This was a small island. Half the people were related, and the rest knew each other’s business. Which was how she knew that William, her cousin’s husband, would be on guard duty outside the prison tonight.

She rubbed her shoulder, bruised from the heavy backpack she’d lugged up Richmond Hill for William and his partner. William was a militant, sadistic bastard who for the last few years had hit on her at every opportunity. He’d be happy to see her, and easy to convince that the real reason she’d trekked up St. George’s highest hill to spend New Year’s Eve at the island’s only prison was that he was, finally, irresistible.

And just in case his ego was on vacation, she’d brought ganja and the sweetness of the birthday cake and…

It had all sounded so simple in the planning that she hadn’t had time to be afraid or to indulge herself in prayers or wishful thinking. Besides, above all else, she was a doer. Even were that not her nature, she’d be a doer now. She was damned if she was going to let them put Arthur Marryshow up against a wall and shoot him.

Dead.

Or take machetes and hack him into pieces as a lesson to others who might be thinking of not toeing the line. Rumor had it Maurice Bishop and his Commie henchmen planned to do one or both of these things on the first day of the New Year.

Tomorrow.

With that sobering thought and the renewed realization that she was the parrot fish, the designated decoy, Peta took a last look at Burns Point and at the lagoon which lay adjacent to the harbor. She could see theAssegai, Fredrick “Frikkie” Van Alman’s 120-footer, anchored in the lagoon. The schooner rocked gently, and Peta wished that she were there too, lying safely in the warm waters of the Caribbean.