'I know what we are up against,' the captain cut him off tersely, in a low voice, so as not to be overheard, 'and it isn't only the inhabitants of Isla Fiero.'

Roman reined his horse in sharply, the others close behind him following suit. From ahead came the unmistakable crack of gunfire. As one they pulled off the road, dismounted and tethered their horses.

Roman led them down a trail that parallelled the road, towards the shooting, Santiago close behind him followed by Anana.

The shooting was coming from further away than they'd judged, and it was some time and distance before they spotted a bend in the road with two halves of an enormous fallen tree on either side, the section that had once blocked the road removed and rolled to one side. Pinned down were eight men in uniform, their backs to Roman and his companions. The three found cover, and on Roman's signal opened fire. Three men fell dead, two broke and ran, only to be cut down, while the remaining three threw away their guns and put up their hands.

As Roman approached the three, he was hailed by running figures coming from the other direction. One of them was Pietro.

'We tried to stop them and force them to surrender,' Pietro said breathlessly, 'but they opened fire and broke away. We shot down their horses to slow them down, and chased the survivors until they decided to make a stand, here. There were more at the Casa, and what did we find there but Ricardo and his aeroplane.'

Roman's face was a mask of white fury. 'What happened at the Casa? And where is Ricardo now? He was supposed to have been imprisoned at Port Haven.'

'They surrendered when we surrounded the Casa,' Pietro told him. 'Ricardo surrendered to us the moment the fighting began. I don't think that he was entirely a willing accomplice, or if so, he had been betrayed. At the moment he is under arrest with the others, back at the Casa.' He made an angry noise. 'It seems that Ricardo was freed by the very men who were supposed to have delivered him into custody in Port Haven.'

His face expressionless, Roman turned his attention to the prisoners. 'These men do not appear to be Greek. Nor do I recognise their uniform.'

'As it turns out, they are members of Savalas' private mercenary army,' Pietro told him. 'They are of no one particular nation.' He hesitated. 'Roman, what are we to do with them? They are not ordinary men-at-arms. These are paid killers. And holding them only creates problems for us.'




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