Hot Ice

certain he had house advantage. At the moment, he had nothing more lethal than a penknife in the pocket of his jeans. It was then he remembered that both he and Whitney had left their packs outside, near the spread of food and drink.
    “Is it—”
    “Stay back,” he ordered when Whitney crept up behind him. “It’s Remo and two more of Dimitri’s toy soldiers.” And sooner or later, he admitted as he wiped a hand over his mouth, it was going to come down to dealing with Dimitri. He’d need more than luck when the time came. Racking his brain, he looked around the room for something, anything to defend himself with. “Tell her these men are looking for us and ask her what her people are going to do.”
    Whitney looked over at Marie, who stood quietly by the door. Briefly, she followed Doug’s instructions.
    Marie folded her hands. “You are our guests,” she said simply. “They are not.”
    Whitney smiled and told Doug, “We’ve got sanctuary, for what it’s worth.”
    “Yeah, that’s good, but remember what happened to Quasimodo.”
    He watched as Remo faced down Louis. The village leader stood steely-eyed and implacable, speaking briefly in Malagasy. The sound, if not the words, came through the open window. Remo pulled something out of his pocket.
    “Photographs,” Whitney whispered. “He must be showing him pictures of us.”
    Him, Doug agreed silently, and every other villager between here and Tamatave. If they got out of this one, there’d be no more parties along the way. He’d been stupid to believe he could take time to breathe with Dimitri after him, he realized.
    Along with the pictures, Remo produced a wad of bills and a smile. Both were met with awesome silence.
    While Remo tried his bargaining powers on Louis, another of the helicopter crew wandered to the spread of food and began sampling. Helpless, Doug watched him come closer and closer to the packs.
    “Ask her if she has a gun in here.”
    “A gun?” Whitney swallowed. She hadn’t heard him use that tone of voice before. “But Louis won’t—”
    “Ask her. Now.” Remo’s companion poured himself a cup of palm wine. He had only to look down to the left. It wouldn’t make any difference whose side the villagers ranged themselves on if he saw the packs. They were unarmed. Doug knew what would be tucked into a leather holster under Remo’s coat. He’d felt it prod into his ribs not too many days before. “Dammit, Whitney, ask her.”
    At Whitney’s question, Marie nodded expressionlessly. After slipping into the adjoining room, she came back carrying a long, deadly looking rifle. When Doug took it, Whitney grabbed his arm.
    “Doug, they’ll have guns too. There’re babies out there.”
    Grimly, he loaded the gun. He’d just have to be fast, and accurate. Damn fast. “I’m not going to do anything until I have to.” He crouched down, rested the barrel on the windowsill, and focused the site. His finger was damp before he placed it on the trigger.
    He hated guns. Always had. It didn’t matter which side of the barrel he was on. He had killed. In Nam he’d killed because a quick mind and clever hands hadn’t kept him out of the draft or the stinking jungles. He had learned things there he hadn’t wanted to learn, and things he’d had to use. Survival, that was always number one.
    He had killed. There had been one miserable night in Chicago when his back had been against the wall and a knife whizzed at his throat. He knew what it was to look at someone as the life eased out of them. You had to know the next time, anytime, it could be you.
    He hated guns. He held the rifle steady.
    One of Whitney’s dance partners let out a high-pitched laugh. Holding a pitcher of wine over his head, he grabbed the man beside the packs. As the Merina whirled, leaping with the wine, the packs slid away into the crowd and disappeared.
    “Stop acting like an idiot,” Remo shouted as his partner lifted his cup for more wine. Turning back to Louis again, he gestured with the photos. He got nothing but a hard stare and a rumble of Malagasy.
    Doug watched Remo stuff the photos and money back in his pocket and stride off toward the waiting copter. With a roar and a whirl, it started up. When it was ten feet off the ground, he felt his shoulder muscles loosen.
    He didn’t like the feel of a gun in his hand. As the sound of the copter died away, he unloaded it.
    “You might’ve hurt somebody with that,” Whitney murmured when