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By some miracle, Cicero Smith’s helicopter pilot hadn’t taken a bullet. His other man wasn’t so lucky. Smith had pushed him out of the chopper somewhere over the Everglades. The pilot was looking for the first piece of solid ground outside the swamp they could find to land on. It turned out to be a pasture of Hereford cows. The two climbed out grateful to be once again on solid ground.
They had flown in the general direction of Fort Meyers which was away from Carter and the crystals. “Damn her,” he cursed. She always seemed to have a knack for escaping his bullets. He remembered the time in Central America when he had gone in to clean out a village near that lost Mayan city she had discovered. The natives had been giving Fane trouble trying to run him off. Somehow the natives had
