In the Casino's ballroom, the hostages' prison, Max Stevens had organized a cadre of resisters. Persuading, explaining, sometimes preaching, he turned angry islanders into leaders, fearful residents into spies.

"I've got to do something," a father told Max and the group of conspirators. "When they dragged that last girl out, they looked at my daughters and said, 'We'll be back for them.' In the name of God, they're only twelve and fourteen years old! I'm going to grab one of their guns, I don't care what happens, they won't take my girls."

Max spoke calmly, slowly. "Since we circled up, they haven't taken another girl, have they?" After the Outlaws had stalked through the crowd of hostages several times, each time dragging away teenage girls, Max had suggested the hostages form a tight circle, men and women and teenage boys on the outside, children and teenage girls inside. Later, when two Outlaws came in, they saw an unbroken wall of men and women facing them. They had turned and left.

"When do we hit them?" another father asked. "They hurt my girl every way there is. It's us against them. If the police were coming, they'd be here already."

"That's not true!" Max explained. "If there's a ransom to be paid, remember it's Sunday. The police will have to open banks. If they're negotiating for something, that could take days. SWAT teams could hit those scum any second now, or tonight, or tomorrow. If we fight at the wrong time, the police will bust in here and only find dead people.

"If we hit at the right time, we're helping the police. We'll hit those creatures when we hear shooting — we'll shoot them, knife them, take their weapons.

"I promise you, the police won't get a chance to take any Outlaws prisoner. Prisoners sell their memoirs to publishers, make movie deals. No, we have to wait, but when we hit, they all die."

"Does that mean we wait a year?" the red-eyed parent demanded. "How about four hundred and forty-four days? I'd rather die."

"It won't be long," Max told the man, then spoke to the others. "Things are happening outside. People are fighting: Shirley, tell them what you've learned."

A middle-aged woman in a jogging suit spoke. "Whenever I see one of them with a walkie-talkie, I get one of my people to go up to the creep and ask for something — food, water, medicine, magazines, anything. Two of my spies heard the bikers yelling at their radios about heroes, kill them, make an example. One time when I went up, I heard, 'His rifle's gone, the ammunition too.' That's a word for word quote. The punk got real agitated, punched me, but it was worth it." She touched her blackening eye.

"They're all getting agitated," another man said. "They're not so cocky. Something's got them scared."

A tourist came up to Shirley. He was a middle-aged man in a suit. Gray hair streaked his temples. "Can I talk to your leader?"

"Leader?" she asked, confused. "Leader of what? Who do you mean?"

"I'm Mike Carst." The stately tourist shook hands with her. "Of the RayShine Corporation. Who is the man who limps?"

"You mean Max?" She didn't really trust the tourists. The group had decided not to involve nonresidents in their planning and organization. The tourists had no stake in the community: they would not weigh the value of their lives against the lives of the island's families; to save themselves, they might betray the island people; or a tourist might even be an Outlaw spy.

"He must be the mayor, correct?" Mike Carst continued.

"No, he sells houses. He has a number of ice cream accounts too."

"He appears very military."

"His wife told me he used to be a sergeant in the army. He was in a war and he got hurt. He's lived here ever since. Knows everybody. But he's not a leader of anything. He's just talking to people, keeping them calm."

"I'd like to talk to him. It's very important."

"I don't think an appointment is necessary," Shirley said.

Max was limping up to them. Max recognized the stranger as one of the men guarded by the murdered Secret Service agent.

"Mike Carst, sir." The stranger shook hands with Max. "And your name?"

"Max. You don't live on the island, do you?"

"No, Max. I'm only a visitor."

"Mr. Carst thinks you're some kind of leader," Shirley told Max.

"A leader? Me?"

Carst took Max's arm, led him away from Shirley to an open area where they wouldn't be overheard. "Putting the charade aside, I have information for you and your people. In turn, I need your help."

"What is the information?"

"One of the men in my party has a radio. He appears to be communicating at hourly intervals with someone outside. If you have your people watch this man... if they could possibly overhear a transmission — both our groups would benefit. Do we have an agreement?"

"Why are you and the Secret Service on the island?" Max asked.

"Secret Service?" Carst smiled.

"Agreed, then," Max told him. "From now on, you don't talk to me. You must point the man out to Shirley. She'll organize the surveillance. A pleasure doing business with you. Goodbye."

Max moved on to the Websters, Jack's parents. Mr. Webster grabbed Max by the arm. His voice quavered: "Jack here, he's just told us something. He's not a bad kid, really. He's troubled, but..."

"What is it, Webster?" glared Max.

"They're going to tear him apart limb from limb, they're going to castrate him for God's sake, up on that stage over there unless he spies for them. Unless he tells them everything that's going on in here, everything we've planned. He just told us. It's not the kid's fault..."

Max interrupted. "Don't sweat it. Relax. So he'll do exactly what they told him to do." He turned to the stricken youth. "Jack will give them all sorts of information, won't you, lad? You're going to feed them everything we want them to hear."

Climbing up the thick trunk of the carob tree, Glen Shepard walked along a branch. He stepped off of it onto the roof of the house. He pushed through the leaves and branches that shaded the roof. He stood at the rear of the house, concealed by the lush foliage. He was armed with his Colt, and he wore a biker's jacket. Between him and the front of the house, there was thirty feet of open roof.

Smoke billowed at the far end of the block. From where he stood, he saw only the smoke. He heard shouts, a few shots. But to observe the Outlaws, he would have to cross the open roof to where his view was unobstructed.

To his left, the direction of the Outlaws, there was no cover. To his right, a neighbor's row of tall cedars screened that side. He had to chance it.

He crawled to that side of the roof ridge. Motorcycles passed. He froze, waited until the motorcycles stopped at the far end of the block, then he continued. Any Outlaw who happened to glance up to the roof could see him. He hurried to the front, then looked.

At the end of the block, the two-story house in which they had hidden was burning. Outlaws watched the house, shotguns and assault rifles ready. Carrying red and yellow cans of gasoline, other Outlaws ran to the next house.

Glen crabbed back to the tree and thrashed through the branches. He scampered along the branch until it merged with the trunk, then hopped the last six feet and started for the back door.

"Hey, brother. See any of those hero locos?"

Reaching for the Magnum under his leather jacket, Glen turned. A Latin-featured Outlaw with a Fu Manchu mustache and a chromed Nazi helmet lounged in the yard, an M-14 rifle cradled in his hands. Seeing Glen's face, the biker realized his mistake. He brought up the rifle. Glen jerked the Colt Lawman from his belt.

The revolver's hammer snagged on Glen's shirt. Even before he heard the shot, he knew he was about to die.