Pop Goes the Weasel

good at most other sports as well.
    The night air was peaceful and calm and fragrant. The sea was flat. Not a ripple disturbed the surface. Well, there would be plenty of ripples soon.
    A car was waiting for him just off the coast road, a black Ford Mustang, glossy and shiny in the moonlight.
    He smiled when he saw it. The game was progressing beautifully.
    Famine was there to meet him.
    No, Famine was there for another reason, wasn’t he?
    George Bayer was waiting on shore to kill him.

Chapter 112
    “GEORGE BAYER isn’t in his room. He’s not with Oliver Highsmith or James Whitehead, either. Damn it to hell! He’s loose.”
    The alarming message went out over the two-way radio. Sampson and I had been watching the south side of the hotel for close to eight hours, and we were sure George Bayer hadn’t come our way.
    We heard Andrew Jones’s concerned voice on the radio. “Remember that all of the Four Horsemen are agents, like ourselves. They’re capable and deadly. Let’s find Bayer right away, and be extra alert for Geoffrey Shafer. Shafer is the most dangerous player — at least we think he is.”
    Sampson and I hurried out of our rented sedan. We had our guns out, but they seemed inappropriate at the beautiful and serene resort. I remembered feeling the same way nearly a year before, in Bermuda.
    “Bayer didn’t come this way,” Sampson said. I knew he was concerned that Jones’s people had lost Famine. We wouldn’t have made that mistake, but we were seen as backup, not the primary team.
    The two of us quickly walked up a nearby hill that gave us a perspective on the manicured lawns rolling down toward the hotel’s private beach. It was getting dark, but the grounds near the hotel were relatively well lit. A couple in bathing suits and robes slowly walked toward us. They were holding hands, oblivious to the danger. No George Bayer, though. And no Shafer.
    “How do they end this thing?” Sampson asked. “How do you think the game ends?”
    “I don’t think any of them knows for sure. They probably have game plans, but anything can happen now. It all depends on Shafer, if he follows the rules. I think he’s beyond that, and the other players know it.”
    We hurried along, running close to the hotel buildings. We were getting nervous and concerned looks from the hotel guests we passed on the narrow, winding sidewalk.
    “They’re all killers. Even Jones finally admits that. They killed as agents, and then they didn’t want to stop. They liked it. Now maybe they plan to kill one another. Winner takes all.”
    “And Geoffrey Shafer hates to lose,” said Sampson.
    “Shafer doesn’t ever lose. We’ve seen that already. That’s his pattern, John. It’s what we missed from the start.”
    “He doesn’t get away this time, sugar. No matter what, Shafer doesn’t walk.”
    I didn’t answer Sampson.

Chapter 113
    SHAFER WASN’T EVEN BREATHING HARD as he made it to the white-sand shoreline. George Bayer stepped out of the black Ford Mustang, and Shafer watched for a weapon to appear. He continued to walk forward, playing the game of games for the highest stakes of all: his life.
    “You bloody swam? ” Bayer asked, his voice jovial yet taunting.
    “Well, actually, it’s a fantastic night for it,” Shafer said, and casually shook water off his body. He waited for Bayer to move on him. He observed the way he tensed and untensed his right hand. Watched the slight forward slant of his shoulders.
    Shafer took off a waterproof backpack and pulled out fresh, dry clothes and shoes. Now he had access to his weapons. “Let me guess. Oliver suggested that you all gang up on me,” he said. “Three against one.”
    Bayer smiled slyly. “Of course. That had to be considered as an option. But we rejected it because it wasn’t consistent with our characters in the game.”
    Shafer shook his hair, let the water drip off. As he dressed, he turned halfway away from Bayer. He smiled to himself. God, he loved this — the game of life and death against another Horseman, a master player. He admired Bayer’s calmness and his ability to be so smooth.
    “His playing is so bloody predictable. He was the same way as an agent and analyst. George, they sent you because they thought I’d never suspect you’d try to take me out by yourself. You’re the first play It’s so obvious, though. A terrible waste of a player.”
    Bayer frowned slightly but still didn’t lose his cool, didn’t let on what he