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“You both have handled guns, yes?”
“Yes,” Sam replied, answering for both of them.
In fact, Remi was a damned good marksman and had no fear of handling guns, but tried to avoid them if at all possible.
“Good,” Guido answered. “No serial numbers on the gun. Untraceable. You may throw it away when you are done.” He wrapped the gun in a towel along with a box of fifty bullets, then handed it to Sam. “One favor, if you don’t mind?”
“Name it,” Sam said.
“Don’t kill anyone.”
Sam smiled. “That’s the last thing in the world we want to do. How much do we owe you?”
“No, please, nothing. A friend of Rubin’s is a friend of mine.”
Sam now asked, “You want me to leave it?”
“No, I guess not. Better safe than sorry.”
They got out, collected their backpacks from the trunk, then went into the Quonset hut. A black man in his late sixties sat behind the counter on a lawn chair, a cigar jutting from his mouth.
“Well, hello there,” he said, rising to his feet. “I am Sampson, owner, operator, chief bottle-washer.” He spoke perfect Oxford English.
Sam introduced them, then said, “Not from around these parts, I take it?”
“Born in London. Came here ten years ago to live the good life. So, you’re going to Rum Cay?”
“Right.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Both,” Remi said. “Bird watching . . . photography. You know.”
Sam handed over his pilot’s license and filled out the required forms. Sampson looked over the forms, then nodded. “Overnight?”
“Probably.”
“You’ve booked a hotel there?”
Sam shook his head. “We’re roughing it. You should have gotten a delivery yesterday—tent, potable water, camping gear. . . .” Guided by one of her dozens of mental checklists, Selma had arranged a full load of gear for their trek, from the absolute necessities to the “what-ifs.”
Sampson was nodding. “I did. It’s already loaded.” He pulled a clipboard off a nail on the wall, jotted a note, then returned it. “I’ve got you in a Bonanza G36, fueled and checked.”
“Pontoons?”
“As requested. Head over to the hangar and Charlie will send you on your way.”
They turned and headed for the door. Sampson called, “What kind of birds you hoping to spot?”
They turned back.
Sam shrugged and smiled. “Whatever is native to the island.”
CHAPTER 14
RUM CAY, BAHAMAS
Comprising as the island did an area of less than thirty square miles, finding a hidden base on Rum Cay might at first glance appear a fairly straightforward task to uninitiated adventurers, but Sam and Remi had been down similar roads before and knew the coastline, uneven as it was with hundreds of coves and inlets, was in reality at least six times the island’s gross circumference.
