"...This is the Avalon Sheriffs Office! We are under attack by a motorcycle gang. Contact the mainland. All communications here are dead. Please contact the..."

Sections of the wall exploded inward. Plaster, framed photos and certificates, books flew through the office. Deputy Fletcher felt a slug rip across the top of his thigh. He fired his .38 at the door. The pistol made only a pop-pop-pop against the noise and chaos.

Then a shock literally threw him against the radio.

As he lost consciousness, he raised his pistol to fire at the silhouette in the doorway.

Howling and laughing, the Outlaws swept down from the hills, islanders sprinting in panic before them. The bikers fired their weapons into the night sky as they herded groups of residents to the beach. Forming bike lines of chrome and steel where the side streets met the beach walkway, they blocked any escape.

From the south, a line of Outlaws pushed the crowd toward the old Casino. Shouting commands, firing weapons over the heads of their prisoners, the bikers rode handlebar to handlebar. Other men on motorcycles criss-crossed the beach, their wheels throwing sprays of sand and salt water, cutting off the few islanders who had attempted to dash to small boats moored only a few yards offshore in the calm bay.

Gang members ordered the tourists from the hotel lobbies, then searched the rooms. Those who attempted to hide, or who struggled when they were dragged out, suffered a kick in the groin and a smash over the head from a gun butt.

Max limped beside his wife and teenage daughter. He watched for a chance to break free. He had lived on the island for the fifteen years since his discharge from the army. He knew every shop, every doorway, every alley. He pulled his wife Carol and his daughter Julia close to him and said:

"We're going to slip away from here. Move over toward the shops as we walk..."

"You can't outrun them," his wife told him. "You try and..."

"I know I can't run. That little alley beside Jim Peterson's restaurant? The lock on the gate is broken... You push on it, it opens. We're going to duck into that alley, close the gate behind us. We'll hide back there."

"You have your gun?" Carol asked him.

Max pressed his coat. There was the outline of an auto-pistol. "You ready?" he asked. Carol nodded. "And you, Julia?"

His daughter clutched his arm and nodded. They pushed through the mob of terror-stricken friends and neighbors. The restaurant was three doors ahead of them..

"One more thing," Max told them. "Nobody comes with us. Now move fast."

They passed the restaurant. Max took a last look around, then shoved his wife and daughter ahead of him, knocking the iron grill open with the force of their bodies. In an instant he kicked the gate closed behind them. Then he pushed them into the shadows.

A bare bulb lit the narrow alley. Max found a bottle and gently smacked the bulb.

The alley went dark. He slipped the Colt Hard-baller from his belt. "Let's go," he whispered.

He led them down the alley. Behind them passed a line of men on motorcycles, screaming and howling and laughing, like something from a nightmare.

Max led his wife and daughter around a corner. Here, the alley passed behind the Pavillion Lodge. Someone moved in the hotel's service entry. Instinctively, the three of them took cover.

It was the Secret Service agent Max had seen earlier. He held an Uzi machine-pistol. Max and his family were so close they heard footsteps on the concrete.

The agent spoke to some newcomers. "I'm point. Follow me, gentlemen." The agent led five briefcase-bearing men in suits from the doorway. At the street the agent glanced in both directions. He motioned the five men against the hotel wall.

"Where's Mr. Severine?" the agent asked the men. The five all looked at one another. The agent pointed at them. "Stay there."

Cat-silent, he returned to the doorway. He stopped short, his face going slack with surprise: "Mr. Sever..."

A point-blank pistol shot threw him back. Seeing the agent killed, the five men in suits scattered into the street. There were shouts, the roar of motorcycles, as laughing, yelling bikers saw and pursued them.

As Max watched, a sixth middle-aged man appeared. This was Severine. Like the others, he wore a conservative suit. But he also held a pistol. He walked over to the dead Secret Service agent and dropped the pistol. Then he walked calmly into the street and let the bikers take him.

Seconds later, several motorcycles roared into the alley. Damnation. The headlights had found Max, his wife, his daughter.

Built in 1909 for fishermen and the resident employees of the Wrigley Company, Catalina's Pleasure Pier now serves the tourist trade. From the pier, glass-bottom boats shuttle visitors to view the bay's kelp forests and sea life. Other boats take tourists to view the colonies of California sea lions, to cruise through the splendid isolation of Two Harbors, to watch the nightly phenomenon of flying fish leaping over the sea's surface on silver gossamer wings.

The pier holds rental shops offering motor launches, rubber rafts, and scuba gear. The restaurants there sell what many islanders and tourists swear to be the most delicious shrimp and crab cocktails on the West Coast.

The Harbor Master's office occupies the seaward end of Pleasure Pier. A simple green shack, its unimpressive exterior hides the interior's state-of-the-art electronics. Banks of radar screens, linked by cable to radar scanners on top of Catalina's second highest mountain, Mount Black Jack, monitor all marine and aircraft traffic to the mainland on the north, east, and south, and far into the Pacific Ocean to the west.

Horse pressed the muzzle of his cocked .45 automatic against the head of the duty officer in the Harbor Master's office. The young man, despite himself, shook with fear. Horse grinned as he surveyed the consoles of radar screens. He knew he could spot any police or military attempt to land forces, whether by sea or by air. He could then send his bikers to eliminate the threat.

And if the authorities mounted an overwhelming attack, the Outlaws would simply execute all the hostages, then fight to the death.

"All right!" Horse glanced at Banzai, demon-faced biker of Japanese ancestry. "You see all this? This is ours now. We got early warning!"

Banzai's hand-radio buzzed. "Yeah, what?" He listened and then reported to Horse. "They're bringing in one of the sheriffs. His name's Fletcher."

"Fletcher? Deputy pig Fletcher?" Horse laughed. He took a slip of paper from his jacket and put it in front of the duty officer. "Okay, boy, you wanna stay alive?" The young man nodded. "So I'm the main man now. You do what I say. Call this number — now."

The paper read: "Governor's Hot-line," followed by a line of numbers.

The duty officer's hands shook as he dialed. "It's... it's..." he stuttered, finally getting the words out. "It's ringing."

Horse shoved the young duty officer off the chair and took the phone. He listened to the distant ringing. Once, twice, three times. He watched the spinning green line of the radar scan sweep the screen: green blips marked the positions of stationary ships all around Catalina. Finally, after six rings:

"Hello... " A sleepy voice came from the phone. "This is the Governor... who's calling?"

"Jerry baby! This is the Outlaws' number one talking to you. You listening? I'm going to give it to you fast and only once."

"Is this some kind of joke?" The Governor's voice had come alive. "Who's calling? How'd you get this number?"

"Never mind that crap. You just listen. We got fifteen hundred hostages. We're going to kill them — are you listening?"

"What is it you want?"