ff the stomach of a policeman, received a blow on the
shoulder from his billy, and rebounded into the arms of a surprised
police officer at the edge of the battle.

"Who're you?" the officer gasped.

"Malone," Malone said.

"You on our side?"

"How about you?" Malone said.

"I'm a lieutenant here," the officer said. "In charge of the warehouse
precinct. I--"

Malone and the lieutenant stepped nimbly aside as another cop careened
by them, waving his billy helplessly. They looked away as the crash
came. The cop had fallen over a table, and now lay with his legs in
the air, supported by the overturned table, blissfully unconscious.

"We seem," Malone said, "to be in an area of some activity. Let's
move."

They shifted away a few feet. Malone looked into the foray and saw
Boyd at work, roaring and going after the kids. One of them had
established a kind of game with him. He appeared just in front of
Boyd, who rushed at him, arms outstretched. As Boyd almost reached
him, the kid disappeared, and reappeared again just behind Boyd. He
tapped the FBI agent gently on the shoulder; Boyd turned and the
process was repeated.

Boyd seemed to be getting winded.

"Damn kids," the lieutenant muttered suddenly, and dashed back into
the fray. Malone looked around, saw Mike Fueyo flickering in and out
at the edges, and headed for him.

A cop swung at Mike, missed, and hit Malone on the arm. Malone swore.
The cop backed off, looking in a bewildered fashion for his victim,
who was nowhere in sight. Then Malone caught sight of him, at the
other edge of the fight. He started to work his way around.

He tried to avoid blows, but it wasn't always possible. A reeling cop
caught his lapel and tore it, and Lynch, indefatigable in battle,
managed to graze his chin with a blow meant for one of the
disappearing boys. Other cops were battling each other, going after
the kids and clutching empty air, cursing and screaming unheard orders
in the fracas.

Malone ducked past Lynch, rubbed at his chin and looked for Mike. In
the tangle of bodies it was getting hard to see. There was the sound
of breaking ceramics as a floor lamp went over, and then a table
followed it, but Malone avoided both. He looked for Mike Fueyo.

A cop clutched him around the middle, out of nowhere, said, "Sorry,
buddy. Who the hell are you?" and dove back into the mass of bodies.
Malone caught his breath and forged onward.

There was Mike, at the edge of the fig