"Al-Qaida," he said. "Is good for you to know who killed you." "American," I said. "Good for you to know who's going to take your head off." "Tuco," I whispered into the headset, and in that moment, the man's head came apart in a mist of blood, bone, and brain matter, as a watermelon smashed to the ground. Crete Sloan lives alone on an island in the Bahamian Atlantic. Bimini is to the west, the Berry Islands to the east. He is a mercenary who fights...