The main part of the sporting-goods store was fairly well lit, even at
night, though it was by no means brightly illuminated. There were
show-window lights on, and the street lamp from outside cast a nice
glow. But the back room was dark, and the four men there were well
concealed. A curtain closed the room off, and Malone watched the front
of the store through a narrow opening in it. He stared through it
until his eyes ached, afraid to blink in case he missed the appearance
of the Spooks. Everything had to go off just right, precisely on
schedule.

And it was going to happen any minute, he told himself nervously. In
just a few minutes, everything would be over.

Malone held his breath.

Then he saw the figure walk slowly by the glass front of the shop,
looking in with elaborate casualness. He was casing the joint, making
sure there were none left in it.

Mike Fueyo.

Malone tried to breathe, and couldn't.

Seconds ticked by.

And then--almost magically--they appeared. Eight of them, almost
simultaneously, in the center of the room.

Mike Fueyo spoke in a low, controlled voice. "Okay, now," he said.
"Let's move fast. We--"

And that was all he said.

The odorless anesthetic gas that filled the room had its sudden
effect. Fueyo dropped out like a light.

The other seven followed him within seconds. Ramon Otravez, the
tallest of them, stayed on his feet a little longer than the rest,
obviously trying with all his strength to teleport himself out of
danger, but the effects of the fast-working gas had already been felt.
He was, literally, too stunned to move.

He too slumped to the floor.

For a second after that, none of the men in the rear room moved.

Then Malone said, "All right, boys. Let's get them out of here. They
can't stay too long in this atmosphere." The men started forward into
the front room, toward the still bodies. "Boyd," Malone said. "Get out
front and wave the ambulance over here. I'll get the air-conditioners
working and stop the gas."

He reached down and turned off the valve on the gently hissing tank of
anesthetic gas that sat on the floor near him. "You guys get the
kids," he said. "And let's make it fast, okay?"

14

"The one thing we had to worry about," Malone said, pouring some more
champagne into the two hollow-stemmed glasses, "was whether it was
possible to give them just enough synthecaine. Too little, and they'd
still be able to t