"I thought it had to be done. And if so, better by me than someone who isn't as committed . . . "

"You bitched it. You missed him."

"I did not!"

"The darts you buried in the sand had to be recovered. The cost of that recovery will be deducted from your pay." Van Allan dropped his hands. His eyes blazed. "Don't ever touch my toys again."

Ken felt the look right to his gut. He swallowed hard. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

"Go."

Ken walked to the door. It seemed like a long way. As he closed it, he ventured again, "I did it to protect the Island." But Van Allan said nothing, and Frize closed the door quietly behind him.

It was hard not to look over at Georgie. All his cool stuff was laid out on the table, and he wanted to see if Georgie had seen that cool butterfly knife. Georgie was across the room, talking to an armorer. He'd always wanted to try out a butterfly knife. He'd gotten a morningstar, not one of the lame ones with the big long chain, but one just a foot long, that the armorer called a flail. The spikes on the steel ball were two inches long, and it packed a hell of a wallop! He'd knocked apart a dummy on the practice field in nothing flat. He couldn't wait to try it out there. He couldn't wait to show it to Georgie. He looked over there, but Georgie was walking away. Still pretending they didn't know each other. They had to do that, for one more day.

He was still wearing his leg armor, it was so cool the way the plates bent at the knee and over his boots. Wearing the whole rig today had been awesome. He'd gotten a long sword with a single edge and a blood groove; that was cool! And he got a couple of gauntlets with metal plates over the fingers that looked awesome. It had cost a lot of points, but that wasn't going to matter. Not once they were out on the Island, and could take whatever they wanted. He'd picked a big old helmet with horns coming out of it, and a chain mail mantle in the back with pointed ends. He'd changed his mind about the big leather coat with the rings when he'd seen the lighter one with the silvery plates. It looked so good. He had a shield, which Georgie said he'd need, at least at first. He thought they were stupid, until he found out you could customize them. He'd gotten them to paint an eagle on his, with wings outstretched, coming right at you when you looked at it. It was so bitchin cool!

He picked up the helmet again and put it on. He wondered if Georgie was going to recognize him with it on. Huh. They hadn't thought about that. He'd have to remember and signal. Except, he didn't know what Georgie's helmet looked like. He looked around. They didn't like it if you went to one of the other tables and looked at the stuff. They'd come and tell you to get lost. In a nice way, but still. And he didn't know exactly which table Georgie's stuff was on. Huh.

The helmet fit real good. He thought about putting the armored leather coat on again. But it was almost dinner time. Georgie'd know what to do about recognizing each other. He'd have thought of it already and worked it out.

He was keyed up about tomorrow. He was keyed up about tonight, too. One of the kitchen workers had told him, that the women on the island took turns to sleep with the warriors the night before they went out. That would be so awesome! He hoped his was an Asian chick. He'd never done an Asian chick. And they were so hot.

He put his helmet back on the table and stroked the cool metal. He touched the stock of his flail and imagined whacking someone with it real hard. "Ker-flang!" he said softly. He looked around. None of the other combatants were around. Just some of the guys who worked with the armorer. He was going to have fun tonight, and even more fun tomorrow. "Ker-flang!"

Mario Aparichio was slotted into an early release program from prison by the combined efforts of an expensive attorney, and an interested prison director whose wife had a gambling problem. Mario found himself unexpectedly processed for release without even the opportunity of calling home and telling anyone he was on his way. When he got outside the gate, he realized he'd have to go back in and call someone for a ride. But then a cab pulled up, and the driver leaned out and called his name. It seemed his obliging new attorney had even provided a lift back home.

Mario had an enjoyable trip, thinking about how surprised his wife would be to see him when he walked in the door, and wondering if he'd catch her in bed with her old boyfriend. His kids would be so happy to see him. The little one was probably walking by now. And his mom would come by with those enchiladas that he'd missed so much.

It got a little warm in the car, so he adjusted the two vents below the driver's partition in front of him so they were fully open, and pointed at him. After awhile, he fell pleasantly asleep.

If he had woken some hours later, he would have found himself in the company of an old friend. Angel Sifuentes's all-expense paid trip to Hawaii had been short-lived after he was escorted to the first class lounge and offered food and drink. Later he was loaded on to a private plane from a wheelchair, and began what would be his last journey.

"Hold on, sir," Colonel Fontaine said into his phone. "I'll get you an update on that." He hit the button and called out to his aide. "Trev? Have Planchette and Meridor checked in yet? How late are they now?"

Captain Trevor appeared in the doorway. "Sir, Doug Planchette is dead."

"What's that?"

Trevor came forward and sifted through the pile in his inbox. "Here it is."

Fontaine picked up the phone again. "Sir? I'll get back to you with that information shortly. Yes, sir." He hung up the phone and took the papers from Trevor's hand.

Captain Trevor, who knew Colonel Fontaine's preferences, told him, "His sister, or rather, the woman listed on his application to Savage Island as his sister, and his next of kin, was notified of his death this morning. They've asked her what she wants done with the remains."

Fontaine's jaw worked. "Did they tell her how it happened?"

"No, sir. Only that he died in combat some days ago."

"All right. There's your window. Download all the footage you can and see if you can find out what happened to him."

"Yes, sir."

With half a dozen people looking, it only took a few hours for someone to find the footage of Hiawatha's fight against Nimbus, where Hiawatha was struck down and killed.

"Something's not right about that," Fontaine said, watching it for the second time.

"That's what I thought,, sir," Captain Trevor said. "Look; it's like he's frozen in place. When Nimbus comes into his range, he doesn't react, he just stands there."

"Let's run it back. Get me all the vid of Hiawatha from the time he came through the gate onto the Island."

"Yes, sir."

As it happened, there was no such footage. People who trolled the Island website, and followed the combatants from day to day, told the Major that, not often, but every now and then there was such a glitch, and a combatant couldn't be tracked back to the gate where he had originated.

Captain Trevor brought the news to Colonel Fontaine.

"Coincidence? My ass," Fontaine said, with the healthy disrespect of a person who had been manufacturing coincidences his entire professional career. "They made him, and then they killed him. When the remains arrive, we'll have a full autopsy. Then we'll know more."

Unfortunately, the people in charge on Savage Island made a terrible mistake, and what they shipped back to Doug Planchette's next-of-kin was a very handsome urn containing, supposedly, his ashes. When contacted, they were most apologetic, and offered several thousands of dollars in compensation.

On hearing of this second coincidence, Fontaine said, "Right. Now we know. So," he added, "what are we going to do about it?"

Ronnie sprinted out the left-hand gate as soon as it opened. He and Georgie had talked about this over and over. The biggest problem, Georgie said, would be if someone was waiting right outside the gate. That sometimes happened, they'd seen. There was this one guy who'd cold cocked another guy right when he was running out. That's why Ronnie had a shield held up in front of him as he ran out the gate. A bigger problem would have been if someone else already had their idea, but once he got out onto the killing ground, he saw it was empty, so probably they were fine.

He'd drawn lucky number seven. Georgie had been at last night's drawing, so he knew he'd be coming out today too, but he didn't know what number he had. The next important thing was to stay out of trouble until they hooked up. That is, unless you met someone really wimpy. If he saw one of those, he'd take him, and be one up on Georgie before they even hooked up. Unless Georgie was out here already. He could have come out earlier. He could already have been in a fight. Or he could be waiting.

Ronnie scanned the tree line. That's where they'd agreed to wait. He didn't see anyone, so he trotted across the killing field and took one of the narrow trails into the woods. A little ways down the trail he stepped into the trees and made his way through the dense woods until he found a spot where he could see past the trunks onto the killing ground, and watch the three gates. Then he put down his stuff, got out his water bottle, and knelt down to wait.

That girl last night, she'd been great. Fun and funny, and willing to go again and again. She'd laughed with him, and petted him, looked into his eyes and kissed him deeply, and then wished him well today. He got hard again thinking about her. She'd been really nice. She'd been outside the gate just now, to give him one more kiss and a wave, with tears in her eyes. He'd thought about telling her he was going to be fine, once he hooked up with Georgie, but he remembered they weren't telling anyone their plan. Not till people saw it for themselves. Still, he'd look her up again when he got back. She'd been really great.

Once of the guys had said he was going to ask for two girls, on his last night. Ronnie'd been too shy to do that. But maybe when he got back, and had all those eartags, and all that money in the bank, maybe then he do that. Because nobody could disrespect him then. They'd be rich, him and Georgie, and after that they could do whatever they wanted for the rest of their lives.

Three hours later, James Grayson noted that Unstoppable Force was about to step on to the killing ground. He made a joke about the name to Dawes, and looked back at his notes and saw that, yes, earlier that day, the seventh combatant onto the Island that morning called himself Immovable Thing. He looked at the map that monitored all the combatant's locations, and saw that Immovable Thing was still hanging out just inside the tree line.

Unstoppable Force charged out of the center gate onto the killing ground with his shield held high. He looked around, and then trotted off toward the treeline. James Grayson made another joke about the unstoppable force making a beeline for the immovable thing, and then Immovable Thing appeared out of the trees. But then the two fighters met, and they didn't fight.

Instead, they just stood there by the trees, talking to each other. After awhile, the two came out of the shade and took up positions in the middle of the killing ground, facing the gates, though every now and then one of them would turn and scan the treeline and the openings of the pathways behind them.

"Is this allowed? That two fighters team up?"

"There aren't any rules out there," Grayson said.

"Who's up next?" Dawes asked. They were both hoping that whoever came out next was not a sand walker, or a rice man. Grayson saw it in Dawes's glance.

"Our next combatant," Grayson tried to sound chipper, "hails from Ohio, in the United States. He is a retired Marine, and teaches P.E. at the Barton School for Boys."

"A prep school?"

"Ah, no, looks like it's a correctional facility. Must be a tough guy."

"Well," Dawes reminded him, "he is a Marine."

"Right."

Helldog charged out of the right-hand gate. He carried a six-foot spear with a leaf-shaped spear head with a cross-bar, and a hooked butt-spike at the other end. He wore heavy metal gauntlets, and a shield on his arm. A long sword hung at his left side, and a short sword from his right, and crossed bandoleers in which were stuck several knives.

Helldog caught sight of the two combatants who already held the killing ground, and immediately shifted to the right, circling around Immovable Thing to put him between himself and Unstoppable Force.

Dawes pointed out with enthusiasm, "That's the way to do it if you're in the position of fighting two opponents at once ― you move so that the two of them are stacked, one behind the other, and that way you're only facing one at a time."

The wide shot on the monitor showed Helldog closing on Immovable Thing, and continuing to shift to the right, to keep Unstoppable Force from working his way out from behind his partner. Immovable Thing struck out at Helldog with his flail, punching away blows of his spear with his shield.

"He'll have to finish him quick," Dawes said. "This is a dangerous situation where a moment of inattention, or if he loses sight of just where Unstoppable Force is, could get him blindsided in a hurry. There! That's ― " he started to say, as Helldog struck out at Immovable Thing, pushing him back, but then the Immovable Thing lowered his head and charged, just like a linebacker, tackling Helldog and bearing him down to the ground. Helldog's spear was pinned under Immovable Thing's body. Helldog wormed one of his hands free and groped for a knife, but by then, Unstoppable Force had come up, angled his sword under the edge of Helldog's helmet, and stabbed down.

Ronnie jumped up off the still-thrashing Helldog with a curse. "Ah, fucker!" He tried to wipe off some of the blood that had spurted into his face. "What'd you do that for?"

"Whaddaya mean?" Georgie chortled. "I got him!"

"Fucker!" Ronnie said. He clawed at the buckle on his helmet, but his gauntlets got in his way. He dropped his shield and flail, dragged off his gloves and pulled off his helmet. He didn't want Georgie to know, but the smell of the blood, and getting it on his face, made him want to puke.

"Cut that out!" Georgie yelled at him. "What are you doing? Anybody could come! Put that shit back on, you idiot! You have to stand guard while I finish this."

"In a sec!" Ronnie yelled back at him. "Fuckwad." There was nothing to wipe his face with. And then he'd had enough and turned away and vomited until he was dry, while Georgie laughed at him.

"Come on!" Georgie said, "Get it together. We've only just started."

"Shut the fuck up!" Ronnie said. "I got fucking blood in my mouth. Asshole."

Georgie laughed again, but at least he did something about it. He pulled off Helldog's helmet, then proceeded to strip off his armor. He cut and tore the guy's shirt off, and handed it to Ronnie to wipe his face, with a bottle of Helldog's water.

"Thanks." Ronnie scrubbed off the blood, sluiced his face and scrubbed it again, until he couldn't smell it on him anymore. He could still taste it, and the feeling that some of it was in his throat still made him want to upchuck.

"You did good," Georgie said. "And it worked! The plan worked!"

"Yeah," said Ronnie. He blew his nose on the shirt.

"We got him! Look at this!" Georgie sliced Helldog's eartag off and held it up. "That's a hundred thousand, right there. Half for you, and half for me."

"Yeah!" said Ronnie. Fifty grand was more than he made in a year.

"Here." Georgie got Helldog's other bottle of water and helped Ronnie wash out the inside of his helmet. "Come on, you gotta get this back on. We're going to have another fighter out here any minute."

Grayson and Dawes looked at each other. "Well, that's a new one," Grayson said. "They're obviously in collusion."

Colonel Dawes watched Immovable Thing get back into his helmet. "Yeah, but you know, a lot can happen out there. If one of them makes a mistake, another combatant could take them both. They can't be experienced at fighting like this, hand-to-hand, to the death. Nobody is. One of them might get wounded."

"Let's see who we have coming out next," Grayson said, checking his notes.

"General," Colonel Fontaine said, "Thank you for seeing us," as he and the NSA liaison, and the Marine Colonel filed in to General Fleishchmann's office at the Pentagon.

"What's this about, gentlemen?"

Fontaine saw that his report was sitting open in front of the general on his desk, but he went ahead and told the general about the two operatives they had sent in to Savage Island, Then he put the computer on the General's desk, and started the clip where Nimbus, in his big round helmet and body armor, paced up to Hiawatha. Hiawatha stood on guard, holding his quarterstaff a little off-center, at the ready. Nimbus made a feint with his spear, and when Hiawatha still didn't react, he followed through and speared him in the gut. Hiawatha crumpled forward and fell to the ground.

The General Fleischmann said unhappily, "Are you sure that's our man?"

"It's Doug Planchette," Colonel Fontaine stated.

"We have a positive ID."

"What do we think happened?" the General asked..

"He may have killed five or six of the other fighters," the Marine Colonel suggested, "with such efficiency that he gave away just who and what he was."

"It looks like he was drugged," Charlson, the NSA liaison opined.

"That's all speculation,," Colonel Fontaine said. "The fact is, one of our own has been killed in plain sight, on the Island he was sent to reconnoiter. The question is, what do we do about it?"

The men looked at General Fleischmann. The General said, "It's obvious. We can't let this continue. Savage Island must be shut down."

"Thank you, sir." Fontaine smiled to himself. John Savage was so going to owe him for this.

By the time their fourth opponent came out of the gate, Unstoppable Force and Immovable Thing had developed a system that worked. One of them stood in front of the right-hand gate, and one of them stood in front of the left. Whoever's gate opened, that guy backed off and stayed out of range until the other could come up, and then the two of them would attack him together until he died. The second guy, Sinbad, had charged out the gate and attacked Ronnie, who'd swatted aside his long spear, backing away across the sand, and was just about to pound him with his flail, when George came up from behind and stabbed him in the back. Sinbad probably hadn't even noticed George. Ronnie felt a surge of anger that he hadn't gotten to try his new weapon yet, but that evaporated because George was so happy about the way their plan worked. He let Ronnie hold on to the second eartag, because they were splitting them, just like he said.

They took the time to strip the guy, pile up his pack and his weapons and armor, and drag the body over to where the first guy lay. Georgie said when they had some time they'd throw the bodies over the cliff.

The third guy, Wind Over Water, was fast. He came out of the center gate, saw both of them waiting for him, and high-tailed it for the trees. Georgie and Ronnie pounded after him, and this time Ronnie did get to use his flail, because he threw it at the guy just before he reached the path. It hit the guy in the back of the head and he stumbled, and Georgie was on him before he could recover.

The fourth guy came right out the gate in front of Ronnie. A short, heavy guy with two big swords and a shield on his back, in plate armor down to his steel-toed boots, he charged at Ronnie like a little tank, caught sight of Georgie heading his way, and swerved away toward the cliffs. Ronnie ran after him, and this time he got to pound away with the flail, blocking the guy's attempts to strike him down by punching them away with his shield. Before Georgie could catch up, Ronnie figured out that he was not going to be able to put a dent in that helmet, so he nailed the guy in the arm and then pounded down on his shoulder. He picked up a foot and shoved him and the guy went over. Sure, Georgie distracted the guy, and blocked his sword right before Ronnie creamed him, but this one was his. He cut the helmet off himself, and was about to cut the eartag off, when Georgie yelled at him and he remembered, you had to wait until it turned black. So, he waited, but it didn't happen, so he took the guy's own sword and stepped back out of the way and chopped him in the throat. Then he laughed and laughed. Georgie had just leaned in to see if the eartag had changed color yet, and didn't get what Ronnie was about to do. The spurt of blood caught Georgie right in the chin, and Georgie stamped around and cursed, and accused Ronnie of doing it on purpose, but he hadn't. He cut the eartag off, and he kept that one too.

"They're obviously in collusion," Ken Frize said, looking over Jules Van Allan's shoulder to watch his monitor. Unstoppable Force and Immovable Thing had stacked the fourth body neatly by the eastern cliffs, and taken up their stands again in front of the first and third gates.

"Yes," Van Allan said.

"How long do you want to let this go on?"

Van Allan smiled. "Why does it matter?"

"Well, they're ― this isn't what Savage Island is about. It's about personal courage, and facing your opponent man to man."

"Is it?" Van Allan leaned back. "I think we can let nature take its course. There are a lot of dangerous men still to come today."

"But if we let them do it, doesn't that mean any teams of guys can come out and, and, take over the Island?"

Van Allan turned his chair to look at him. "Do you think that likely? Obviously we cannot extend out background checks to the point where we know if any of our applicants have ever met one another before. That's pointless."

"Then you're going to just let them keep on?"

"Why not? What do you think we should do?"

Ken Frize hesitated. But damn it, what did they have the thing for, if not for situations like this? "I think we should take them out. Both of them."

Van Allan huffed a laugh. "As you did oh so prematurely to our signaler."

"Isn't that why you got the drones? For problems like this?"

Van Allan looked back at the monitor. The Unstoppable Force and the Immovable Thing still stood their vigil. "This is not that kind of problem. Not yet."

"But they're cheating!"

"Yes," Van Allan says. "Except that there's nothing in the rules that says two men cannot team up. We'll leave it for the time being." He got up. "Let's get some lunch. By the time we get back, they may both be dead."

Ken took another glance at the monitor, hoping something had changed to back up his point, but the two combatants still stood waiting. Van Allan would see. He was right about this. He followed his boss out of the office.

John Savage finished his tour of the Bay Area community college, sticking his head into classrooms in session, inspecting the state-of-the-art computer lab, hearing a short performance at the music department, and then sitting down for lunch with the president, the vice presidents ― there seemed to be six of them ― the deans and some of the faculty and staff. Afterward he gave a short speech, sympathizing with the continued cuts the community colleges had taken, praised them as the backbone of the higher education system, and promised that when he was governor, they would see glory days like never before.

He could make this speech in his sleep by now. He opened the floor to questions certain he had made his point, and convinced anyone that could be convinced that he would be the Education Governor. The questions that followed were about the specifics of his plan, and his funding. He brought the event to a close with a big round of applause, and shook everyone's hand he could reach before David Thornton ushered him back out to his car.

"That went well," Thornton said.

"Yes," Savage replied, checking the messages on his phone. "Not one mention of Savage Island the whole time." He held up his hand to David, who was about to speak, and listened to one of the messages. Then he closed the phone with a snap. He was smiling.

"Good news?"

"The best. Savage Island. It's taken care of."

"Oh, man, did you see the look on his face?" Ronnie asked for the fourth time. He laughed again, thinking about it. The guy had been dressed in a big golden helmet with a Mohawk of bright red hair sticking up on top. It looked cool! He'd stepped out of the gate, seen Georgie and Ronnie waiting for him, and the pile of bodies on the killing field, and the stack of stuff they'd got, and he'd gone right back in the gate. Ronnie laughed again. "That sure was funny!"

"It'd be funnier if we'd gotten to kill him first," Georgie said.

They'd killed all but one. One had managed to outrun the two of them, and had sprinted down the center road through the trees. They'd decided not to go after him. For now.

"Yeah. And anyway, there's only one way back to the gates, and that's through us," Georgie said. "We can get them all."

"Yeah." Ronnie took his eartags out of his pants pocket and counted them again. "Eight hundred thousand! We got eight hundred thousand!"

"Well we're staying here until we get a million," Georgie said. "A million each."

"Yeah," said Ronnie. "A million." He got up, looking over to the west where the sun was just starting to set. "Isn't there one more guy coming out?"

"I think it's over for the day," Georgie replied. He'd dug some rations out of his pack and was chewing on an energy bar.

"I think there's one more," Ronnie insisted. He picked up his helmet and put it back on, pulled on his gloves and grabbed his shield and his flail.

"Sit down," Georgie said. "That was the last one."

Ronnie didn't answer. He went to stand across from the center gate, the way Shadow had, and waited. Sure enough, a few minutes later the gate to his right opened, and a short stout figure trotted on to the sand. He wore a sleek metal helmet with a single slit for his eyes, painted dark green. A green surcote covered the chainmail skirt that fell below his knees. He carried a sword and a curved rectangular shield, holding the edge up close to his eyes. He saw Ronnie, raised his sword in salute, and headed for him.

"Come on, Georgie!" Ronnie yelled.

The short guy, Cane Toad, swung a blow at Ronnie's leg. Ronnie jerked down his shield to block it and saw the sword change direction straight for his head. He managed to duck, but the sword glanced off his helmet hard enough to jerk his head sideways, and it hurt! "Georgie!" Ronnie yelled, backing away as quickly as he could, while Cane Toad tried to get close enough to strike at him again. Ronnie barely managed to block another sword blow with the stock of his flail, which was almost pulled out of his hand.

That's when Georgie finally came charging up and knocked the little green guy down.

"Bout time!" Ronnie shouted. "Shit! That hurt! What were you doing, man?"

Georgie was trying to kill the little green guy, who scrabbled backward on the sand, backing away as quickly as Georgie advanced, and blocking any of his sword blows that came in range. Ronnie followed after them, still shaking his head to clear it. He was mad.

"Come on!" Ronnie called. "Get this over with!" He swung his flail around over his head, and then had to duck as he almost conked himself with it.

"Truce!" the little guy yelled. "Truce!" He'd reached the western edge of the killing ground, and stood with his back to the cliffs. "Or I'll jump!"

"Go ahead," Georgie invited him. "Either way you end up dead."

"Hey, no!" Ronnie yelled. "If he jumps, we won't get his eartag!"

They could hear the surf pounding at the foot of the cliffs.

"That's right," Cane Toad said. "If I jump, I'm a dead loss to you." When he saw Ronnie wasn't about to come any closer, he moved his sword hand to the side of his helmet, and flipped up his visor, revealing bright hazel eyes, a grizzled beard, and a round face flushed with the heat and excitement. He grinned at them.

"Cool!" said Ronnie. He moved forward to look more closely at the helmet, but the sword came up again, holding him away.

"Whaddaya want?" Georgie asked.

"To join you."

"We don't need you."

"Don't you? I nearly got away from you. If there were three of you, instead of only two, we could easily cut anyone off before they left the killing ground. And," he added, "you could cut people off from getting back through the gates, like the guy who went out before me. Big red Roman-crested helmet? Golden breastplate?" He saw the cousins glance at each other. "If there were three men, you could afford to stand beside the gates instead of in front of them, until you saw which was about to open, and cut off anyone who comes out before they can change their mind."

"He's right," Ronnie said. "We coulda had that last guy."

"We've got this one, already," Georgie pointed out.

"There are a lot more where I came from. And three on one is a certainty."

The cousins looked at each other again. Then Georgie said, "How do we know we can trust you?"

"We've never had a surrender before," Dawes noted, watching the monitor.

"Is that what this is?" Grayson asked.

Both of them had stayed long past their shift, fascinated by this new turn that Savage Island had taken. They'd had food brought in, rather than going off to the dining room, and taken turns eating rather than take a chance at missing a moment of the drama as it unfolded that afternoon.

"That's what it looks like."

Cane Toad knelt down at the cliff edge and laid his sword and shield on the sand. He popped off his helmet and handed it to Immovable Thing, who put down his flail and his shield to play with the visor, opening and closing it. There were microphone pick-ups all over the Island, together with the cameras, but they'd learned that combatants had to be close to the pick-up for anything they said to be heard clearly. They couldn't hear whatever the three men were talking about now.

"Looting the body before he's dead?"

Cane Toad slipped off his pack, unbelted his surcote and took it off. Then he got up, bent over, and pulled his chainmail hauberk off. He handed it to Unstoppable Force, who shook off his shield and put down his sword to hold it up against himself. Then he tossed it to the ground. Ronnie grabbed the pack, opened it and dumped it out. He took one of Cane Toad's water bottles and helped himself, tossing the other one to George.

"Look," Cane Toad told the brothers, standing before them wearing his pants and boots. "I'll fight like this. Then, if you see me do something you don't like, you can pop me easy."

"Whaddya say?" Georgie asked his cousin.

Ronnie shrugged. "I dunno. Hey, can I have your helmet?" He dropped his flail and his shield and shook off his gloves so he could unbuckle his helmet.

"Hey!" Georgie yelled. "Look out!"

Across the killing ground, a lone combatant had emerged from one of the jungle paths and was heading for the Wall. Georgie smacked his cousin's arm. "Come on, Ronnie! Get it together!"

Cane Toad picked up his sword and shield. "I'll hold him up for you." He charged across the sand.

Golden Paladin's s glorious first day, when he had met and bested two successive combatants had been followed by a miserable night, when he'd lain down on a nest of some kind of insect and been bitten all over. He'd then spent a miserable day walking in circles, and now, within sight of the Wall, here came a half-naked bearded guy with a big shield and a flashing sword.

Golden Paladin grasped his nine-foot spear and braced himself. Then he saw another man charging toward him, and another after that. He ran for the nearest gate, but the naked man cut him off, and then the other two caught up with him.

"No, me!" the second big guy yelled, and stepped in with his flail, snapping a smashing blow at his head. The naked swordsman dropped to his knees, and cut for the Golden Paladin's hamstring When the third guy came around to his back, he was already falling.

Georgie hacked at him where he fell, but it was clear he wasn't getting up again.

"Okay, then, all right," Ronnie said, as George took off the guy's helmet and checked the eartag. It was already black. "We wouldn't have got this guy if it wasn't for you."

Cane Toad knelt in the sand, grinning. His cut to the back of the knee had dropped the guy like a puppet whose string was cut.

Georgie said, "So, what kind of split do you want on the eartags?:

Cane Toad shook his head. "When you have enough, you can give me what you don't want."

"Hey, get this!" Ronnie had pulled off the dead guy's pack and found two more eartags in the zip pocket. "Now we've got eleven! One million one hundred thousand! We've got more than a million dollars! Hey!" He broke off his gloat as Georgie tossed one of the eartags to the short guy.

"Thanks," the guy said, and pocketed it.

"He earned it," Georgie said to Ronnie. "And there's going to be lots more."

Dawes left for dinner after they watched the three partners haul the stuff they'd stripped from the bodies of their victims off the killing ground to a small clearing in the trees. Twenty yards off the path, the men would be invisible to passersby in the darkness. It was clear they meant to camp there for the night.

Grayson, pent up with the gruesome excitements of the day, and not looking forward to an evening alone at his bungalow, wandered into the control room to look over any fights he might have missed from elsewhere on the Island. Lucy had left that morning on one of her trips. He had nothing else to do.

"Hot stuff, huh?" one of the technicians grinned, as Grayson watched a rerun over his shoulder of Unstoppable Force and Immovable Thing taking out one of their opponents. Grayson brought the tech's name to mind. Wei Ling, he thought it was. "Did you ever think this would happen?"

Grayson slipped into his celebrity persona and flashed a smiled. "Out there, anything can happen," he quipped, and the tech laughed appreciatively.

Grayson sat down at an empty work station and set it to a combatant who'd been out now for two days. He felt profoundly fatigued, and as though he could not bear to see one more death. He was about to go home when the other technician, Sam Tran, sat back in his chair. "Huh! Another glitch."

"What's that?" Wei Ling asked, without looking away from his screen.

"Got another ghost," he said.

"What's a ghost?" Grayson asked.

Wei Ling waved a hand. "Oh, every now and then one of the locators stops working. We see a guy on the Island and we can't track him back to the gate. We write it up, file a report, and one of the day guys looks into it."

"Oh, yeah?" Grayson went over to Sam Tran's console and looked over his shoulder. "That's Tiger Bright," he said, recognizing the metal claw extenders on the hands of the combatant in the painted orange and black helmet.

"Yeah," Sam said. "But who's this?"

Sam re-ran the clip he'd been watching. Grayson recognized the place where one of the two streams on the Island emerged from the jungle and made its way to the sea. A long shot showed a guy kneeling by the stream, clawing at his helmet, and the dipping his head right into the water as though he were trying to drink through the grating. He couldn't get his helmet off, Grayson saw, because he hadn't put down his weapons. He carried two very long swords, which seemed dumb. Grayson wondered why he didn't just shake off the gauntlets he wore so he could unbuckle the chinstrap on his helmet.

"Do you know who that guy is?" Sam asked him.

"No," Grayson said. "I think I'd remember those two swords."

"Well, here are all the guys who came out the gates today," Sam pulled up a collage of still shots in order of all that day's combatants. "And here's yesterday, and the day before." Two more collages came up on his screen. He touched a button and brought the three up together. "See that big round blue helmet anywhere? I don't."

"Huh," Grayson exclaimed, and leaned closer. "You're right." If double-big sword guy had lasted longer than a day or two, he would certainly have noticed.

"And here comes Tiger Bright," Sam brought up the guy kneeling by the water again, and Grayson saw Tiger Bright approaching along the beach. The two-sword guy saw him and staggered to his feet. He didn't act like someone ready for a fight. He yelled at Tiger Bright, raised his hands up with the two swords in front of them, letting them flop over in his efforts to communicate something. Grayson couldn't tell what. And Tiger Bright came on. Finally the two-sword guy put up his swords like he meant to defend himself, and that lasted only seconds as Tiger Bright came into range and cut down hard onto his left shoulder.

The double-big sword guy cried out and twisted away; Tiger Bright struck again. Grayson saw the familiar welling of an incredible amount of blood, and knew that the two-sword guy was probably already dead when he fell, and Tiger Bright stabbed him in the back with the point of his naginata.

Tiger Bright looked around, then dropped down next to the body, put down his weapon and pulled off one of the metal-clawed gloves.

When Tiger Bright pulled off the helmet, Grayson could see that the guy had dark hair, that he looked Hispanic, or Italian, and that he was probably in his early thirties. Sam Tran clicked around, found the camera with the best shot and zoomed in as much as he could.

"I have seen that guy before," Grayson said.

"You have? Well, that's a first. I've had half a dozen of these ghosts go by, and nobody's been able to identify them."

"That many?"

"The Mystery of Savage Island," Wei Ling put in without looking around.

"Well this one looks familiar," Grayson said, as Tiger Bright cut off double-big sword guy's eartag. "I just don't remember his name." He straightened. "Listen, give me what you've got on the ghosts, and Lucy and I will track them down."

"That would be great," Tran said. "I could get this off my list."

Grayson hung around another ten minutes while Sam Tran burned the files onto a card, and then pocketed it and took it home.

At home, James played through the files Sam had given him while he ate. Each one showed a combatant who had made poor weapons choices. None of these clips had been forwarded to him before for commentary, he was sure, though several of the faces, when revealed, did look familiar. He froze the clearest close-up of one of the combatants and sat looking at it. He had seen it before. But not exactly this face. He'd been in a suit, with his hair slicked down. And he'd been younger. Much younger.

James went to the desk and pawed through the stack of manila envelopes he'd received from his agent since he'd arrived on the island. At last he found the right one. He laid out the clippings that showed the nine suspects in the Crimson Club shooting. He put his finger on Mario Aparichio, the driver of the first car. He was pretty sure that he'd just seen the man die.

### Chapter Sixteen

Scorpion's eyes opened on the darkness. For a few moments, he didn't know where he was. He hadn't forgotten that he was on Savage Island, that he was ill, that he was in hiding. He heard water trickling nearby. He couldn't remember where, exactly, he'd gone to ground this time. Then he realized what had woken him. The nearby insects had gone silent. A crack in the underbrush told him why. And then he heard the footsteps.

He listened to the steps coming closer. And then he realized, with rising horror and a spasm of adrenalin, that he wasn't in hiding at all. He wasn't in a hole or covered with brush. He was right there in the open, with his head practically in the stream.

He hadn't been spotted yet. If he had been, someone would have stuck him with a sword or spear by now. But if they came closer, it wasn't going to be possible for them to miss him. He slithered one hand to his belt and drew his knife, and held it by his side. He hadn't planned to kill anybody. His job was to stay alive, last out his time and get home.

The steps came closer, downstream and across the way, they paused. Scorpion felt as though some guy's eyes were boring into his head. He braced himself for the rush, and the attack, trying to decide whether he should jump up now and charge the guy, or wait, or run. If he had to, he would do it. Slice skin, cut ligaments, open arteries and free the crimson spray. He would do it, to get himself home.

His hand gripped the hilt of his knife, his other hand pressed the ground, ready to push off, as the footsteps paused, scrabbled in the brush, splashed in the stream, came closer.

More than one. There was more than one body down there. Two men? Working together? Three? That was harder. That might not even be possible. He must move so that the first one was between himself and the others and take him fast, very fast. Then he must rotate the second to put him in the way of the third at the same time that he took him out; if the third was the last he could throw the second body in his way, and come over it at the same time, and take him out after that moment's distraction. Yes. It could work that way.

The shuffling was nearer now. He'd need to know when to strike. He lifted his head, risked one swift look ― and felt the breath leave his body in relief.

Pigs. A family of pigs, making their way along just on the other side of the stream. Big male, two females, and four little piglets. Scorpion lay quietly and watched the family root and drink, scuffle and play. He thought about traps and boar spears, nets and snares, ideas forming in his mind and then shredding like cobwebs in his exhausted brain. He might be able to kill and butcher a pig without anyone catching him. But the smell of cooking pork would be like setting off red and green flares. Eventually the sounds ceased and Scorpion opened his eyes to see the last of the little family trot off along the gorge. He took a rat bar from his pocket and chewed it only because in principle it was food. Close to dawn he roused himself. Moving slowly, he retrieved his two jerrycans, filled them, dug himself a new hideout, and hunkered down inside to sleep.

He needed to regain his strength before he made his break to head back to the wall. He needed to rest up, eat up, and get well. It wouldn't be long now. As he lay there, half stupefied with exhaustion and fever, he thought about pork. Roast pork. Pork chops. Pulled pork. Pork fried rice. Pork ribs. And that pork stew that Trish made, with the carrots and onions, where the meat fell apart on your fork. He promised himself, when he got home, there was going to be a big pork dinner in his future.

John Savage felt a stab of resentment as he sifted through the reports on his desk. Campaigning was a full-time job. He'd been attending fundraisers, making speeches, chairing meetings, touring job sites, and flying from one end of California to the other, going up the coast and down the Great Central Valley, up into the mountains and out to the desert for the past three months. And yet he could not take a break or let up from his day job. Next January, he still hoped, despite the setbacks, he would have a new job. But still, the present one had to be done.

He'd shifted almost all of his cases to his deputies. But he had to stay on top, oversee the caseload of his department, make sure things got done. For fifteen years, he'd loved this job, and he'd been great at it, the best. Now, he was ready to move on.

In a stack of reports from one of his assistants a name caught his eye. Benjamin Saldana's girlfriend had filed a missing person report when he'd failed to return from work. It took Savage a moment to remember why that name sounded familiar. He picked up the phone and ascertained that yes, the case was still open; Saldana had still not be heard from now after a week, and yes, this was the same Saldana who'd been the youngest gangster in the Crimson Club drive-by shooting fifteen years ago. Savage was about to throw the report back, when he saw another missing person report. Angel Sifuentes. With the drive-by case back in his mind, he didn't have to wonder why that name sounded familiar. He could still remember the smirks on the kids' faces, when they realized that they were going to get away with what they had done.

Javier Moreno had been reported missing by his father. They'd gone to a movie together. Javier had met some friends and told his dad he'd be home later. He hadn't been seen since. Savage picked up the phone again, still leafing through the file. After the Crimson Club case had closed, and the gangsters had all walked, Savage had put a check on all nine of them, so that anytime they came to the notice of the police, his office was notified. Usually, that file contained at most a note or two. A couple of times one of them had been picked up for burglary, or assault, or a domestic dispute. One of them was in prison. But now, the file held half a dozen missing person reports. He paused when he came to the one about Mario Aparichio. Mario was serving three years for armed robbery. How could he be missing?

One more phone call gave him the news that Aparichio had somehow managed to qualify for early release, and had disappeared between the prison and his home. It was possible that he'd just done a bunk, or not wanted to go home to his family. That wasn't so unusual. Except for the other five missing person reports. That, and the early release which should not have happened, made it clear that something was going on.

He called his secretary and had her look up the other three gangsters. She called Jesus Aparichio's parole officer. Jesus had been the shooter in the passenger seat of the first car, driven by his cousin Mario. Jesus's parole officer told her that Jesus had gone on a fishing trip and was due back in a few days. Savage pawed through the folder and found the missing person report on Javier Moreno, who had disappeared after telling his family he'd been invited to go on a deep sea fishing trip.

What the fuck was going on? What possible coincidence could cause all of these men, seven of the nine men who'd been involved on that terrible night, to all disappear within the last month? Maybe aliens were cleaning up Los Angeles's dirt for her. Savage cracked a smile, which froze on his face, as realization hit him.

This was Van Allan's doing. It had to be. Who the hell else, after all these years, even cared? Of those who might care, who else had the kind of resources that could make something like this happen? It was Jules Van Allan. He knew it in his bones. So where had all these guys gone?

He sat back in his chair, staring down at the file. Because the answer had been in headlines all over the world for the last three months. And now he knew what Savage Island was really all about.

James went up to speak to Van Allan the next morning. He'd come in early to the studio and was already made up and dressed. He found Elena, one of the assistants, coming out of Van Allan's office.

"He in there?" James asked.

"He's not in today, Mr. Grayson," she told him. "He's at his villa, and he's not to be disturbed."

"For how long?"

"I haven't been told, I'm sorry."

"All right. Leave him a message that I want to speak to him, all right? It's urgent."

"I'll do that, Mr. Grayson."

James went down to the control room and found Dawes there already, leaning over the shoulder of the tech on duty.

"What's the news?"

"They're still in the clearing where they spent the night," Dawes told him. "Look at this."

It was still dark outside, and the figures were not easy to distinguish. Two lay side-by-side, and one sat up against a tree. Dawes pointed to that one. "See? They don't trust him."

"How do you know?"

Manny, the tech said, "They've tied him to the tree."

"He's in the way of anyone who stumbles on them," Dawes added. "A human alarm system."

When Immovable Thing woke up that morning, he found Cane Toad sitting with his back against the tree where they'd tied him the night before. He was no longer half naked; he'd put his green surcote back on and secured it around his waist with a belt. He had a couple of water bottles beside him, and was chowing down on a rat bar. The straps they'd tied him up with the previous night lay neatly by his feet. He lifted a bottle to Immovable Thing in salute.

"Hey."

Immovable Thing sat up and poked his cousin. "George! George, get up!"

"I'd like to point out," Cane Toad said to the cousins, between gulps of water and his ration bar, "that even though I was able to untie myself, I did not raise a hand to either of you, according to my word."

Unstoppable Force gazed at him blearily. "So?"

"So? I'm just pointing out that you can trust me."

"Right."

"And I'd like to point out that the sun is going to rise soon, and someone else is going to come out of one of those gates."

"Hey, yeah!" Immovable Thing got to his knees and groped around for his helmet. "Time for some more fun!"

Pavel Corriodor charged out the left-hand gate as the sun crested the horizon, shield high, axe poised, and saw a big guy coming toward him, raising a short version of a morning star. Pavel, whose fighting name was Poltava, grinned to himself and raised his spear. Everyone knew how to beat a morningstar with a spear these days. The big guy seemed to understand that Poltava had his number, because he started to back away. Poltava started after him, but then something hit him hard in the back and knocked him forward. As he hit the ground he heard shouts, and something landed on his back. His head jerked as his helmet was pulled off, something bit sharply into his neck and he screamed, dropping his spear and clawing with his hand, his other arm trapped under his body, holding his shield. Then he was struck in the back of the neck once more, and entered into darkness.

"Ha!" Ronnie exulted, as he pulled off Poltava's pack. "That was easy!"

"Yeah," Georgie said. "Good work." He nodded at Cane Toad, who stood on guard while they stripped Poltava's body.

Ronnie turned the pack upside down and emptied it, to avoid handling the blood-soaked top of it. "Check it out! Jerky!"

He cracked open one of the bags and stuck a piece into his mouth through the grill of his helmet. Georgie took a couple of pieces and handed the bag to Cane Toad, who popped his visor with a grin, and grabbed one. "Thanks!"

"Save the rest," Georgie said. "We've got a lot of work to do before lunch."

Cane Toad dragged Poltava's body to the stained sand where they'd piled the kills of the previous day, and they went to take up their positions again.

They'd decided the night before that fewer people would duck out on them if they only saw one opponent when they came out the gate. So, one of them would stand on the killing ground, while the other two stood against the Wall between the two gates. Whichever gate opened, the one on the killing ground would draw the guy out, and the other two would come up and attack him from behind. And it had worked like a charm.

"We are going to own Savage Island!" Georgie said, as he went to take his turn on the killing ground.

"Yeah," said Ronnie happily, still chewing. And he was going to be a millionaire before they were through.

Two hours later, when the trio on the killing ground had killed four more guys who'd come out the gates, and one who'd come back onto the killing field from the jungle, Grayson walked into the control room.

He found Dr. Mukhtar looking up at the monitor, watching the gang of three loot the body of their latest kill.

"How long are you going to let this go on?" Grayson asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

Grayson gestured to the monitor. Immovable Thing and Cane Toad were dragging the body that had been Cloud Warrior to the stack of dead by the cliff. It looked like something out of a horror movie.

"You have to stop this," Grayson said. "Every man who comes out the gate today is going to be killed by these guys."

"That's very possible."

"Very possible? That's what's going to happen." Grayson heard his voice rising. He took a minute to breath. "I think you should shut down any more releases today."

"But Mr. Grayson," Hari Mukhtar said, "we can't do that. That is not how we do things here."

"That is not how we do things here!" Grayson pointed at one of the monitors, replaying the last kill, where Cane Toad had backed away, drawing Cloud Warrior away from the gate, and Immovable and Unstoppable had come up and struck him down from behind.

"We do not weigh the odds," Dr. Mukhtar told. "We do not judge. We allow them to go out there and do their endeavor. What they meet there is their fate. Whether they live or die is immaterial. They have shown their courage as men."

Grayson looked over at the monitor that showed the next combatant heading for the gate. His well-wishers seemed subdued. James wondered if they had been watching the monitors, and knew what his fate would be. "He's going to be killed," he said.

"Yes, probably."

The shots of the killing ground showed the three fighters taking up their positions again, this time with the Unstoppable Force taking the center position, and Cane Toad and Immovable Thing standing against the wall on either side of the center gate.

"It's murder," Grayson said.

"I have no authority to stop this," Dr Mukhtar said. "Only Mr. Van Allan can do that."

DefCon Five stepped out of the gate and saw Unstoppable Force waiting for him. He walked a few paces onto the killing ground and stopped, dropping his shield and raising up his big heavy single-edged sword. "Georgie?" he called. "Is that you? It's me, Win!"

He started to lift off his helmet to show his face, and that was when Cane Toad came up from behind struck him in the head with his sword.

"No, wait!" Ronnie shouted, and plowed into Cane Toad, knocking him down.

"Ow, ow, ow!" DefCon Five shouted. "You fucker!"

Georgie trotted up and stuck his foot on Cane Toad, keeping him from getting up. Ronnie dragged himself off the smaller guy and helped DefCon Five to his feet. "You okay? Man, you made it! Are you bleeding?"

"Ow!" DefCon Five pulled off his helmet and felt the back of his head. "Wow. That really hurt."

"I'm sorry," Cane Toad said from the sane. "I didn't know you were. . ."

"This is our cousin, Win," Georgie explained, and then he let Cane Toad up. He told Win, "This guy joined us last night. And that," he pointed to the stack of bodies, "is what we got so far today."

"Wow," Win said. "Awesome. That's just amazing."

Lieutenant Philip Hartley slid into the empty seat next to Lieutenant Kenneth Orlando and his JayGee Lieutenant Terrell Jefferson.

"Do you know what this is all about?" Orlando asked him.

Hartley swigged his execrable coffee and shrugged. "Sending us back to the sandbox, probably."

"I'm betting Africa," Jefferson, sitting tall and ramrod straight, his white naval uniform immaculate against his dark skin, put in. "Time to kick some Mali butt before the al-Qaeda there joins up with al-Qaeda in Libya and Syria and turns them evil."

Hartley eyed Jefferson narrowly. This was the reason Jefferson was the oldest JayGee in the SEALs. No one could figure out what he meant when he talked like that. Jefferson met his eyes with a bland look as though daring him to agree or disagree.

"I can deal with Mali butt-kicking," Hartley said, and finished his coffee in a gulp. He just hoped it wasn't going to be another pol's toy-soldier fantasy that would turn into an extra special fuck-up and get a bunch of good guys hurt. He'd seen too many of them. He sucked the dregs from his cup.

"Well, something is definitely up," Orlando observed, as Captain Lewis Wilkes, commander of the submarine Eureka, slipped in. He took the nearest chair and nodded all around. Slight, unassuming, easy to get along with, Hartley had shipped with Lewis several times over the years.

"Attention on deck!"

The men shot to their feet as the base admiral, Henry Devrett, came in, followed by SEAL Commander Perry Wyatt, and the admiral's assistant, Lieutenant Ramirez.

"As you were," the Admiral dropped into the chair at the head of the table, with Wyatt at his right hand, while Ramirez passed out manila envelopes. He smiled down the table. "Gentlemen, I think you're going to like this one."

"Yes, sir!" Hartley agreed, and opened the envelope. He'd barely separated out the orders when Jefferson, who was some kind of speed reader, got to the important part.

"Well I'll be damned!"

Captain Wilkes chuckled and Commander Wyatt grinned at him.

Hartley finally found it. "We're going to take Savage Island?"

"And shut the whole thing down, that's right," the Admiral replied. "The mission commander is flying in tonight, so let's get a plan ironed out so that we have some chance of calling these shots and making them come out right. Turn to page three, please, gentlemen."

Well, thought Hartley, who, along with everyone else on the base, had spent more than a few dozen hours watching downloads from the Savage Island channel, at least these guys won't be shooting at us.

Grayson walked in to the fourth-floor office without knocking. Ken Frize sat in front of his laptop of the table against the wall. Elena Carmine, who had been looking over his shoulder turned as Grayson entered.

"Where is he?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Grayson," Elena began with a smile.

"He's unavailable, Mr. Grayson," Ken interrupted, without looking up from the monitor.

"What does that mean? Has he left the island? Then get him on the phone."

Elena and Frize exchanged a glance. "I have a message in to Mr. Van Allan that you want to speak to him. I haven't heard back from him yet."

"Do you know what's going on out there?" Grayson gestured toward the Wall, the top of which was visible through the French doors leading out onto the terrace.

Frize steepled his fingers in an unconscious imitation of his boss. "Of course we are monitoring the situation."

Grayson stepped forward, and had the pleasure of seeing Frize wince back. "Get him. Now."

Elena stepped forward again. "Mr. Grayson, we've done all we can."

"Fine," Grayson said. "I'll go find him myself."

He took the stairs, too impatient to wait for the elevator. He ducked in to the editing room and found Shang-zu there dropping off some film.

"Su, grab a camera. I need you." He was gratified to see Su Ling open her box, grab a handful of cards, and load her camera on her way to the door. "Give me the mike," Grayson added, and the cameraman unscrewed it from the front of the camera.

"Where are we going?"

"Down to the gate."

Su Ling looked at him sideways. "Stuff going on down there?"

"It's always good," Grayson told him, pelting down the stairs, "to have as much coverage as possible. You never know what you're going to need."

"Yeah," Su grinned, keeping up with him. "That's what Lucy always says."

"When is she due back?" James asked.

"I'm not sure. It was supposed to be today, but she got delayed."

"I wish she were here now," Grayson said, partly to himself. "Have you seen what's going on out there?" He held open the front door and followed Shang-zu outside.

"Yeah," Su said. "Bad business."

"So let's see what we can do about it."

They rounded the corner of the admin building, and found an unusually subdued crowd of off-duty staffers gathered as the next combatant emerged and headed for the gate.

Grayson quickened his pace. The combatant wore dark jungle camos and an army helmet. He carried a heavy backpack, a short spear in one hand and a machete in the other, which he waved as he crossed to the gate. He didn't even have any armor on. He was going to be slaughtered out there. Grayson moved to head him off. Behind him, Su Ling shouldered the camera and hurried after him.

"Hi, there!" Grayson stepped into the combatant's path, and saw the guy's face light up.

"James Grayson!" The combatant's face lit in recognition. "What an honor, sir." He was about Grayson's height, with broad shoulders and a runner's lanky body. He tucked his machete under his arm and held out his hand. "Curt Kellerman, from Texas by way of Hong Kong. I didn't know you were coming to see me off. Isn't this awesome? I'm so excited to be here! Do you want to know about my plan? I have a plan." He smiled, looking from Grayson to Shang-zu holding the camera.

"Sure," Grayson said, and stepped closer, putting himself in the way of the camera. The mike was not plugged in. "Don't go out there," he told Kellerman. "It's bad out there right now. Walk away. Come back when they've fixed the problem."

Kellerman's face fell. "I'm going to be Nightwalker," he protested.

"That's all right," Grayson told him. "You can be Nightwalker another day. Don't go out there today. Really."

Kellerman looked over at Shang-zu again. Shang-zu had lowered the camera, not even pretending to shoot. "What is going on?" Kellerman asked.

"I'm not allowed to tell you," Grayson said, thinking through the sheaf of conditional non-disclosures he'd signed. "But I am allowed to say, due to technical difficulties, this is a good time for you to step back, and go out another day."

Nightwalker's jaw was working. "I'm all keyed up for this," he said uncertainly. He looked around again. The crowd watched him, not giving him any clues, but not egging him on to the gate either. "I'm not afraid to die." He looked at the camera again. He knew that was a great sound-byte, and that Shang-zu should be filming this.

"Another day," Grayson smiled, knowing that he was starting to sound desperate himself. "It'll be better. I promise."

A young Asian woman in a maid's uniform slipped out of the crowd, and took Kellerman's hand, looking up at him. Kellerman blushed. "Off day," she said, with a heavy accent. "Me off day. You come." She leaned in to him. "We go have fun."

Kellerman looked around the crowd, but no one seemed anxious for him to continue to the gate. "All right," Kellerman said, and the girl on his arm squeezed in close, smiling up at him. "All right." He smiled back. "I'll take today off. I'll get back on the roster later."

At that a cheer went up, as though some kind of victory had been won right here. Kellerman turned back to the admin building to get his eartag removed and turn in his weapons, but he didn't let go of the girl.

"All right," Grayson said to Shang-zu. "Let's see if we can find the next one." He and Shang-zu followed Kellerman into the building.

Van Allan lay back on the couch holding his ex-wife in his arms in a position they had perfected over twenty-five years of living together. They had found it again naturally through the long hours of watching videos together.

"Tell me about this one," Heleen said.."

"This is Angel Sifuentes. You remember, he sat in the back seat on the right side of the second car. He brought the gun, and loaded it, and gave it to Jesus Aparichio."

"The shooter in the second car."

"Yes."

"And how old was he?"

"He was seventeen. He gave the gun to Jesus because if he did the shooting, he was afraid he would be tried as an adult."

She turned her head, trying to see his face. "And how do you know that?"

He looked down at her with that bland look she knew so well. It meant, "Oh, come, my dear. Think a little longer and you'll figure that out." And then there'd be a pause, and then he'd say . . .

"I think you know."

She gave his arm a little push, which in their vocabulary meant, "Stop stalling and tell me."

"I purchased copies of his attorney's files."

"You didn't!"

That bland look again. "Of course I did. It wasn't difficult. Secretaries are so underpaid."

She gave him a shove again, but she was smiling. Not because he had subverted the law, but because it was just like him to be so smug.

"Shall we?" He reached out the remote.

She lay back against him. "Yes. Please."

The camera picked up an armored figure lying half in the surf.

"Is he going to drown?" Heleen asked.

"Oh, no. We don't let them drown."

Angel Sifuentes was seen to twitch. With great effort he picked up his head. He wore a great helm, with a tiny slot for his eyes. This helmet, designed as an accurate recreation of an eleventh century iron great helm, weighed fourteen pounds. His visibility had not been helped much by the ten pound chain mail coif that had been put on his head under the helmet, back to front. In addition, Sifuentes had been dressed in a full suit of plate armor, including iron shoes. It was with great difficulty that Sifuentes staggered to his feet. Articulated iron gauntlets had been buckled tightly to the vambraces he wore on his arms. For his weapons, Sifuentes had been given two morningstars, one in each hand, each with an eight-foot chain. The stocks of the weapons were screwed into the gauntlets. Sifuentes could not remove them.

Van Allan saw the tears seep from Heleen's eyes down her cheek. She brushed them away with her finger and pressed the corner of her eye. "Hand me my drink," she said.

Van Allan kissed her hand and gave her the glass of white wine. He remembered how, after the news had been brought of their children's death, Heleen had not cried. How, in the morgue, holding his hand tightly, it had been she who stared down hard-eyed at the shattered remains of their son. And it was she who sat by their daughter in the ICU ward, day and night, seeming neither to sleep nor eat, while the life ebbed from their daughter's body.

On the screen, Angel Sifuentes managed to get to his feet, pawing uselessly at his helmet. Then he stumbled over the pointed-up toes of his iron shoes and headed down the beach, dragging the morningstars with him. Soon he would meet Callista, armed with a kite-shield on his arm, a short mace in his left hand, and a six-foot spear. Callista would chase Sifuentes down, trip him up, and stand on his arm while he speared him in the neck.

"I keep remembering Franz," Heleen said softly. Another tear tracked down her cheek. This time she ignored it.

Van Allan kissed her hair. "I know."

She smiled. "Do you remember what he said the night they lost the big game, I don't remember what game . . . "

"State championship," he supplied. "Pony league. He was sixteen."

"I picked him up from the party afterward. He said, 'I'm not disappointed. It doesn't matter that we lost. I got to play in the state championships.' And he said, 'Don't tell Dad.'"

"He thought I wanted him to be ambitious. I only wanted him to excel."

"I just keep remembering things that he said. It seems important. That someone remember, the shards of his life. The fact that he lived."

"I remember him too."

"I know. We are his memorial."

"And Sofia's too."

"Yes. And Sofia's too."

"Is that what you learned from your therapist?"

"No," she smiled. "My guru."

"Your guru?"

"Yes. I have a guru. A very expensive guru."

"How is a guru worth having, if he is not expensive?"

"She."

"Or she," he agreed.

On the screen, Sifuentes backed away from Callista into the trees. It wouldn't be long now.

"It is easier to bear, knowing they have finally had justice."

"I know," he said. On the monitor, Sifuentes cried out as he fell.

"This part's hard," she said.

"Yes. Do you want me to turn it off now?"

"No."

They watched in silence until Sifuentes stopped screaming and struggling, and lay still. Van Allan stopped the clip.

"Thank you," she said after a moment.

"What do you want to do now?"

"Don't you need to be somewhere?"

"No," he said. "I've told them I'm not to be disturbed. What shall we do now?"

"I want to watch them again."

"Very well."

"All of them."

"All right." He pointed the remote, brought up the menu, and chose a file.

"Jules . . . "

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

"Mr. Grayson, you are going to have to leave."

Dr. Hari Mukhtar, the program director, bore down upon him, with two members of the security team in his wake.

Grayson was standing in the prep room where Gregor Martel had just had his ear numbed prior to having his eartag stapled on. Martel, under the name of Iron Hammer, was scheduled to go out the gate in another hour. Grayson had found Terrence Crow arming up in the ready room, and explained in cryptic terms what was going on outside the gates. He tried to be expressive where he could not be exact. He wasn't sure if he had convinced the guy not to go out today or not. Gregor Martel, who didn't seem to speak English, was an even harder sell.

"These men will be your escort out of the building," Mukhtar said, and nodded at his security detail. Near the front door they were met by Ken Frize.

"What's going on? What are you doing?"

"What you should be doing," Grayson told him. "Putting a stop to this. Where is Van Allan? Have you told him what's going on?"

"I left him a message," Frize held up a hand as though to ward off Grayson's anger. "I'll leave him another one if you want, but for now, I'd appreciate it if you accept these men's escort back to your bungalow."

Grayson hesitated, wondering if there was any way around this. Frize motioned to the security teams and Grayson backed up as if in surrender. "Okay, okay," he said, using his professional smile. "I guess I was out of line." He winked at one of the guards, who seemed taken aback.

You can wait there until we hear from Mr. Van Allan."

"Sure," he said. "No problem. I think I have a day off coming, anyway, or three." He winked again, and allowed them to lead him away. People came to stand in the doorways to watch him go past. He greeted them, smiling and nodding, and all the time his eyes swept here and there, looking for someone who could help. He stopped. "Just as sec," he said to his escorts. "I want to ask Mrs. Chong over there when Lucy is due back."

He sidestepped one of the security team and stepped through a doorway, took two quick steps to Mrs. Chong's side.. He lowered his voice.

"Where's Lucy? Is she back yet?"

She glanced over at the security escort on their way over. "No. Tomorrow."

"You know what's happening out there?" he asked. When she didn't respond his hand tightened on her arm. "Look at the monitors. Tell people. Get the word out. Get the women to tell the guys not to go out today. Can you do that?" He glanced over his shoulder as the security team member reached him and added loudly, " . . . tell her I said to bring the Pinot Grigio, and I'll provide the smoked duck, okay?" He shook her arm gently and added meaningfully, "Okay?"

She nodded up at him. "Okay. Yes. I understand." She glanced over at the security detail. "I'll tell her as soon as I see her."

"Thank you," he said, releasing her. "You're a pal. All right guys, lead on."

An electric car met them outside, and he swung into the front seat. One of the guards took the wheel, and another one sat in back. Ken Frize swung on behind, and Grayson had to give up the idea of convincing the guards to help him out.

Ronnie, Georgie and Win were so busy going through the loot they'd taken, and fucking around, posturing for the cameras, gloating over the bodies, they didn't notice when the half hour came, and no one came out through the gate. It was Cane Toad, who stood guard while the others messed around, who pointed out that it had been at least an hour, and no new combatant had emerged.

"Fucking coward," Georgie said. "We'll get the next one."

They found a flask of Scotch in one of the looted backpacks, took a bunch of the rations and went to sit under the trees, leaving Cane Toad to watch the gates.

When Iron Hammer came through the center gate, he saw the partly-armored Cane Toad waiting for him in the middle of the killing ground. Iron Hammer wore a sleekly angled tourney helmet, designed to deflect blows to the head. He carried an oblong shield with an embossed center grip and his short purple and gold cape flared out behind him in the breeze. He lifted his weapon to Cane Toad and started toward him.

He didn't see the three men lounging in the shade, didn't notice when they got up and put on their helmets and took up arms. Cane Toad shouted at him, faked an attack and then backed away.

When Iron Hammer saw the big man loom into his peripheral vision, his first thought was that Cane Toad was about to get struck down from behind. Then Cane Toad backed away past the guy and stopped, and another guy appeared on his other side. Iron Hammer moved back and to the side, avoiding letting three men in range at the same time. He never knew the fourth man was there until the heavy blow fell upon his shoulder. The pain of it paralyzed him. He could not raise his arm. And in that moment all four of the men fell upon him.

After the guards brought him to his bungalow, James took the time to change his clothes and wipe off his make-up. Ken Frize had said he'd get in touch with Van Allan and get back to him. When James turned on his own monitor, he saw another victim slaughtered on the killing field. He went out the front door to walk to Van Allan's villa. The guards' electric cart was still parked outside his house. One of the guards stepped out, fingering his walkie-talkie and the hilt of what Grayson thought was probably a taser. The other guard appeared behind him on the walkway to his patio.

"Hey, guys," Grayson said. "I'm going to head over to Van Allan's. Want to give me a lift?"

They turned him back.

He tried making another round of calls, but kept getting peoples' voice mail. It occurred to him that Van Allan's control of communications on the island was complete. It was possible he wouldn't be allowed to get through to anyone that way.

He tried going out the back door, and found the second guard sitting on his patio. He smiled, raised a hand, went back inside. They couldn't keep him here indefinitely. He thought he'd wait until they got good and bored, and try climbing out his bedroom window. He could climb over the wall and make his way along the top of the cliff.

He wondered how Lucy would handle this situation. She knew just about everyone on the Island. She probably knew all those guards out there by name, and could have gotten them to look the other way. Well, at least he'd alerted Mrs. Chong.

Back when he was a reporter, long, long ago, his rule had been, when in doubt, document. He sat down at the table to make a list of everything he could do to put a stop to what was going on out there. He wrote his housekeeper's name on the list of people who might help him. It was possible she knew other housekeepers on the island, including Van Allan's. The problem was, he couldn't communicate with her very well.

He heard a noise at his front door. He wrote the name of the techs he worked with the best, expecting to hear a knock on his door. He turned and listened for a moment. He thought he heard a slight sound. If Lucy was back ― but no, she would have called out. He got up and went to investigate.

His door stood open. The guards were still out there. He turned suddenly as he heard a sound behind him. Ken Frize stood there holding a take-out food box, looking like a kid who'd been caught in the pantry.

"Hey," Grayson said. "What's up? Did you talk to Van Allan?" He saw Ken's eyes dart sideways, the way people's did who were not actors, and couldn't hide when they were lying.

"Hi!" Ken said brightly, and held out the box. "I brought some supplies. Didn't know how you were fixed for food."

"You didn't have to do that," Grayson said.

When Grayson made no move to take it, Frize put the box down on the hall table. "I was coming over anyway to tell you, I left several messages for Mr. Van Allan, and I expect to hear back anytime. We couldn't let you interfere," Frize said earnestly, "but I do understand your concerns. I'm concerned myself." Frize edged toward the door. "We all are. But anyway, I'll leave you to it. Get it while it's hot," he added inanely, and backed out the door and turned down the path. Grayson watched him climb in another of the electric carts and accelerate away.

Grayson wondered what had made Frize so edgy. He closed the door and stood looking around the entry way and across the living room, wondering where Frize had come from. He hadn't been in sight when Grayson came to the front door. Where had he been?

Grayson headed for his study. There on his desk lay the manila envelope from his agent, with all the articles and pictures of the escaped gangsters. Next to them was a pile of still shots he'd captured and printed of the combatants the techs called "ghosts." He had matched several of these ghosts to the mug shots.

Had Ken see it? One of the articles had fallen to the floor. It was one he'd left in the envelope.

"He knows," Grayson concluded. "And now he will know that I know that he knows." And he would tell Van Allan.

He tried to call Van Allan again, but couldn't get through. He made a call to the switchboard and sent for his housekeeper. He left a message for Sam Tran, and Richard Farley, his producer. He even left a message for Colonel Dawes. Then he sat down with his list to wait an hour or so, before he made another attempt to get to Van Allan's villa.

John Savage leaned out of his office and snapped at his secretary, "Get Jules Van Allan on the phone!" Deanna looked nonplussed, but he had never yet known her to fail to carry out a direction. When she finished dialing and spoke into the phone, he went and stood by her desk. "Well?" he said.

"His Los Angeles offices say he's out of the country. I'll call his New York office now."

"You tell them that John Savage wants to talk to him. Tell them that he will want to talk to me, and that if I don't hear from Mr. Van Allan within the hour I will carry out a warrant to freeze all his United States assets."

Deanna nodded. She didn't ask if he could do that. She would have known if he'd filed paperwork to do such a thing, since she did his typing. She would pretend to herself that he'd done it somehow, and that it was absolutely true. And she'd use his anger to get past people who might get in her way.

John Savage went back to his office. Deanna was a treasure.

Smasher walked from the administrative building to the gate. The crowd that had come to see him off made way for him, but without the boisterous cheers and good wishes that he'd expected. He'd watched the show for days before he applied to be a combatant. He'd subscribed to the website where he pored over fights, and mapped the efficacy of different weapons and armor combinations, the success rate of various tactics, the best choices for certain body types. He'd joined a dojo that opened in Frankfurt, close to his home in Germany, to train people in Savage Island fighting techniques. There he studied and fought, and when he was ready, filled out an online application.

By then he knew what to expect once he arrived. He'd seen the interviews with guys who'd gone there and survived. And he continued to watch the show, and buy the "Best Of" DVDs as they came out.

He knew that according to custom, a crowd of people should be cheering and waving and calling out their good wishes. He wondered if they were treating him differently because he was from Germany, and he felt a throb of anger. He would show them. When he returned, a hero, they would give him the welcome he deserved.

A young woman pushed her way through the crowd to reach him. It took him a moment to recognize her. Her long black hair was confined now in a tight bun behind her head, and she wore canvas coveralls that hid her curves. And she wasn't smiling. But she wrapped her arms around him, gripping the ridges of his armor, and pulled down his head to kiss him. Now this was more like it! He relaxed and clasped her gently with the arm that carried his spear. He kissed her, but she did not let him go. She started babbling at him, quickly and earnestly, trying to raise herself up to speak in his ear.

Her English was difficult to understand, and his was unpracticed since he had left the army, but she seemed to be telling him not to go out there. He straightened. What did she think he was, some kind of coward? He saw the tears in her eyes, and forgave her as he stepped out of her grip. Three more women came up, surrounded him. One of them spoke better English.

She called him Hero, so that was all right. Not today, she said. Don't go today. Something bad out there. Go tomorrow. And Michiyu, that was her name, looked up at him her wide cheeks flushed as he'd seen them last night, her eyes full of sorrow and hope.

He nodded to them, thanked them for the warning, pushed them aside and headed for the gate. He wasn't afraid of what was out there. He'd studied the moves of the famous Shadow, and heroes who had come after. He was going to join their ranks today.

But they did save his life, after all. Because he'd been warned, he did not charge out onto the killing ground, spear at the ready, shield high, as the men in his dojo had determined was the best tactic. When the gate opened, he held back and took his time to scan as much of the killing ground as he could see, moving from one side to the other, keeping back from the gate itself where he'd be a fair target.

He saw nothing, at first. The empty sand, the trees in the distance. He heard the sound of the surf beating against the cliffs on either side. Then he saw one end of the stack of bodies. He moved a few steps out the gate and saw the grinning man waiting, and then two more coming toward him, working together, stained with blood.

His mind froze for a moment. It wasn't supposed to be like that. But then he reacted, leaping back through the gate, hitting the red button on the inside which closed the gate onto the Island, and opened the one he'd entered by. And when it opened, she didn't wait for him to emerge, but ran to him, threw her arms around him, and the other women followed, surrounding him, grasping him, calling and crying. And that was pretty good.

"Ah, shit!" Georgie shouted as the gate slammed shut. He struck Ronnie in the helmet with the butt of his sword. "You let him see you!"

"I did not!"

"First guy out here in hours, and you let him get away."

"C'mon, George. There'll be another."

"How do you know?"

Cane Toad stepped back gently. At some point, he was pretty sure, this alliance was going to break up, and it was going to be bloody. When that happened, he planned to be out of range. He was the first one to see the movement at the tree line. Hamilcar, dragging one leg and leaning on his spear came through the gap that led to the Blood Road and started across the killing ground to the far western gate.

The bloody band fell silent and all turned to watch him. Hamilcar noticed them and stopped. For a moment, none of them moved, and Hamilcar made the decision to keep coming, and try and make it to the gate. Perhaps he thought that some kind of truce was in play, and no one would bother him. Then Win trotted off across the sand heading for the opposite corner. Ronnie started to go, but George grabbed his arm.

"No, wait. Wait until Win gets where he can cut him off."

But Hamilcar had made the same calculation. He turned and hurried back the way he had come, using the spear as a support to his bad leg.

"After him!" George yelled. "Let's go!"

They caught up with Win by the time they reached the Blood Road. Hamilcar by then was out of sight among the turns of the road ahead. George held out his arms. "Listen!"

They stopped. Ahead they could head the irregular pounding of feet that meant their prey still ran ahead of them.

"Right," George said. "Let's get him." He held up his arms, sword high in one hand, shield in the other. "Unstoppable!"

Ronnie raised his flail in the air. "Immovable!"

"DefCon Five" shouted Win.

"Rrahh!" yelled Cane Toad.

"Let's get him!"

"Yaaaaggghhh!"

They didn't hurry. All the men were hunters. They knew this was not a sprint. They set out at a jog-trot, two abreast, and kept an eye out for paths leading off the road. After awhile they noticed the spots of blood. Their prey was already wounded. They laughed and put on speed.

They came around a bend in the path and Win and Georgie in front skidded to a halt. Cane Toad flattened himself against the trees to avoid running in to Georgie. Ronnie bumped passed them and then stopped.

"Is that him?" he asked.

Sprawled half on the road and partly in the trees, a corpse lay mired in blood and strewn pieces of armor and equipment.

"Nah," Win went forward. He'd noticed the flies by now, the ants and the iridescent beetles that had come to feed on the dead meat. "This guy's been dead awhile."

He turned the dead man's head with his foot, exposing the man's lopped ear, where the eartag had once been attached.

"This guy's no use."

"I'll bet our runner has this guy's eartag," Cane Toad suggested.

"Hey, two for one!"

"Let's get him!"

They started off again.

Lieutenant Hartley spread out the satellite map on the mess table while his platoon leaders gathered around. They'd been ordered to prepare to ship out and their duffles were packed and they were ready to board as soon as word came.

"Our objective, gentlemen." Hartley touched the iconic twin pillars of rock off the west coast of the island. "Anybody recognize it?"

"Is that Savage Island?" Lieutenant Junior Grade Arn Tredwen, his Assistant Officer in Charge bent his long frame over and examined the north end, touching the notation of the shipwreck where the Liberty ship still sat on the reef. "I've seen this before."

Chief Petty Officer Gorski, squarely built with a shock of fair hair, and a sense of contained excitement, pointed out, "That's the beach where that guy with the two swords killed the guy with the spear and shield."

"Hotspur against Argonaut," Leading Petty Officer Inoyen supplied. "I saw that! They fought almost half an hour."

"Four eartags," Gorski said, giving the number that Hotspur had come back with. "Four hundred and fifteen thousand dollars."

"What could you do with that kind of money?" Tredwen smiled over at him.

"All right," Hartley brought them back to order. "Guess you've all seen the show." They nodded. "Good. It'll give you some familiarity with the landscape, because this," he tapped the map, "is our target. We are going to take Savage Island."

They leaned closer, looking at the map with the eyes of the trained tacticians that they were. Hartley felt pleased. It was great to work with people who really knew their stuff. "We'll drop three squads at o-two hundred, one to secure the helipad and the access to the harbor," he put his finger on the position. "One to secure the administrative building, that's been identified as this building here. And the third to secure this building, where the owner of the island, Jules Van Allan, lives. We'll land here," he touched a place on one of the gentle beaches of the northeast coast.

"Not the harbor?"

"Our recon says there are usually ships in the harbor, and they'll have watches on deck, and various defenses. Once we get past the Wall, defenses will be minimal according to our information. From this beach to the Wall, well, you know what you'll be up against."

"Will we be bringing swords?" Inoyen dead-panned.

"We do not expect to engage any of the combatants. Your squads will be armed, and the civilian combatants are not our target. Our mission is to seize and hold our objectives until our backup comes in by helicopter. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"All right. Since we don't know what defenses they have built into gates of the Wall itself, we will be going over it. Once you've landed, you'll proceed to the Wall together. Tredwen, you'll go first, and head for the helipad. Gorski, your group will go over next, and take the admin building." He produced a more detailed map of the building, put together from various shots taken from the Savage Island broadcasts, and satellite surveillance. "Main doors here, rear door here, and one to the side. When you've secured it, take a team inside and seize the control room."

"Yes, sir," Gorski blue eyes blazed with excitement as he studied the target.

"Inoyen, once those teams have gone, our team will put the three gates out of operation, and then proceed inland to Van Allan's villa."

"Yes, sir!"

"Very good. Brief your teams, and stand by."

In the late afternoon, Grayson changed to dark pants and a long-sleeved dark green shirt. He hadn't heard back from any of the messages he'd left and had stopped expecting that he would. He'd walked out to his guards and asked them to call Van Allan, and they'd gotten Frize. Frize had repeated the order that he was to stay at the bungalow.

Grayson's chance came when another electric cart arrived with a change of the guards. When the guard on the patio walked down to meet the others, he slipped out the back door and moved out of sight around the back of the house. He climbed the low wall that separated his patio garden from the steep hill overlooking the sea, and traversed the slope in the direction of Van Allan's villa.

He might have made it if the slope hadn't fallen away at one point to a sheer drop down to a narrow rocky beach below. The climb down looked doubtful. He climbed up instead and found himself in a cul de sac of smaller bungalows belonging to staff members two streets along from his own. If he got over to the next road, he could go around behind the three warehouses that lined the cliff, and from there it was only a short way, through landscaped grounds, to Van Allan's villa.

An electric cart caught up with him at the top of the cul de sac. A heavy-set guy in shades was driving. Ken Frize leaned out the front passenger seat.

"James! There you are. We've been looking for you." Frize got out of the cart to give him the passenger seat. Ken got in the driver's side and the big guy stepped up on the back-facing seats behind. "Mr. Van Allan is ready to see you."

Grayson hesitated. There was no discussion about how he happened to be away from his house arrest. Maybe Van Allan had found out about that, and Ken Frize was trying to pretend it hadn't happened. He climbed in, and Frize, with a glance back, started up the cart.

"You gave him my message, then?"

"Oh, of course."

"What's been happening out there?" James nodded toward the Wall. Ken Frize was oddly tense. Grayson hoped it meant he was in a lot of trouble.

Frize turned off the main road that led to Van Allan's house. He glanced behind him again as they came alongside the warehouses.

'Where are we going?" Grayson asked.

"To see Mr. Van Allan," Frize said. "He's waiting for you. He wants to talk to you.

When Frize drove the cart around to the back of the warehouses, as though, like Grayson, he was planning not to be seen, James decided it was time to jump. He shifted to his right just as a heavy arm came around his shoulder and held him still while a needle bit into his neck. He flinched and turned, but the arm held him firmly as he slid into darkness.

### Chapter Seventeen

Cane Toad was the first to notice that their limping prey was not ahead of them anymore. He said nothing, because it was part of his plan not to draw attention to himself. He wanted to just blend in until it was safe for him to get out through one of the gates. So when he saw the blood trace on the side of a narrow path leading off the Blood Road, he just trotted on past.

Three of the men were finding jogging in armor an unpleasant experience. The humidity, the heat, the fact that they'd each only worn the armor for a day, meant that they all found places where the armor chafed, or pinched, or hooked around. Cane Toad, wearing only his pants and his tabard with a belt around it, didn't have the armor problems. He'd been given his helmet back since neither Georgie nor Ronnie could fit their heads into it, and he trotted along with the visor open, carrying his sword and shield.

Ronnie, with his breastplate, and steel leg armor that kept pinching his groin, had it the worst. Finally, he called a halt to take the leg armor off. "I don't need it," he told the others. "You guys'll keep any hits off of me."

While Ronnie unbuckled his armor, Win scouted up the trail, and noticed the lack of blood spots. "Hey, I think we lost him." He headed back without consulting anyone, so they were strung out down the Blood Road when Win called back to them that he had found the trail again.

"Wait for me!" Ronnie yelled, and charged past Georgie.

Georgie shoved him back with a laugh, "No ya don't!"

Cane Toad slowed a little, wondering if this was his chance. But when they reached the tiny opening onto the jungle trail, Georgie was waiting for him. "After you," he said.

"Thanks!" Cane Toad replied, and dropped his visor. He trotted on with Ronnie in front of him, Georgie behind, and Win some yards ahead.

"Do ya see him?" Ronnie called out.

"He came this way," Win called back. "He's got to be ― YAAGH!"

The shriek startled them all, bringing them to a sudden halt. Win was just ahead, out of sight around a bend in the trail, making gurgling, gasping noises. Georgie was the first to recover, pushing past Cane Toad. "Come on, you fuckers!"

Win hung kicking and twisting four feet off the ground, clawing at the wire around his neck but unable to get at it because his left arm was buckled into his shield and his right-hand gauntlet was too thick to get under the edge of his helmet.

"Grab him!" Georgie screamed, and ran to his cousin and wrapped his arms around his legs and lifted him. "Ronnie, get that thing off him!"

"How?" Ronnie asked.

"You've got a sword, you've got a knife, just do it!" Georgie yelled.

Cane Toad came forward, trying to make out where the wire came from. The foliage was thick, and it was difficult to tell which branch led to what trunk. It had to be a big one, to hold DefCon Five's weight. He stared up into the canopy, and spotted the man. "Hey," he said, but none of his partners heard him.

"Here, Ronnie, you hold him," Georgie said.

An awkward attempt to change places resulted in Georgie dropping Win before Ronnie had him, making Win scream and struggle, kick Ronnie in the chest and finally scramble up on his shoulders, balancing on one knee and one foot, gripping tiny branches to keep from falling off, and gasping for breath.

"Hold on!" Georgie called. "We'll get you out of there."

"Hey, guys," Cane Toad said, keeping the man high in the canopy in sight.

"Help me," Win choked, clutching at another branch as one broke in his hand.

"Keep still, we'll figure this out," Georgie said with more desperation than certainty. "Ronnie, give me your morningstar, I think I can reach the wire."

"It's a flail," Ronnie said, trying to shake his weapon's lanyard off of his gauntlet. Georgie came over and peeled it off him and was about to turn when Cane Toad knocked into him.

"Watch out!" Cane Toad yelled.

"What the fuck!" shouted Georgie.

"Noose!" Cane Toad shoved him again. "Look out!"

That's when Georgie saw it, the silvery wire snaking from above, twisting to catch him by the neck as it had caught Win. "What the fuck?" He looked up and up, and saw, high up in the branches, the man fishing for him with the wire. "You fucker!" Georgie screamed. "I am so gonna kill you!"

The staff of Savage Island gravitated to the monitors all that day, observing events. Some counted the eartags the band of killers were collecting. Others kept count of the dead in other ways.

Up in the control room, one of the techs was making book on the outcome of today's events: how many would be killed, whether the killers would turn on one another, how many men already on the Island would make it back alive. Two of the control room technicians reported themselves sick and went home.

The broadcast had not gone out yet. Over the months of broadcasting the lag time had been extended until now two days of broadcasts were kept in the can, ready for distribution. Everyone knew that until Van Allan had been consulted, the footage from the killing ground today would not be released.

Richard Farley took the day off, simply telling the editors to pull together all the fights as usual, and he would go over them with the sportscasters when they came in.

Peter Austin noticed that Jun Wono, the new guy, had simply left, gone off on a break, and never come back. He saw the four killers disappear down a trail where there was not much coverage. Wolfspider was there; he'd been hanging out there for over a week, and had made four kills that Austin knew of, and missed twice. On the Island map he could see all five combatants gathered together so closely that their tell-tales overlapped. He knew from the previous times that Wolfspider had caught a victim that he wouldn't be able to get a camera in there. But they would come out eventually, or some of those lights would blink out.

Win thought the wire was cutting his neck in half. He thought he was going to die. He could barely talk, barely breathe, and that fucker in the trees kept yanking on the wire.. He shouted at his cousins, but nothing they tried worked, and twice he fell off Ronnie's shoulders and thought his head would come off. finally the short guy got on top of George and tried to unhitch the wire from around Win's neck. Another silver twisting loop came twisting down from above and caught Cane Toad by the wrist and nearly yanked him off of George. Cane Toad scrambled to his feet on George's shoulders, leaned out, grabbed a tree branch and jumped down, hauling hard.

To the sound of snapping branches, Wolfspider crashed down from his lair in the trees.

He fell off the trail into the crowded tree trunks. Cane Toad pulled the wire off his wrist, and then climbed up on Ronnie's shoulders again to free Win. Then it took all four of them to extract the Wolfspider from the jungle.

He had cuts on his face and arms, and he couldn't stand straight when they got him out of there. Win put the wire around his neck and Ronnie wrapped the other end around the stock of his flail, and in the gathering darkness they headed out of the jungle. They stopped in a nearby clearing where they found a pile of four backpacks. They pawed through them and loaded one with water bottles, rations and other supplies they found, and forced their prisoner to carry it as they then they made their way along the trail.

Some time later Peter Austin looked up to see the whole group on the move, heading east toward the beach. He brought up the cameras in the vicinity and saw Unstoppable Force dragging the Wolfspider along the trail by a wire looped around his neck, while the other three crowded after, smacking him with the flat of a sword or the haft of a weapon when he faltered. They dragged him out of the woods and onto the beach as the sun set, and there they tied his hands behind his back, stood him against a rock and secured him there. They pulled off their helmets and unbuckled some of their armor. Pairs of them at a time went down to the surf and washed off.

DefCon Five sat nursing a wound on his neck while the others dumped out a backpack they'd brought, and shared around some bottles of water and ration bars. Then DefCon Five went over to their prisoner and proceeded to kick the shit out of him.

Austin found this hard to watch. Wolfspider tried to ride the blows, but soon he was too hurt or too damaged to do anything but try and keep his feet. None of the others tried to stop him.

When the light had faded, Austin switched the cameras over to night vision. In the eerie greenish light he saw DefCon Five cutting the Wolfspider's clothes off of him. And then he raped him against the rock.

"Mr. John Savage?"

"Who's this?" Savage barked into his cell phone. He'd just come upstairs to go to bed. He wasn't expecting any calls.

The cultured voice, slightly accented, replied, "It is you who demanded to speak with me, Mr. Savage. This is Jules Van Allan. I understand you have something to say to me?

Savage was trained to think on his feet, but now he was off-balance. He barked, "How did you get this number?"

The voice laughed softly. "Mr. Savage, you must know by now that I have extensive resources. Tell me, what is it you wished to talk to me about?"

Savage tried to remember the points he'd worked out during his car trip that morning. Deanna had come up with a dead end. Van Allan's Los Angeles offices said he couldn't be reached, and his New York offices said they didn't have his number. They were lying, of course. Still, Deanna had not been able to get through. Or so it had seemed. Now, Van Allan was on his private cell, so word must have reached him.

"I know what you're up to," Savage blurted.

"Do you?" Van Allan sounded amused. "So do I."

"Yes, I do, and I will have you, I swear, if it's the last thing I do."

"My dear Mr. Savage, get a hold of yourself."

Savage found himself almost sputtering into the phone. "You are a murderer! A kidnapper and a murderer, and I will have you extradited, you will be arrested, and charged, and I will see you executed."

After a brief pause the voice answered him, no longer amused but angry. "I think not. First, you do not know where to find me. Second, you have no evidence to prove any of those charges. Third, you will soon no longer be in a position to prosecute anyone. That is a promise I made myself a long time ago. It will not be the last thing I do, but it is imminent, Mr. Savage. I called only to tell you this. When it happens," he added softly, "think of me."

"Now wait just a goddamned minute ―!" Savage yelled, but the line was dead. "Fucker!" Savage said aloud. "You goddamned motherfucking bastard!"

Linda, his wife, drifted into the doorway from her room across the hall, her robe partly open. "John? What in hell is wrong with you?"

He opened his mouth to yell back at her, and then shut it. Getting into it with Linda wasn't going to help. Pissing Linda off, when he needed her cooperation on the campaign trail, was not a good idea, as he'd learned time and again. "I'm sorry," he said, smiling. "Did I wake you? I got a call from a, well . . . Some bad news. It doesn't matter now."

She drifted past him and went into the bathroom. When the door closed he punched the numbers into the phone.

"What?" the voice was muzzy with sleep.

"Al!" Savage said, "Sorry to wake you." He kicked himself, mentally, adding up what time it was out in Washington, D.C. Almost three in the morning.

"What do you want, John?"

"Ah, I need to know," John moved to the far side of the room, cupping the phone so that Linda couldn't hear him, if she was listening. She probably wasn't; she didn't care; but just in case. "About what you said the other day . . . is it going to happen?"

"What?" Fontaine asked, and then answered himself, "Yes. Absolutely. You can count on it."

"You're certain."

"Saturday at o-two hundred, they'll be landing. Probably be all over by five. Watch the news."

"And that's certain."

"I said it, didn't I?" Fontaine was waking up. The sleep was out of his voice. "What the hell time is it? Oh, shit."

"I'm sorry, Al. I just ― something came up. But everything's all right now."

"All right. Just ― keep that under your hat."

"I will," Savage assured him. "And Al, thank you. I can't tell you how much."

"Good night." Fontaine cut the connection.

Savage held the phone in his hand for a moment. He pictured Van Allan frog-marched onto a helicopter, imprisoned in the brig, and flown ignominiously back to California. Van Allan could think what he liked, for the time being. But by Sunday, John Savage would have him in his hands. He pictured Van Allan in an orange jumpsuit, in a jail cell. He'd have to be on hand to see the guy locked up. He'd have to make that happen. It would be too good to miss. "Got you," he said softly. "You fucking bastard."

He got up to put the phone away and saw Linda standing by the bed. Her robe had fallen open. In the softened light from his bedside lamp, she didn't look too bad. He took her in his arms and kissed her, slipping his hand beneath her robe to cup her breast gently, the way she liked. She made a little sound in her throat and leaned in to him. He kissed her and slipped the robe from her shoulder. Her fingers slid behind his head, her neck arched back. He swung her onto the bed and undid his shirt buttons with one hand as he knelt over her, and pressed her legs apart with his knee. She sighed as he spread open her robe and gazed down at her while he finished with his shirt. Her hands came up and unbuckled his belt, and then unzipped his fly.

He shucked off his clothes and came back to her. He would have Jules Van Allan. Like this, and like this. He would do the motherfucker. And like this, he would do him again. Linda gasped, clutched at him and cried out. John Savage did not stop. He drove into her relentlessly until his body shook and he emptied himself.

James Grayson became aware of a distant irritating noise. And what was also irritating was whatever was hitting him over and over again. The whack, whack against his body, and the noise, and the crick in his neck, and the way his hands felt numb . . . his mind became alert suddenly with the realization that he was in the bottom of a boat, and the boat was pounding across the surf, and that he couldn't move. He couldn't move, and his neck was in a strange position, and even though his mind was panicking, his body was completely relaxed. He couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed. He wondered if they were going to dump him at sea. He tried to speak, but he couldn't. He tried to move, but he couldn't get the message to his body. He wondered if he were paralyzed.

The engine noise changed. The boat slowed, and the pounding of the surf against the hull lessened. Again he tried to speak. He didn't want to drown.

He heard the sand against the hull as the boat came to shore. Strong hands grasped his shoulders and hauled him up, banging him against the thwart, and then again against the gunwale as they pulled him out of the boat. He was grateful to feel the sand under his feet as they dragged him up the beach. He was less grateful when they dropped him.

He heard their footsteps recede. He heard the sound of the engine as the boat roared away. Part of him knew exactly what they had done. They had dropped him on Savage Island. But the drug in his system was still so strong that he could do nothing about it. If any combatant came upon him, he would be killed before they knew who he was, and that he was not another combatant. And he could not move, or fight, or even try to explain.

He lay listening with all his might. He heard the surf slushing up on to the beach and receded again. He heard the surf pounding louder, farther away. And even over the sound of the water he could heard the scritch and click and buzz of the jungle insects in the treeline not far away.

He found he could move his hand. He dragged it toward him. It felt numb and heavy. When he could move one of his legs he spent some time twisting himself so he could roll over onto his back. And there was revealed through a slot in front of his face the magnificent brightness of the dome of stars.

He was wearing a helmet. He could feel the strap biting his chin, and one strand of it tight between his lips. He had something in his mouth, filling it up. They'd gagged him, and fastened the chinstrap to keep it in place. He wasn't going to be able to talk to anyone, or show his face, until he could get the helmet off.

He dragged up a hand and held it up to his eye slot. It was encased in a metal glove, and to it was duct taped the three-foot haft of a war hammer. No wonder it felt heavy. And the glove was too tight, so his hand was going numb; they'd cut off his circulation. He held up the other hand. It too had a glove and held a mace. He had enough experience by now to know that just about anyone on the Island could take him. Two short weapons couldn't beat anyone with a spear, or anyone with a weapon and shield. He might be able to hold his own against a guy with a single sword. He smiled to himself at his thoughts. He wasn't going to be able to hold his own against anybody, because he'd never held a sword in his life, let alone a mace or a war hammer. What he had to do ― was hide. Hide until he could get this stuff off of him. Hide until he could get himself back to the right side of the Wall. And then he was going to have himself a talk with Mr. Jules Van Allan.

By early afternoon the dining room had become the scene of an unofficial work stoppage. Groundsmen, dockworkers, warehouse stock-men, and cleaning staff, most of them recent arrivals to the island, staked out some tables and sat smoking and talking and ordering coffee, tea, fried rice and arak. A couple of their supervisors, finding them late or missing from their jobs, came into the dining room to get them to come back to work. But the language barrier was suddenly unbreachable. No one at the tables they had dragged together seemed to understand.

The low-voiced discussions grew in intensity. More staffers joined them. Some came in from observing the monitors, and then went out again. When the team of murderers left the killing ground and headed into the Island hinterland, the pitch of the discussion rose. Many got up and started outside. Others spoke more calmly. A few slipped away. A little while later a few more slipped away in the same direction. Another group left soon after.

When their supervisors returned with translators and ultimatums, the tables were empty.

Grayson made his way as quietly as he could along the tree line, until he found the rough bark of a palm tree and proceeded to rub off the duct tape wrapped around his weapons hands. What he hadn't known, when reporting about the Island, was the adrenalin rush that just being alone on this side of the Wall brought you. He pictured DawnKiller, or Bloody Valley, or Lion, behind every rock and tree, watching him, ready to attack. His ears strained with the effort of listening for footfalls, certain that the sound of the surf covered approaching steps from every direction.

How many layers of tape had they felt it necessary to wrap his weapon to his hand?

He froze, certain he had heard a branch snap.

A surge of adrenalin made him certain he had heard something else, sensed something ― and then he realized the sound of the insects had shut off. And he held himself as still as any beetle under a leaf, waiting for the danger to pass.

There. Walking along the tree line. A silhouette with a long pole over his shoulder. Tall and lean, topped by a helmet with two long feathers bouncing along behind him. Bloodhawk! Grayson remembered the guy's profile, remembered how fast he was with that little short sword and shield, and how he'd kept Dark axe at bay with that spear for almost half an hour, driving him back and back, punching the spear into him again and again.

Bloodhawk had three eartags that Grayson knew of; he might have more by now. If he continued on his path, he was going to walk right in to Grayson.

Run? Or try and make his way between the trunks of the trees without being heard? He'd seen one combatant hunt another through the trees with a spear. Success depended on how thick the jungle was, whether the trees helped to guard you, or trapped you so you were stuck like a fish in a net.

Bloodhawk halted. He lowered his spear and turned slowly around. Grayson felt his heart hammering all the way to his teeth. Bloodhawk backed into the trees and stood still.

Down the shore, reflected in starlight, another combatant strode. Grayson recognized him as well, Sword Song. He was the sand walker who had lapped the Island once already the previous day, and started along the beach once again. This was probably his third lap.

Bloodhawk didn't move. Sword Song came on.

Grayson hated to see sand walkers killed, because their courage was of a different kind, a worthier kind, he believed. They did no harm unless they were forced to defend themselves. They proved their courage by daring to be here at all.

Sword Song was the second combatant to walk the sands of the Island more than once, and if this was his third lap, he was going to set a new record. If he lived.

Down along the shore, Sword Song paused and stood looking out to sea. Grayson felt a cramp beginning in his leg. Bloodhawk was closer to him. Bloodhawk could kill him in a moment and then go and take on Sword Song. He clutched the trunk of the tree and tried to hold himself still.

Sword Song turned away from the ocean and walked up the beach. Halfway to the tree line, he stopped and bowed.

Bloodhawk didn't move for a moment, as though disconcerted that he'd been seen. Then he bowed in return.

Sword Song bowed again, and turned once more toward the surf to continue his walk.

But Grayson had seen this before, this same circumstance. He'd seen Bloodhawk salute a sand walker, let him pass, and then charge him while his back was turned and strike him down. It had been his first kill. He was going to do it again, he knew it. Sword Song walked toward the surf. Bloodhawk raised his spear. Grayson stood up and yelled.

He'd forgotten that he couldn't make much of a sound. Bloodhawk heard him and turned. Sword Song continued walking. Bloodhawk hesitated an instant and then came at Grayson at a run, and now he had only a second to choose, the beach or the trees. Bloodhawk's long rangy build and light armor decided him. Grayson dove into the trees. The trees were close together, and branches looped down like a web to impede him as he pressed his way forward. An itch at his back made him drop suddenly to the ground. Bloodhaw's spear struck just above him. Grayson crawled away among the trunks, his weapons catching with his every move, desperation lending him agility. The spear struck again, smacking against his helmet, banging it against a tree and then skittering off. Grayson turned, holding up his useless weapons to see the shadow that was Bloodhawk looming over him, his spear raised to strike.

The spear came down. Grayson struck at it and knocked it aside. Bloodhawk yanked it back and thrust again. Grayson struck at it once more with his mace, but this time the head of his weapon got caught up in a branch and he was only able partially to deflect it. He jinked back as it came at him and felt the point pierce his side.

With the pain came terror. He yelled out, dragged himself back some more as the spear came at him again. He pushed it away, and in a blinding inspiration struck out at Bloodhawk's leg. His war hammer struck Bloodhawk on the knee. Bloodhawk cursed and jumped back. The spear came at him again. Grayson tried to back himself further away, but there was no further room between the trees to get out of the way. He was stuck, he was trapped, he could hardly see anymore because it was dark among the trees but he held up his weapons to try and deflect the spear, and strike back once again.

Bloodhawk, poised to strike, made a choked sound. He arched back, and then toppled forward, caught by the branches above Grayson, and then fell in a heap.

Sword Song stood over him, holding his sword two handed, backlit by starlight, his form perfect as he finished his strike and paused, waiting to see if he needed to strike again.

Grayson sat perfectly still, gasping for breath, waiting to see if the next strike was for him. But Sword Song did not move. After a moment, Grayson slowly lifted his weapons in a gesture of surrender. Sword Song nodded, stepped back, drew out a cloth and wiped his sword, and then sheathed it at his side.

Grayson bowed as best he could. Sword Song stepped back again and bowed, and went on his way.

The delinquent staff members met again, arriving from different directions, at one of the warehouses near the harbor. They stood under the soft overhead light by one of the entrances, talking and smoking while their numbers grew. At last a group of men arrived who produced a set of keys and opened a side door to the warehouse. Looking over their shoulders, the whole group of them filed inside.

Arthur Baines, who had once called himself the Scorpion, wrapped a rope around his pants and tied it with shaking hands. He'd lost so much weight that they kept slipping, and he needed to be sure he had no distractions and no impediments tonight. He felt dizzy and weak, but his head was clear, and he had no trace of fever. He was out of food, and he was pretty sure that another bout of fever was on its way. If he was going to try and make it home, it had to be now, tonight. He wasn't sure he could keep himself alive after another sickness like the last one. Falling in the stream was all that had kept his temperature down the last time. He smiled to himself. He sure couldn't trust himself to be that lucky again.

He'd tried to walk out before. Unless he had only imagined it. The first time he'd been too weak to walk more than a few steps before he had to give up. The second time he'd gotten farther, and had stopped to rest in the trees before taking to the trail. He'd woken up hours later in broad daylight, with the sound of steel ringing not far away. He'd slowly, slowly slipped back down the side of the gorge and gone to ground again.

He could walk a little now. He was stronger. And if he was ever going to get out of here, this was the time. He hoped he remembered the way.

He carried his knife, a water bottle, the first aid kid, and a few bits of rope. Slowly, he started up the slope. Now or never, do or die. He wasn't going to die. He couldn't. He had to get home.

In his dreams he saw her, dressed and painted, talking under glaring lights. Or lying open-eyed in strange beds. He heard her voice in his fever, the same words over and over. "Damn you, Arthur Baines, don't you go and die on me. Come home, Arthur! Come home!" Well he would go now, and do his best, and if he was lucky, he would make it. He turned in the direction he was sure would take him eventually to the Wall, and started on his way.

Grayson crouched in the trees so long the insects began to chirp and buzz and click again. He was not dead. He had not been killed. And Bloodhawk lay dead at his feet. That moment of crowning relief etched itself on his mind: The noise of the frogs and the insects, the crashing of the surf, the scent of the jungle and the ocean, his wide-dilated eyes, the iron tang of fresh blood, and Sword Song's retreating footsteps, soon lost in the soundscape.

The pain in his side blossomed into his awareness. He'd been speared. It bloody hurt! He wondered how badly he was bleeding. He had to get his hands free before he could do something about bandaging it.

He groped across the dead man's body and found belt where Bloodhawk carried a shortsword and a knife. He used both his hands to draw the knife from its sheath. With patience and care he managed to wedge it between his knees. Then he sawed away at the duct tape that held his gauntleted hands closed around the nearly-useless weapons.

When he had cut one free, he was able to cut and rip the tape off the other. He unbuckled the gauntlets and shook out and massaged his hands in relief. Then he reached under his helmet to unbuckle the chinstrap. In the end he had to cut the strap, and when he pulled off the helmet he learned that they had riveted the buckle shut. He discovered then that the thing rubbing against his ear was not the buckle: he had been given an eartag.

He felt both terror and exhilaration. Secretly, he had wondered from the start what it felt like. He had wondered whether he could measure up. With a whole lot of luck he'd come out ahead so far.

When he could touch the wound in his side he found that it was not deep, but it was still bleeding. Once he knew it was only a scrape, it didn't hurt so much. He knew, though, that even a small wound could be debilitating. He needed to find Bloodhawk's pack. That would give him both disinfectant and bandaging, and solve his next most pressing need: water.

He found the pack and opened it awkwardly. He pulled out a bottle of water. It was half full. Grayson had never been more grateful in his life. He drank most of it, then found the first aid kit and gratefully dug out some real bandages.

He levered himself off the ground and took Bloodhawk's weapons. He tried on Bloodhawk's helmet, but it was too small. He would have to wear the one he'd been given, or wear none.

He had time, he thought, to make his way back to the Wall while it was still dark. He was going to find Van Allan, and Ken Frize, and have a little talk. He started off down the beach. Then he remembered Bloodhawk's eartags.

### Chapter Eighteen

Wolfspider died at last. Win cut off the naked man's eartag and pocketed it, and no one said a word. They moved off down the beach away from the broken corpse by unspoken agreement, and sat down in the sand. They passed around a water bottle, and the jerky and trail mix they'd looted from one of their victim's packs. Win put some antiseptic on the cut on his neck, and complained about how much it hurt.

After a while, Ronnie asked, "So, what do we do now?"

Georgie said, "Remember that time, there was that guy sleeping out, and he was snoring? And the guy just stuck him where he lay?"

They all laughed. That had been funny. It had made one of the "Funniest Fights on Savage Island" DVDs, even though there hadn't actually been a fight, to speak of, so everyone had seen it.

They all fell silent then and listened, in case there was someone snoring nearby. It wasn't likely. Wolfspider had made a lot of noise before he died. Georgie had taken a turn at him, and then Ronnie said he wanted to. When he couldn't get it up, he'd pounded the guy crooked. Cane Toad pretended he couldn't get it up either, so Win had him again before he finished him off.

George broke the silence. "Let's go find everyone on this Island and take them out. Then we'll walk back in and cash out, and we'll all be millionaires."

Ronnie and Georgie thought that was a fine idea. Cane Toad wasn't certain that what they'd been doing hadn't been bending the rules, enough that they wouldn't be allowed to just cash out and go home, or cash out and disappear somewhere. He could plead duress. That's how he planned it. But he'd have to make certain he wasn't too helpful, in the slaughter they planned.

But he got up when they did, and started along the beach.

In the villa on the cliff that overlooked the sea, Jules Van Allan had brought out the whiskey. He was a patron of a few Spey-side breweries, and brought to his former wife a glass of single malt. Heleen rarely drank anything other than wine. But this was one of those occasions. The screen was blank now. They had watched the nine men who had destroyed their children's lives, and then their own, go to their miserable, painful, ignominious deaths again and again. No revenge could have been more thorough, nor more exacting. They sat on the couch now and sipped the pungent liquid.

"It's not enough, is it," Van Allan concluded at last. "I thought if I accomplished this, if I brought you, so to speak, the heads of their killers and laid them at your feet, I would have gone some way to healing what those creatures did to us. But it's not so, is it."

Heleen gently swirled her drink. "It doesn't change what happened. But it does make it easier to know that their lives are not just continuing as though they had done nothing, as though what they did was perfectly acceptable." She looked over at him. "Thank you. Thank you for justice, at last."

He sipped the Scotch. "It isn't justice," he said. "It's only retribution."

"Well," she said. "Thank you for that."

When the small Asian man slipped in to the room, Jules Van Allan thought nothing of it. He didn't recognize the man, but then he didn't know most of the staff on the island. "Yes?" he said. "I left word that we were not to be disturbed." In fact he could be disturbed now. He'd finished what he had to do.

A second and third man came into the room, and two women after them. And then a few more, and then Van Allan saw that they carried machetes, axes, shovels, swords, and long knives. He hadn't noticed at first because they did not carry them in a threatening manner. Still, at the sight of the weapons, Van Allan stood up. His mind went to his own bodyguards, who kept a discreet profile on the island, and in fact did not carry guns here. Why should they? he had thought. Well, now he knew.

More men and women crowded in, moving along the walls until they circled the whole room, cutting Van Allan and Heleen off from the other door and the two shuttered windows.

"Heleen," Van Allan said, low and hard, "come over here."

She started at the tone of his voice and looked up. At the sight of the people, she blanched, but she slid smoothly along the couch until she sat next to where he stood.

There must have been thirty people in the room by the time the ingress halted. The door was left open, and it seemed to Van Allan that more of the people crowded outside. He thought he saw a groundsman that he recognized, and he addressed him. "What is the meaning of this?" He kept his voice mild, unthreatening. After all, he was not armed.

The groundsman smiled apologetically and shook his head. He held a mace in his hand, but he did not raise it.

The people looked at one another. A few low-voiced comments were spoken, and then one of them moved around the couch so he could face Van Allan and Heleen. He bowed, touching his heart with the hand that did not hold the battle-axe.

"Mr. Van Allan, please excuse this intrusion. We have a very great problem, and we need your assistance."

Lieutenant Hartley spread out the blueprint of the island villa in a cramped corner of the mess. Leading Petty Officer Inoyen anchored it for him. His platoon had boarded the submarine Manatee earlier that day and were now moving at full speed toward their target in the Celebus Sea. Each member of his five-man squad studied a picture of Jules Van Allan, and then slipped it into an inside zippered waterproof pocket.

"After we decommission the gates we will proceed to the southwest corner of the island, about three quarters of a mile along the cliffs, where we will secure this building. Our chief target is Jules Van Allan. In addition, we will detain all personnel. We will seize all papers, computers, hard-drives, flash-drives, discs, video and film stock."

"We got a warrant for this?" Conners, the cut-up asked. The others chuckled.

Hartley allowed it. Occasional jokes were good for morale. And these guys were the best. "We will be dropped a mile and a half out at zero hundred hours. We will beach here," he pulled the map of the island on top of the blueprint and pointed to the landing site, "and make our way to the Wall together with Squads One and Two."

"What if one of the combatants tries to stop us?" Irving asked.

Hartley waited. There was always something more.

"If we accidentally kill him, do we get to keep the eartag?"

Grayson heard the sound of voices and laughter up ahead along the beach. He thought first it must be some of the waste management crew come out to pick up the day's bodies. Combatants on Savage Island didn't hang out in groups, and they didn't talk and laugh together. He quickened his steps, hoping he might recognize one of the guys, but he didn't leave the shelter of the trees, where he was hidden by shadows.

When he heard the scream he knew it wasn't waste management. It was only then that he remembered what had been happening on the Island that morning; the gang who had teamed up together and killed almost everybody they came upon.

They'd built a fire on the beach. By its dancing light he could see some of them moving around.

Two of them were fighting.

He crept up closer, moving slowly so as not to draw the eye, keeping to the shadows along the tree line up a long slope from the men on the beach.

One man lay on his back beside the fire, naked, his hands and feet tied. Two naked men circled one another, their wrists tied together by a short cord, armed with knives in their other hands. Another man sat on a stack of backpacks, a bottle in one hand, a sword in the other, egging them on. A big man holding a stick stood by the fighters, smacking one or the other, egging them one. He said, "This is so great! I always wanted to try this!"

Another of the big guys walked over to the bound man and flipped him over, dropped to his knees and straddled him. Grayson heard the man's scream as the big guy raped him.

Grayson backed away even more slowly than he'd crept up. He'd passed a break in the tree line that might be one of the paths leading to the interior. He'd been wary of heading inland a closed space gave him so few options in the dark. Besides; Wolf Spider was up one of these paths, and he didn't know which. Now, a path seemed a lot safer than what was happening on the beach and he retraced his way to look for the opening.

"Hey! There's another one!"

Grayson froze at the shout behind him. Could there be anyone else on this beach besides him? Yet how could they see him, when they were by the fire, and he was in the shadows of the trees? He turned his head to see three of the men pick up their arms and head up the beach toward him. He ran.

He kept to the tree line since his only hope of losing these guys was to get off the beach and in among the trees. He tried to remember how far back he'd seen that opening. He hoped it wasn't just a cul de sac. He couldn't hear the men behind him over the sound of the surf, but he didn't dare turn to see how far behind they were.

There was the opening – he passed it and had to swing back – and then he saw the men, they had gained on him, running flat out toward him. One carried a naked sword, another a spear and shield, and the other held a flail by its stock and chain. He caught only that glimpse and then ducked into the opening and ran for his life.

It was a trail. He blessed the crews that had cut this one, and made it high and wide enough for him to run without hindrance. It was possible his hunters would miss the opening, or that they'd decide they didn't want to chase him this far. And if he did hear them behind him, Grayson remembered that one man could hold his own on a narrow trail, since he'd only have to defend against one man at a time. He'd learned one or two things since coming to Savage Island. He wished he'd learned more about how to use the weapons he carried.

He ran with his shield in front of him, and his spear point aimed behind him, so that if a guy did run him down in the dark, Grayson would feel him on the spear and have a chance to turn and defend himself before he was struck down. The thought of those three guys running him down in the dark made him arch his back unconsciously, and run faster.

The trail turned and he saw an opening up ahead. A wider trail running along a stream joined up with his, and the trees thinned around him, letting in moon and starlight. All at once, Grayson knew exactly where he was. A hundred yards up this trail would be a flat rock in the stream, and beyond that, the camp of the rice men.

Grayson stopped and turned, ready to defend the path however inadequately against the men behind him. The consequences of leading the monsters who chased him to the rice men seemed an act so wrong that he could not do it. But the night was silent. No pounding footsteps, no calling voices, no hunters running down their prey. He was alone. He listened. Nothing.

If those men were bent on killing every living combatant, then sooner or later they would remember the rice men, the soft targets who represented nearly a million dollars in unclaimed eartags. If the monsters discovered them, they would be destroyed.

Grayson waited, his breath gasping, determined to hold the path. Still no one came. The path was wider here. They would be able to flank him. He thought that the best thing to do would be to go to the rice men's camp and rouse them so they could defend themselves. They could all defend each other.

John Savage strode out onto the stage they'd built for this event in the warehouse at the aeronautics business in Chula Vista, made a joke about the introduction he'd just listened to, told an anecdote about working in a place a lot like this one the summer before he went to college, and then launched into his current stump speech, which in this location was shaped around his plan for a foreign worker's program for California. This was an excellent middle-ground issue, because conservatives when they heard this speech understood that he was trying to keep illegal immigrants out, while liberals heard that he was creative a safe and legal way for them to come in. The illegal alien work force was a decades-long subsidy to the California agriculture industry, in the form of below-minimum wage workers and unregulated working conditions. The unlooked-for result had been a price that the rest of California had to pay, in the fifteen million illegal aliens whose schooling and medical expenses were shouldered by the taxpayer. Savage believed that a foreign worker program, like those that served many other countries, could provide the farmers with the workers they needed, without the burden that illegal immigrants brought to the social infrastructure of the state.

The speech went well. He felt the audience's enthusiasm. They laughed at the right moments, they applauded, and they listened. This was the wave of attention and energy that was going to propel him to the governorship of the state for four years, and then to the presidency. He finished with a stirring promise of a better future, and they believed him. They rose to their feet and clapped and cheered. He smiled, his eyes looking at the camera angles, hoping the evening news was getting good bytes of this.

He offered to take some questions, something he hadn't done for awhile. Van Allan's campaign to destroy him had ensured that every crowd and every press pool had a plant somewhere to bring up the topic of Savage Island and the Crimson Club drive-by shooting case wherever he went. But he wasn't worried about that today. In fact, he was counting on it.

The line behind the microphone was still lengthening when it came. The young woman in glasses bent close to the microphone and told him that the death count on Savage Island was over three hundred, and didn't he think that this had to be stopped?

"I do," Savage said. "It is a blot on our civilization that this should have gone on for so long. We should have outgrown murdering one another to prove something in the last century, and I will not stand by while it continues. I have explored every means of putting a stop to it, and I can tell you that very soon, it's going to end. Keep your eye on the news. That's all I can say." He flashed a smile at them, lifted his hand to the howl of questions that followed, and walked off the stage. He'd left just the impression that he wanted. When it happened, he'd get the credit. He'd used his powers to put something into motion, and as a result, Savage Island was going to be shut down. It left him looking capable and presidential. And that was perfect.

Grayson found the camp of the rice men sooner than he hoped, and the problem of alerting them didn't arise, because he woke them all up when he fell into the stream. In the dark, he missed the path, tripped over a root and went plunging down the bank he hadn't known was there, and landed head first in the water. He fell on top of his shield, trapping himself. It took him a few moments to shift onto his side so his could use the shield as a lever to sit himself up.

When he looked up, half a dozen men stood on the other side of the stream. All of them held weapons.

"Hey," he croaked, and stopped to cough. "Sorry . . . listen, does anyone here speak English?" It occurred to him that this was the only group of men on Savage Island who would not recognize him. All other combatants, by the time their application had been accepted, had spent hours watching the broadcasts, and knew his face and voice as well as they knew any landmark on the Island. But these men might never have seen the show at all. None of them responded to his questions. They probably didn't speak English, either. He got up and climbed up the bank, staying on the far side of the stream. He'd dropped the spear when he fell. He took the sword out of his belt and laid it on the ground. He pointed behind him. "Bad men. Many bad men. They're coming. You have to go. Take weapons, go!" His pantomime skills did not seem to be adequate to explain his message. None of the men moved. "Agh!" he said. "Damn it!" And he tried again, with bigger gestures.

Another man joined the group from the back of the camp. He alone had not picked up a sword or spear. He watched Grayson's attempt at communication for a few moments and then made a comment to the others. They laughed. Grayson straightened. The new man said, "Mr. Grayson, what is it you are trying to tell us?"

It could not have been a more perfect night for storming the beach of a mysterious island. The sky was a spangled bowl of stars, and the black waters shown with reflected moonlight. The oars dipped quietly, the three rafts moving almost abreast. Of course, since they were men in boats, they were racing. But that was all right; Hartley's raft was slightly ahead.

With night vision scopes they scanned the beach for any movement or signs of life. Nothing. They got the jammers working, in case there were cameras pointed their way. Then they ran the rafts onto the beach and took a defensive position. They scanned the beach again and listened.

Inoyen quietly reported their position to the mission commander on the ship. Then Hartley lifted a hand, and the three squads moved out in silence, heading for the Wall.

Grayson sat with his back to the stone abutment, on the far side of the fire. He'd drunk a bottle and a half of water, and he gratefully ate a second bowl of rice using his fingers, as spare spoons or chopsticks were in short supply. But he kept his eyes on the trail on the far side of the stream, straining for any sight or sound of movement out there, while he tried to convince the rice men that they needed to move to safety.

"You say," Mr. Hope, whose real name was Leong Gesang, argued in his soft voice, "that there are bad men on this Island. But we know that already. We learned that when Chou Yen was killed." He spoke to the other men sitting around the fire and there were nods in response and low-voiced comments.

"These are not the same bad men," Grayson explained around a mouthful of rice. "Sorry. All the combatants up to this time have been working solo. These guys have ganged up. This morning they killed eight people, one after another, right out of the gate. I just saw them over that way on the beach. There are more of them now. Anyone who's been watching the show knows exactly where to find you, and I can guarantee those guys have been watching the show."

"Yes," Leong said drily. "The show." He spoke again to the other men around the fire.

It was difficult to distinguish the men in the firelight, but Grayson thought he recognized Super Lucky Guy, the first rice man to come onto the Island, Harmony, who was the latest one, and Mr. Free, whom he'd marked since Lucy pointed him out as an important political figure in Indonesia. He did not look very prepossessing, but when he spoke, the other men paid attention, and his words seemed to end whatever discussion they were having. A lean man in a ragged shirt, probably in his sixties, he sat on his heels by the fire with his fingers wrapped around a cup of tea, which the man beside him kept filled.

All of the men had weapons beside them, and one sat on a rock beyond the fire, looking out into the night, on guard, though still in earshot of the conversation.

The men showed no haste, and no concern for their safety. Grayson tried again. "Mr. Leong, "the Island was originally designed for fighting men to demonstrate their courage to the world, and for Mr. Van Allan, the owner and executive producer, to make his point about truly brave men not using guns when they fight."

He waited while Leong translated this to the rest. When he had, a number of the voices rose in outcry. Leong listened, and then translated the questions to Grayson.

"How is it courageous for one man to strike down another?"

Grayson was taken aback. Then he realized that this was just the non-sportsman asking the sportsman why it mattered so much that the ball be moved from here to there and end up in the right container. This was not something you could discuss, if you didn't understand it, and it certainly wasn't an argument he was going to win. "It doesn't," he agreed. "But Mr. Van Allan is a wealthy man, and this is his playground. Nonetheless, what he has been doing has suddenly gotten out of hand. You were safe enough yesterday, when only one man at a time would try and attack you. But now, many men could come, and they are all fighters, and you guys are not, and they want to kill you."

He waited impatiently for the translation and the discussion that followed. Then Mr. Free spoke some more, and Leong translated. "How is it different for us to fight and die here, than to run, and in running be hunted down and die in that manner? If you run from the hunter, it only encourages him."

"Yes," Grayson replied. "Let's not run away. Let's run to the Wall and get the hell out of here."

Leong said, "Then we will simply be killed in the open."

"No, we'll go through the gates, we'll get through the Wall and off the Island."

It was then Grayson realized that these men did not know that they were allowed to go back through the gates. Perhaps they had not been told, or perhaps they had been told they could not, but he was damn well going to find out what would happen if they tried, and especially, if they tried when they were with him. He got up. "Come on. Let's go back to the Wall, while those monsters are messing around on the beach. Let's go through the gate and have a real nice dinner and sleep in a real bed after a real bath. Come on! Bring your weapons, and let's get the hell out of here." He picked up his own shield and spear, and put the sword back into his belt. "Come on!" he said. "Let's go home. Let's not stay here and die."

The men kept talking, but the pitch of the discussion rose. And then Mr. Free stood up. And then the others stood up as well.

Leong said to Grayson, "We will try it. If we can leave this place, then by all means, let us do so."

John Savage got the call while he was in his car on the way back from the airport. It was Colonel Fontaine, so he took it. "Al!"

Fontaine's voice was livid. "Tell me I didn't just hear was I heard! Tell me you didn't say that!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Did you just announce to the world at large that the United States is landing on Savage Island?"

"I just thought ―"

"You fucking asshole! You jack-faced dirtwad! You sheepfucking cockswilling giant-assed idiot!"

"Now listen to me ―"

"No, you listen. If I had known that you were so stupid as to go public with a classified op while it's in progress, I'd have stopped taking your calls back in college. How could you be so godalmighty fucking stupid?"

"What I was thinking ―"

"I don't care what you were thinking!"

"Al, shut the fuck up and listen to me! The purpose of this exercise is to seize control of the discussion on Savage Island. The best way to do that is to make the event look like something other than just a coincidence, a happenstance."

"John, I'm going to make this simple, because I can see that you are not going to understand me unless I do. You never, never close the back door on an operation. You never give it away when it's in progress, and you never, ever tell the press. That's strike three, John. And I am not going to forget that I went out on a limb for you, and you completely fucked me over!"

"When Savage Island is shut down ―"

"You'd better hope and pray it works out exactly as it's supposed to, John, or you are going to be fucked up right along with me, and that's a promise."

The line went dead. David Thornton looked over at him. The light flashed on and off his face as they passed under the streetlights. "Anything wrong?"

He must have heard Al screaming at him, Savage thought as he pocketed the phone. But it would be all right. Once Savage Island was shut down, everything would be fine. "No. Just Al letting off some steam."

"Sure?"

"Yeah. It's fine."

The three teams paused at the edge of the killing ground, scanning in every direction with their nightvision goggles, looking for any sign of life, or for cameras. They saw nothing.

Inoyen broke the silence. This was against orders, but it just needed to be said. "This isn't right," he told them. "I don't see any cameras."

Hartley, who had been about to shut the guy up, paused and looked. "Huh."

"They're on poles, with microphones," one of the men said. Several of them had been avid followers of the Savage Island broadcasts.

"And wasn't the killing ground a lot bigger?" Inoyen asked.

"Maybe it just looks smaller from the ground," Hartley said. "Come on. Let's go."

They started off across the killing ground, making for the Wall that reared up opposite.

While the rice men gathered their belongings amid unending discussions, Grayson traded out Nighthawk's long spear for a shorter one that was easier to carry. From the rice men's collection of arms and armor, Grayson found an open-faced help that mostly fit him, which also allowed him to see. He took a new sword, mostly because the new one had a sheath.

Some of the rice men, those who had arrived on the Island by some other means than entering through the gates, had never been near the Wall. The men had other names for all the landmarks that Grayson was familiar with, but eventually they agreed that they would head down the trail that led to the Blood Road, which they knew as the Wide Path, and make their way to the killing ground that way.

Mr. Happy, whose actual name was Wangsa, had a flashlight. He went first, leading Mr. Free, and the others followed after, a straggle of men carrying baskets on their backs with the belongings they didn't want to leave behind. It was not the exodus that Grayson had planned. It was slow, and the guys would keep on talking. Now and again they all stopped and gathered around while one of them made an important point. When Grayson asked Leong what they were talking about, he only shook his head, as if to say it wasn't important enough to take the time to translate. During these all too frequent halts, Grayson put himself on guard, shield raised, staring behind them into the dark. He went to the front once to hurry them along, but had to go back when he found that half of them had stopped in the rear to talk.

They had their own pace, and he could not change it. He brought up the rear because he was pretty sure not one of them would keep a watch like he would. He'd seen the monsters. He knew what they would do.

A shadow moving among the shadows on the trail behind was all the warning he got, and then the monsters were running toward them, three abreast, spear carriers to the fore, shouting to the others, shouting for blood, and Grayson yelled, "Here they come!" and he yelled, "Run!" and he put up his shield and brought up his spear to hold them while the others saved themselves.

He'd played football in high school, and for a couple of years in college, slipping down the line-up until he admitted to himself that he was never going to be a top ballplayer. But deep in his cognizance he remembered how it felt when half a dozen linebackers were running at you, and you were about to get steamrolled. It was because he'd had the experience of seeking for an opening, in the face of imminent destruction, that he was able to stand his ground now.

He held the spear pointed at the throat of the huge form running straight for him, and then when they were a few steps away he shifted, ducked, and thrust with all his might at the man to the left, whose helm rode high on his head. He felt the spear connect under the man's chin where it sank in deep, almost without resistance. Something struck at Grayson and he raised the shield instinctively, but only caught part of it and the blow hammered down on his head. Flecks of light spangled his vision and his head ached, but the second part of his plan was already underway as he threw himself into the path of other two men coming up.

Something crashed onto his shoulder, his spear was yanked out of his hand, but he reached out and grabbed the nearest monster's head and twisted, and held on until they both fell to the ground. The herd stumbled past him. The man beside him struggled up, struck at James with his shield, and got to his feet.

He got up, groping for his sword, yelling after them, "No!" and "Run! For God's sake run!"

Sword bare, he stumbled after them to see if he could stop anything that was going to happen from happening.

The darkened tunnel was like a path through a nightmare. He heard shouts up ahead, and then screams. He emerged from the Blood Road onto the killing ground into a dance of search lights and the roar of helicopter blades. He saw the monsters backing up, crowding together, pinned under the lights. The monsters fell one by one, shot out of the sky by darts that stuck them like porcupine quills.. He saw them stagger, tearing at the darts, grabbing at their helmets, convulsing on the ground. Beyond them the rice men had broken into a trot heading for the gates, the gates that were open to receive them. Grayson wiped the sweat and blood from his eyes and tried to understand what he was seeing. Through the gates came crowds of men, and women too, brandishing machetes, swords, rakes, spears, and axes. They poured onto the killing ground and charged down upon the rice men, waving their weapons in the air. The rice men halted briefly, and then surged ahead, their weapons and belongings falling from their hands. And the crowd enveloped them, their weapons falling also as encircled them, embraced them and cheered them with as much crying and laughing as greetings. They milled around, the whole crowd trying to touch and hold and embrace each one of them, and the rice men reached for each of the crowd in their turn. And then the whole group turned and headed for the gates, bearing the rice men away, enveloped in the crowd.

Grayson stood swaying in the shadows of the trees. The monsters kicked the sand before him, choked on their screams and lay still. With some cold part of him, still thinking like a reporter, he understood that the darts weren't loaded with knock-out drugs, but some kind of poison. One had managed to pull his helmet off. He lay, limbs rigid, eyes staring, bloody foam dripping from his lips, not far from Grayson's feet. The searchlights danced away across the sands. Grayson pulled off his helmet and stepped from the shadows. The gates seemed to be a long ways away. He wondered if he was going to fall himself before he made it to the Wall.

The roaring in his head became a wind that made him stagger. He looked up and a helicopter lowered down before him. And in his dream, because it must be a dream by now, Lucy stood in the doorway of the helicopter, waving and calling his name.

He dropped the sword because he didn't need it anymore. He staggered across the sand. Lucy jumped from the helicopter and reached him in time to catch him in her arms as he fell.

They'd brought all the right equipment for climbing a twenty-foot wall. It looked pretty impressive from across the sands, but when they reached it, there's no way it was twenty feet high. There was no need to scale it because Gorski kicked in the side of it. It was made of press board.

"This can't be right," Gorski said again.

They split up then, for their different assignments. Hartley checked the gates but there was no way to disable them as the plan called for. They were just gaps in the wall.

The villa was there all right. Lights and sound indicated that a number of people inhabited it. Hartley deployed his men and on the count they attacked. They arrested a dozen partially clothed seriously drunk young people having one hell of a party, and three fully dressed adults who seemed to be servants, all of them loudly outraged in a language he didn't understand. Inoyen had to disable a strapping guy who was obviously a soldier who tried to kill him when he entered the main room. But that was all. They all had phones, which they all proceeded to use until Inoyen had his men confiscate them. But no one bore any resemblance to Van Allan.

When Gorski reported that the admin building was also a plywood construct, and completely uninhabited, and Tredwen reported the utter lack of anything resembling either the helipad or the harbor, and the tower they'd thought was the antenna array was also a fake, Hartley broke radio silence to report back to the ship.

"Sir? Lieutenant Hartley here. I'm sorry sir, but I think we've landed on the wrong island."

Grayson woke on his back in a dim room where the louvered blinds shielded what looked like very bright sunlight. His head hurt. When his eyes adjusted to the light he saw a shape sitting in a wicker chair opposite him, reading a book. He moved his head to try and see better, and his movement roused the figure, who looked up. It was Jules Van Allan, a book on his knee, and a glass of juice on the table beside him.

"You are awake," Van Allan observed.

"I must be," Grayson responded.

"Good," Van Allan said. He reached over and touched a button by Grayson's bed.

"What's wrong with me?" Grayson asked.

"You have concussion," Van Allan told him. "You were cracked on the head with a glancing blow of some deadly instrument.."

"A glancing blow?" Grayson reached up and gently touched the place on his head that hurt so much.

"Yes, or we would not be having this conversation. You also have a spear wound along your side; sixteen stitches. Two cracked ribs, and other bruises and abrasions, but the concussion is the reason you are here, and not in your own home."

Grayson managed to understand that the pounding in his head was not going to kill him. He was not dying, so what had happened to him must have been real. "Lucy? She's here?"

"She has gone to her own bed. She sat over you until she fell asleep. I sent her away a few hours ago."

"So she was here. I really saw her."

"Yes. She came back yesterday evening." Van Allan shifted in his chair. "I have to apologize for my assistant's attempts to get you killed, by dropping you on Savage Island."

Grayson turned his head so he could meet Van Allan's eyes. "That wasn't you?"

"No," Van Allan said. "That wasn't me. I was engaged in concerns of my own at the time. I told them I wasn't to be disturbed." He grimaced in apology. "They obeyed me too well, I'm afraid."

"Ken Frize saw the folder . . . I figured it out, about Macias and the Aparichio cousins, and all the others."

"Yes, so he said."

"He thought I'd turn you in, I guess."

"It was stupid of him not to consult with me before taking action. He thought he was protecting me, but in fact, putting you at risk acted in just the opposite manner. Still, he was my subordinate, and I do apologize."

"You taught him to do that. To pick up people you want to have disappear, and drop them on the Island. And you're saying he wasn't carrying out your wishes?"

Van Allan shook his head. "Not in this case. I have no need of such measures. May I remind you that if you annoyed me, I could simply fire you."

Grayson sat himself up on his elbow. He felt the pain in his ribs and side, and his head pounded harder, but he was tired of staring up at Van Allan. "And did you? Fire me?"

"No. Of course not." Van Allan raised his glass again. "I fired Ken Frize. I put him on a plane back to New York."

Grayson shifted his pillow up a bit and lay back. His head didn't hurt quite so much in that position. He wondered if this were the right time or place to pursue the point. But then, he might not get the chance again. He said, "You killed those guys."

Van Allan did not pretend he didn't know which guys Grayson meant. He didn't deny what he had done. "In a sense. I put them in a situation that would get them killed, yes. But in point of fact, I extradited them, found them guilty, and passed sentence on them. This is a sovereign island, and I am, in fact, the sovereign. You could publish what I have done, but that won't add anymore to my troubles. In fact, some people might envy me." He turns his glass in his hand, smiling. "Who knows? If ever this island needs a new industry, perhaps I'll advertise the service. There are certainly enough rogues unhung to provide a market."

"It was a cover," Grayson persisted, because he wanted Van Allan to admit he was right. "This whole set-up is a cover for you to kill those guys."

"Only in part," Van Allan said. "I did want to make a demonstration of what I believe is true courage. I must say, that once you found yourself on the Island, you demonstrated exactly the qualities this Island should exemplify." He lifted his glass to Grayson. "I salute you."

"Go fuck yourself," Grayson said. "I almost got killed out there."

"Yes. And I must thank you too for trying to put a stop to the slaughter, when that group of men colluded together to kill each man who came out onto the Island."

"No one would do anything. They all said they had to wait for you."

"Yes, well," Van Allan took a long drink. "I have put safeguards in place to be certain that doesn't happen again."

"You're going on with it?"

"Of course."

"Is there someone else you want to kill?"

Van Allan smiled. Grayson found that disconcerting. "Not at this time," he said. "I am content." He reached into his pocket and laid an eartag on the table where Grayson could see it. He was grateful that it had been cleaned of any residual human detritus. "This is yours, I believe," Van Allan said.

"Mine?" Grayson reached up and touched his ear. He could feel the holes, but the tag had been removed. And not cut off, either, he was glad to discover.

"You took it off a dead man. Bloodhawk, I think his name was. It's yours."

Grayson started to shake his head, and then stopped. "No. It's not. It belongs to Sword Song. Did he make it back?"

"I'm not sure," Van Allan said. "I can check for you."

"Give it to him," Grayson said. "Or his heirs, whoever they are. He'd have taken it himself, except I was there."

"I will do so." Van Allan picked it up again and pocketed it. "And what about you, Mr. Grayson? What will you do?"

"I believe I'm due for some leave," Grayson said.

"Yes, I'm sure you are."

"I'm going to take it with Lucy. After that, we'll have to see."

"Will you be coming back?"

"No," Grayson said. "I don't think so." He closed his eyes. An idea rose in him, whose beginnings had formed when he and Lucy worked together to investigate the mysteries of Savage Island. He had once been a journalist, a real on, not one he played on television. He'd loved the work, the finding out, and telling the story of what he had learned. He would go now, and do that again. And that would be good.

"I didn't think so," Van Allan agreed. He rose. "I will refrain from exercising any penalty clauses, when you break your contract," he said. "That will be my thanks to you. And I will refrain from hindering any residual earnings owed to you, now or in the future. I thank you for your service. You will find a helicopter waiting, whenever you are ready to go."

"Wait," Grayson said, getting up on one elbow. Van Allan paused. "What about the rice men?"

"Who?"

"The Indonesian political prisoners who had a camp on the Island," he said, meeting Van Allan's eyes. Let him try to deny it. "Leong, and Handoko; Mr. Free, Mr. Happy, those guys." He lay back again. His head was pounding hard.

"Ah. The Indo-Chinese communists. We have come to an agreement. They will be removed to another location, where they will serve out their sentences, but without anyone to interfere with them. A number of my former staff members have elected to join them." He sounded annoyed by this.

"In prison?" Grayson asked.

"On another island."

"How did you arrange that?"

"Mr. Grayson," Van Allan said smoothly, "if you care to research, you will find that I own a lot of islands. I simply chose another one for them."

Grayson closed his eyes. "That's all right, then."

"I should think so. And now, I think you have a visitor. Yes, my dear. He is awake."

"James!" Lucy said.

He opened his eyes, and she was there.

### Chapter Nineteen

The Assistant to the Deputy Secretary of State hooked her soft yellow hair behind her ear. She had an irritating tone in her voice. "And can you explain, Major Fontaine, how it happened that a SEAL team at your instigation attacked an island that was leased to the Royal Family of Holland, and captured and detained two cousins of the Queen of Holland, their staff, their bodyguards, and their guests?"

Al Fontaine stood at some form of attention before the desk in the tiny office. He would explain, and then they would bury the whole event. And then they would bury his career as well. But if it was the last thing he did, he swore, he would make sure that John Savage suffered the same fate.

John Savage stepped out of the elevator on the private floor of the Intercontinental Hotel. Fred Hallerdam directed him through the suite to the balcony overlooking the Los Angeles city scape, where Martin Kalfrey, in shirtsleeves, sat with his feet up, a Scotch in his hand, and his phone against his ear. He lifted a hand to Savage and pointed to the cushioned chair opposite his own. Savage did not sit down. He went to the rail of the balcony and gazed out at the view. Behind him, Kalfrey finished a phone conversation with a few brief responses, signed off and shut his phone.

"John, good to see you."

Savage turned. Martin Kalfrey, Republican kingmaker, did not get up, and he did not offer his hand.

"Your check bounced," Savage said.

"Yes," Kalfrey agreed. "We have withdrawn our support for your candidacy. You'll find that most of your contributors will dry up in the next couple of days."

Savage stood still a moment, controlling the incandescent rage that filled him. "Why?" he asked.

Kalfrey swirled the Scotch in his glass. The ice cubes made a pleasant tinkling sound. "That was quite a gaffe you made," he sipped his drink. "When you announced the imminent invasion of Savage Island on national television. And then it didn't happen."

Savage swallowed his reply as Hallerdam brought him a drink. A martini, just the way he liked it. When Hallerdam had taken himself off, he said, almost reasonably, "You don't throw me overboard because of a gaffe. These things happen, during the course of a campaign. You find another event, or you create one, to throw some redder, bloodier meat to the press, and it passes over."

"No," Kalfrey said, "this isn't going to blow over. And we're dumping you, all right."

Savage took a breath to get a hold of himself. "I can deliver California in four years."

"We're going with Gail Pilnok. She's running for governor in Virginia."

"Pilnok?" Savage laughed. "She can't even read a balance sheet!"

"Or Vince, in New Mexico. You didn't think for a second you were the only hook on our string, did you?"

"But a Republican governor in California . . ."

"Not going to happen, John. It's over."

Savage put his glass down on the balcony rail. It could blow off, and land in the street eight floors below. He didn't care. "I have other resources," he said, trying to make himself believe it.

"Bullshit," Kalfrey said. "We're a tight bunch, those of us to who have the money, and the clout, to lift you to the top ranks of the political elite. We all know each other. I know exactly what your resources are ― probably better than you do. You aren't going to be governor of California. And you won't get another chance."

The wind, the sound of traffic far away, the tiny orange bushes that lined the balcony, entered John Savage's senses as though he were at some heightened moment, as at the point of death. The vista from the hills to his left, to the ocean on his right, and the sun, red-tinged now, sinking into the late afternoon haze over the sea, encapsulated the moment, distilled it. He couldn't believe it. This couldn't happen. And yet, at the same time, it felt inevitable. He thought for a wild moment of flinging his leg over the balcony and throwing himself down. But then he would lose, and that would be that. He thought of throwing Kalfrey over; just as final, but more satisfying. Kalfrey was watching him.

"You never met the Van Allan boy, did you?" Kalfrey remarked. "Of course not," he answered his own question. "Fritz worked for me, the summer before he died. Heleen, his mother, said he'd shown an interest in politics, and she suggested he come and see me. Nice boy," he observed. "Smart. A good kid."

"You don't – you know the Van Allans?" Savage couldn't believe it. His people checked this kind of thing. Always.

"I didn't. My wife went to school with Heleen Van Allan. They used to room together, and now and then they still get together. I liked Fritz. I liked him a lot."

"You – "

"They asked me, the Van Allans, if I'd help him checkmate you, if you tried for a political career. So I took you up when you decided to run," Kalfrey cupped his hand as though he held a bug. Then he turned it over and slapped it down on the table. "Fred will see you out. Good-bye, John."

Hallerdam came out and collected his glass from the edge of the balcony, and showed him to the door. The private elevator reflected his image back to him in four directions, to infinity. John Savage had never felt so small.

Arthur Baines moved so slowly and so quietly that only the nearest frogs and insects were disturbed to silence, and sensing no danger, soon began their songs again. In the hour before dawn he reached the edge of the trees along the killing ground, sank down to the earth and lay there staring. Bodies. Piles of corpses in the rictus of death. Everywhere. His body shook. He waited, holding himself. After a few moments his head cleared, and the memories that had risen up like a flock of ill-omened birds drifted away, and he was able to make sense of what he saw. Half a dozen or more men lay dead, sprawled here and there between himself and the Wall. What had happened? Had they killed one another?

Were they really dead? Some of them still wore helmets. The man nearest him, his helmet had come off, and Arthur could see that the man still wore an eartag. It was black.

He'd promised himself he would do no killing. He didn't need any more ghosts in the corners of his eyes. But if that was an eartag, and the man was already dead, well, that was a completely different matter. And of course he would check the other men as well, that was just good sense. And he should check their pockets too, just in case.

Arthur Baines, only for a short time longer called the Scorpion, stepped onto the killing ground, and picked up his jackpot of twenty-two eartags on his way to the gate, through the Wall, and home.

The End

