Looking back out to sea, she identified Guadeloupe’s other off-lying islands of Marie Gallante where the villagers grew sugar cane, and Iles de la Petite Terre, which consisted of two uninhabited islands connected by a reef. As she surveyed the broad maritime battlefield, she tried to imagine what it would have been like to stand on this headland, canons at the ready, watching an enemy fleet of over thirty ships of the line sail into range. How on earth did they aim their canons? When she turned around to check out the cannon behind her, she saw a flash of red as someone slipped behind the bunker below her. That was him wasn’t it? That ponytailed guy who had been behind her on the climb? She turned back to face into the trade winds again, feeling rather exposed up here like Kate whatshername on the bow of the Titanic. What was Mr. Ponytail’s story?

Then from close behind her and off to her left, she heard what sounded like a footstep on the gravel, and she spun around only to see more of the view over the anchorage off the town. There was no one there. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest, and she coughed out a half laugh. That guy was probably exploring like she was, and he just happened to move when she turned around. That was it, right?

No. She didn’t think so. What was going on? Why did she feel so spooked? But she was certain she had heard something. She was puzzling over it when she heard it again, right at her feet. She looked down to see a prehistoric-looking three-foot long iguana advancing on her boat shoes.

Laughing, she said, “So you’re my stalker, eh?” She took a step toward him, and he turned and skittered over the edge of the cliff. She would have leaned over the edge to see where he’d gone, but she still felt a little too spooked to venture beyond the safety ropes.

As she walked down the grassy slope toward the two-storied stone structure that housed the maritime museum, she glanced at the side of the bunker. There was a white cigarette butt in the grass. It was the only piece of trash she had seen on the immaculate museum grounds, though.

A French-speaking tour guide was just exiting the museum building along with her charges, so Riley took the opportunity to wander the rooms alone. She loved poking around among the glass cases. With Michael, she’d wandered through dozens of museums from Barbados to Paris to Madagascar. There in the cool corridors, they pointed and laughed and learned, all the while feeling safe from the children who made the streets their turf.

The Fort Napoleon museum contained an odd combination of treasures from a stuffed mongoose to Louis XV furniture, and as she walked into the second room that held a variety of dioramas, she saw Ponytail enter the museum through the opposite end of the building. He hadn’t seen her yet, and he was swiveling his head all around. He moved on to the next room, and he wasn’t looking at any of the exhibits. Riley walked to the far side of the diorama room, out of his line of sight.

Who was he and what was he after? She was certain he had not been following her when she first came ashore. She would have noticed. Was he just some creep who was following her to get his rocks off or did he have some other purpose?

She looked around the room trying to decide whether she should try to ditch the perv, confront him, or simply ignore him, but her attention was drawn to an elaborate ship model across the room. Here she was — in a neat museum — and she wasn’t going to worry about some weirdo who was following her.

She walked over to the display and thought about how much her brother would have loved the intricate model.

“Hey bro, look at this!” she whispered as she admired the three foot tall replica of one of French Admiral de Grasse’s ships at the Battle of the Saintes. When she and Mikey first started sailing, their father had introduced them to the Hornblower books, then O’Brian, then Bernard Cornwall. Mikey had read them all, while she had soon tired of the exploits of the all male cast. But her brother would have loved this place.

“Awesome, eh?” she said in a low voice. From a placard in front of a huge model of the battle with dozens of tiny ships on a painted blue sea, she read about the French defeat. They didn’t have any large models of Admiral Rodney’s ships there in spite of the fact it had been his victory.

There it was again. That feeling, like someone was breathing on the back of her neck, watching her. She whirled around and saw a flash of red as the man ducked out of the doorway that led to the costume room. Okay, she thought. Enough. Time to have a little talk with Mr. Ponytail.

The exhibition hall was the old fort’s former barracks. Essentially a long barn-like structure with walls dividing the space into different rooms, it had doors in the center of each wall that formed a corridor down the center of the structure. Riley crept forward on the wood floor so as not to make a sound. As she moved, her view into the next room panned across half the space, but she saw no sign of Ponytail. She imagined he was hiding farther from the door, outside her line of vision, but off to her left.

“Hey,” she said in her loudest “giving orders” voice. “You want to talk to me? Here I am. Let’s talk.”

When she stepped into the room facing her left, she realized she had guessed wrong when a mannequin crashed against her back, knocking her to the floor. She struggled in the folds of velvet fabric as the sound of Ponytail’s retreat pounded across the floor. By the time she got to her feet, he was entering the next room, with only a hundred feet between him and the museum’s entrance, going as fast as his Crocs would let him.

From MSG School at Quantico, to all the years at the different posts, Riley had trained to take down intruders in a secure building and to protect embassy employees.  She didn’t make a conscious decision to go after the man; she simply reacted.

She was on her feet and running flat out within seconds. As the man entered the last room, a large woman with a sign at the top of a long stick entered the museum and behind her flowed a crowd of Japanese tourists. Half the group had already entered the building when Ponytail plowed into them, sending them scattering in and out of the museum. When he made the door, he glanced over his shoulder and his eyes widened. Riley was right behind him. The tourists had slowed him down enough and cleared an open passage for her. He made it only about a dozen steps outside the building when she hit him from behind, and the two of them went sprawling in the dirt.

Riley landed on top of the man’s back. His body broke her fall, but he outweighed her by at least thirty pounds, and she hadn’t even knocked the wind out of him. Ponytail managed to roll out from under her, scramble to his feet and take one step when she grabbed one of his shoes. She lifted and twisted it almost a hundred and eighty degrees, and he fell to the ground again with a cry.

Riley got to her knees still holding the shoe, but he squirmed his foot out of the plastic clog and rolled away again. She threw the shoe, aiming for his head, but it only bounced off his ear. He let out a grunt and grabbed at the side of his head. It slowed him again for a second or two,  long enough for Riley to get back on her feet. Then she lunged for him and slid her fingers into his shorts back pocket. She was about to pull him down again, when he kicked back with the foot that was still wearing a clog. The fabric ripped free from his shorts when his blind kick connected with her bad shoulder.

Riley cried out at the explosion of pain and fell into the dirt.

Ponytail struggled to his feet, scooped up his other shoe, and took off running through the gate.

The blow had knocked Riley onto her side where she curled into a fetal position and squeezed her eyes shut to block out the throbbing agony.