hat. 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 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 over-elaborate casualness. He was casing the joint,
making sure there was no one 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. "O.K., now," he said.
"Let's move fast. We haven't got much time. We--"

And that was all he said.

Malone concentrated on just one thing: holding an image of the room,
with the eight Spooks in it.

There was a long second of silence.

Malone felt a bead of sweat trickle down his cheek. He held the image.

"What's wrong?" the tallest boy said suddenly--Ramon Otravez, Malone
remembered. "What's wrong, Mike?"

Mike let out his breath in a ragged sigh. "I ... don't know," he said
slowly. "I can't move--"

"It's a trap!" another boy shouted.

Malone bore down. He could feel power draining out of him, but he held
on, willing the boys to remain in the room, blanking out their own
teleportative abilities with his stronger ones.

The eight boys stood, frozen, in the center of the lit room.

Malone let another second go by, and then he stepped out from behind the
curtains.

"Hello, boys," he said casually.

Mike stared at him. "It's Malone," he said.

"That's right," Malone said. "Hello, Mike. I've been waiting for you."

Mike gulped. "You found us," he said. "Somebody talked."

Malone shook his head. "Nobody talked," he said. Concentration was
getting easier; the longer the situation remained the same, the less
power it took to keep it that way. He wished he had brought a cigar, and
compromised by fishing out a cigarette and lighting it.

Mike said: "But--" and was silent.

"I knew where you were going to be," Malone said. "You see, I've got a
few--powers of my own, Mike."

Ramon Otravez said: "He's kidding. It's some kind of