Chase stood in a corner of the lobby of the one hundred and twenty odd room hotel, scanning the crowd. He couldn't be sure they were still there, but until he had something else, this was it. Couples and groups moved about, all chattering and laughing, the magic of a vacation in a magical setting, sweeping them along.

Chase took out his phone and placed another call to Paula, assuring her all was well so far, and she was just to remain alert. While he spoke he caught sight of a man waving a piece of paper at a young woman in a gift boutique near the exit to the grounds. Ending the call, he took a different route across the lobby, coming out on a patterned brick walkway that ran alongside lush gardens and the pool court. The man was ambling along, looking at different people, stopping to talk to employees before moving on.

Chase kept pace, but on the walkway out of sight. When the man turned his way, he stalled long enough to be recognized, then slipped around a corner and waited. Sure enough, the man appeared at a jog, and found himself pivoting swiftly by one arm, smack into the rough stone of the building. Chase held his face against the wall with one hand and a knee in the back. He removed the gun from the hip holster and then turned him around and shoved the barrel under his chin.

"Looks like you found me. Where's your partner?" The gun pushed painfully against Fitz's throat.

"Right here, Chase. Let him go and hand him the gun." Carver took a quick look around, his own weapon steady on their quarry.

Fitz took his turn being rough, relieving Chase of his phone and gun with gusto. "My turn now, hot shot. Where's the woman?"

"On her way back to Canada with enough information to upset her uncle."

"You're lying." Fitz looked to his partner uncertainly.

Carver walked up and cracked Chase across the cheek with his gun. "He is lying. There's no way he'd send her home alone. Let's get outta here and get someplace we can ask him again."

He knew he could just run from them; they wouldn't risk shooting him in the middle of the resort, but he had to think of Paula. When they started walking up the same road that led to the Tree House, that became more urgent.

"Take a look in there," Carver pointed to a small path that led off the road into the dense growth.

Fitz disappeared for a few minutes, then came back nodding. "Perfect. There' a small clearing and it's all bush. Must be a local pit stop."

"Right. Move it." Carver jammed his gun into Chase's back.

In the clearing he was ordered to sit on his hands, and he did, palms down, watching Fitz take off his jacket and push up his sleeves.

"Okay, tough guy, where's the broad?"

"I told you." The punch hit him flush on the jaw and his eyes seemed to scatter in his head. His jaw felt out of place, and he stretched his mouth, hearing the clunk.

"I can do this all day, pal. Where is she?" Fitz leaned down when he heard a mutter. "What? Louder, unless you want another one." Another mumbled reply and Jones got right down in his face. "I said louder."

Chase suddenly thrust himself upward, head first into Fitz's face. The duo of crunch and cry caught Carver off guard and when he went to aim at Chase, he found Fitz up and staggering in small circles blocking his view.

A moment later he felt Fitz slam into him, blood from the shattered nose spraying around, and Chase bowling them both over with a hard tackle. Carver's gun flew from his hand as he struggled to get out from under his flailing partner. A brutal stomp on his wrist, and he roared with pain, that ended abruptly with a kick to the side of his head.

Chase gathered the guns and then stood over the unconscious Carver. Fitz was lying on the ground, blood covered hands over his smashed nose.

"I think your work is done, gentlemen. Doc will have to regroup I expect. What was your other friend's name?" He gave Fitz a shove with his foot. "Louder, remember?"

"Jonethz." It came out in a bubbling spittle of blood.

"Good. Thanks." Chase placed the barrel against his head and fired. And a moment later, Carver never woke up.

******

Paula nearly fainted, letting her hand drop and the gun fall to the floor, as Chase announced his arrival back at the guest house. He moved quickly to the bedroom, gathering all their things onto the bed. Paula followed him in and stopped as he turned to face her.

"My God, your face! What happened?"

He walked to the bathroom and stared at the mess in the mirror. The gash in his cheek leaked blood that was smeared all over his purpling jaw. He grabbed a cloth, soaked it and dabbed away carefully.

"What happened? Here, let me do that." She snatched the cloth from his hand and pushed him against the counter while she cleaned his face. He watched her face with interest, the tiny frown, the way her lips moved as she wiped carefully around the cut, and the sigh as she rinsed the cloth and dried his face with the towel.

"You'll need a bandage, and some antibiotic." She stepped back, crossing her arms. "Now tell me, what happened?"

He went back to the bedroom and searched to make sure he had all their belongings. "Call the owners and tell them we need to check out – now. Tell them I fell, my fault entirely, and could they bring a first aid kit when they come."

"But what happened?"

"Just do what I ask, I'll explain later."

Miffed, but recognizing the attitude, she did as asked and twenty minutes later the worried hosts were at the door, apologizing as if what happened was their fault. Paula accepted the first aid kit and immediately set to patching Chase's cheek with admirable skill. A fabricated retelling of the accidental fall, bolstered with assurances that there would be no legal repercussions, they were driven back down to the bay and awarded all the clout the owners had in getting a boat to take them to Soufrière.

******

Even first class seating hadn't soothed the irate Paula when she finally learned about the previous day's events in Marigot Bay. The inside seat was to prevent her from jumping up and demanding to be let off the plane. Chase finally managed to at least keep her quiet by reminding her of his occupation. It wasn't nice, but it shut her up.

As they picked at the in flight meal, he went over it all again and was somewhat relieved to see the subtle relaxing of her body and the settling of her expression.

"I thought you were trying to stop that- that business." She finally spoke up, in a half whisper.

"Protecting myself – and others who will remain nameless – is not me doing business."

"But you are, aren't you? You intend to face up to my uncle." She cut a piece of chicken with ferocity.

"He frowned at her scowl. "I told you, Paula, he won't stop coming. I have to stop him."

"Then what, another Doc emerges?" The chicken went into the mouth violently.

"You're going to injure yourself."

The arrival of the smiling flight attendant with fresh drinks and dessert cut off her retort.

"Did you enjoy your meal?" She asked, clearing the dinner dishes away. "Is there anything I can get you for that nasty looking injury? Do you need a painkiller?"

"He is one," Paula snapped, and the attendant backed away with a weak smile.

"When we land, you had better get your act together because I'm not going to let you stop me doing what has to be done. It's not just me he's after, don't forget."

She turned and stared out at the clouds, blinking as tears began to form. Paula Regan, you are one ungrateful shrew.