It was hot, sticky, muggy country even at night, thickly overgrown, infested with every kind of disgusting insect in creation. Bugs and birds competed to see which could create the most irritating sounds. The river they sloshed through carried the stink of sewage. Mud sucked at their boots. Leeches clung to anything that moved. A field of brilliant stars and a sliver of a moon did little to illuminate the potential animal and reptile dangers lurking in the darkness.

"You know, Mike, I've asked myself a million times," Morgan Stark whispered. "Why do we always get ourselves involved in other countries' petty political bullshit?"

"Well, because there are still times when the U.S. government just refuses to get involved," Mike answered with a grin. "Because the U.S. military can't be everywhere, fixing everything on the planet. And for the money, of course."

The men made little sound, despite the water flowing around their knees. The river they waded through was really little more than a stream in Belize. The tiny backwater nation southeast of Mexico was South America's version of a postage stamp country.

Up ahead, the point man flashed his light. It was okay to move on. The sun would rise in half an hour or so. They were right on schedule. Morgan signaled his seven followers to move out. All wore camouflage uniforms, black berets, combat boots, and a wide variety of personal weaponry.

Morgan Stark, team leader, was a couple of inches over six feet tall and a slim looking two hundred ten pounds, with heavily cabled forearms showing below rolled up sleeves. He was the only black man in this racial grab bag of professional mercenaries. However, if someone had asked his men to describe him, they would have first mentioned his long, quick fingers, the little mustache he still kept within Army regulations, or perhaps his sharp, clear, light brown eyes. In their business, you learned to judge a lot by the eyes. But in the world of professional mercenaries, color was almost an afterthought.

They moved along through the river, about two meters from shore, because it was faster and easier than travelling over land. Unfortunately, the map in Morgan's head indicated it was time to branch off into the tropical forest.

The tiny light flashed again, just as Morgan was about to crest a low hummock. This close to the target, silence was mandatory, making the light their only reasonable means of communication. That flash warned Morgan of nearby patrolling security personnel. Not that he needed such a warning.

He pressed himself up over the edge of the earthen mound, his fingers tangled in the thick undergrowth. In the near darkness, he found himself face to face with a uniformed guard. Neither Morgan nor the guard reached for a weapon. The guard's dog looked as startled as its master did. To Morgan's eyes it was more wolf than dog, huge and gray in the darkness. It was a Belgian shepherd, the type the Israelis used for border patrol. Slowly a growl began in its throat and it bared its teeth for war.

For the money, of course! Morgan repeated in his head. Those weeks ago, when he first accepted this mission, he had no doubt the money was worth it. Watching saliva drip from this beast's fangs, he was not so sure.

A friend of a friend had made contact with Morgan, as usual. The go-between was a well-known sub-contractor named Stone. Morgan had arranged a meeting, but still he had circled the little bungalow on the outskirts of Brussels four times before going to the door. On the last and closest circle, he noticed a Renault parked across the street and three houses down. The man inside it puffed on a cigarette and read the paper as if he were merely waiting for someone. Maybe he was.

Morgan pulled a map out of his pocket, and walked to the car with a confused look on his face. In bomber jacket and aviator sunglasses, he hoped that he looked like a befuddled tourist. The driver, a small dark man with a thick Gallic nose, looked up as he approached. Morgan saw him start to reach under his seat, but he withdrew his hand as if reconsidering something.

Once beside the car, Morgan began to gesture and mutter at the map in silent mime. At first the driver stared straight ahead. When Morgan stared at him helplessly, the driver released an exaggerated sigh and rolled down his window. Morgan mumbled helplessly.

"Pardon moi, monsieur, ou est le palais? Je suis ... oh hell, je ne parle pas Francais tres bien."

"My English is better," the driver said in an exasperated tone. "You are looking for the Royal Palace?"

"Not really." Morgan leaned close. "Just half wit lookouts."

His left hand shot inside the car, clamping onto the driver's throat. When both the driver's hands locked onto Morgan's arm, Morgan pulled his right hand back, then snapped it forward. The heel of his palm thumped against the driver's temple, and the man slumped over, unconscious.

Jogging across the street, Morgan leaned into the bungalow's door as he rang the bell. He waited a long ten seconds before locks began to turn inside. The door opened, and Morgan followed it in.

The parlor was empty except for four chairs around a small table. The house was cool, but it carried the musty smell of vacancy. Morgan assumed it was only used for meetings like this one. A coffeepot sat on the table, along with two cups and a creamer. Two sugar cubes and a wafer rested on the edge of each saucer. There was also a note pad at each place, with a ballpoint pen. A telephone rested on a scrambler near one end of the table. It was all very businesslike.

The man who had admitted Morgan sat at the opposite end of the table. He was a good two inches taller than Morgan but thin enough to imply frailty. A full shock of white hair made him appear older than he really was. His eyes did not quite match his hair, but Morgan had to strain to see the hint of blue there.

Morgan turned a chair so its back was to a corner. He sat with his toes braced on the floor, as if he were ready to leap at any moment. He opened his jacket and eased a hand toward his shoulder holster, all the while glaring hatred at his host.

"A problem?"

Morgan responded in a harsh baritone growl. "I told you not to post anyone, Stone. You put an armed man out front. May as well put up a sign saying there's some kind of clandestine business going on in here. I took him out before I came in. You're lucky I didn't kill him."

"Standard procedure." Stone's voice was so controlled, so bored sounding, it was almost a monotone. "I hope you didn't hurt him too badly."

"He's okay, but he'll have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. Now, why am I here?"

"Coffee?" Stone reached for the pot.

"No. You got work for me or what?"

Stone poured the thick, dark brew into his small cup as if he had nothing else to do that day. "Yes," he said, adding a sugar cube to his cup with no greater haste. "A brief job in Belize. You know the place?"

"An American ally on the Caribbean," Morgan said. "Good game preserves. Great scuba spots. Nothing going on down there right now."

"So it would appear. However, like many of the smaller countries in that hemisphere, the communist party there has not evaporated. Politically speaking, someone doesn't like the direction in which that little nation is going." Stone's voice was almost hypnotic, and Morgan made a serious effort to stay alert while listening to him.

"Uh-huh." He watched his host sip his...