Fisher pressed his ear to the door. He heard no one in the bathroom. He opened the door, took a moment to grease the hinges, then stepped past the toilet and sink on the right and eased open the exterior door; this one made no noise.

Directly ahead of him, spanning the width of the loft apartment and ending at a set of steps along the opposite wall, was a waist-high steel railing. To his right were a small kitchen, a breakfast nook, and a laundry area, each separated by a hanging mustard yellow bedsheet. The loft's width was divided every ten feet by load-bearing stanchions.

Clink.A dish. Fisher froze.

As he watched, one of Doucet's men--Pierre, it looked like--appeared, moving from right to left. He trotted down the stairs and out of sight. Fisher eased forward along the short wall until he could see over the railing. The gang was all there, still drunk and clearly entranced by the movie, occasionally shouting curses at characters and standing up to mimic a particularly pleasing kick or punch.

Fisher returned to the closet, retrieved what he needed from his rucksack, then shut the door, leaving it cracked open. Now he would let nature do its work.

THEwait was short. Ten minutes later he heard the clunk of feet coming up the steps. Ten seconds later the bathroom door swung open. Through the gap between the closet door and the jamb, Fisher saw the one known as Louis walk in. Fisher let the man position himself before the toilet, then swung open the door, stepped out, and tapped him hard behind the ear with a lead-and-leather sap. Louis dropped straight down. Fisher caught him by the collar and lowered him noiselessly to the floor. He quickly secured Louis's feet and hands with plastic flex-cuffs, then flushed the toilet, ran the faucet for a few seconds, and moved into the kitchen.

He opened the door under the sink, knelt down, stuck his head in the cabinet, and then called in guttural French, "Hey, Pierre!"

No response.

"Hey, Pierre!"

"What?"

"Gimme a hand here. Something's wrong with the sink!"

Footsteps thumped up the stairs, then across the floor into the kitchen. Head still inside the cabinet, Fisher stuck his hand out and waved Pierre forward. He knelt down to join him, and as his head slid inside, Fisher brought his seven-inch Gerber Guardian dagger up and laid the edge under Pierre's jawline.

"Not a word," Fisher whispered, "or I'll open your throat for you. Nod if you understand."

Pierre nodded.

"No matter what happens, your friends won't be quick enough to save you. Understand?"

Another nod.

"We're going to stand up and move to the bathroom. Nice and quiet now . . ."

Fisher got Pierre on his feet and herded him into the bathroom. When Pierre saw Louis's prostate form, he stiffened and started to turn around, but Fisher was ready with his sap. With a groan, Pierre dropped in a heap atop his friend. He bound them together, flex-cuffed hands and ankles interlocked.

Two down. Three to go.

Had this been a Third Echelon-sanctioned mission, his standard operating procedure would have been anonymity above all: no muss, no fuss, no footprints. In this case, however, disruption was everything. Romain Doucet was about to experience, in a dramatic way, the law of cause and effect.

FISHERmade no attempt to hide himself coming down the stairs. Even so, he'd nearly reached the bottom before Doucet noticed him. "Who the hell are you?"

"Meter reader."

"What?"

"Census taker."

Now Doucet and the other three--Georges, Avent, and Andre--were on their feet.

"How did you get in here?" This from Avent. The top of his right ear was missing; the crescent shape suggested he'd been Mike Tysoned.

Fisher circled the group, keeping them on his right with a couch between them. He kept his eyes fixed on Doucet. No one would move without a sign from him.

"I said, how did you get in here?"

"Pierre and Louis let me in," Fisher said. "You can ask them yourselves when they wake up."

Four pairs of eyes darted up to the loft, then back at Fisher. The fact that Doucet was still talking rather than attacking told Fisher the Frenchman dealt poorly with uncertainty. This brazen stranger in his house had upset the order of things. Had interrupted his Saturday night.

"This is a mistake, asshole," Doucet growled. "Do you know who I am?"

"You mean aside from a general dirtbag? No, I can't think of a thing."

"You're dead, mister! Georges, call the others and get them over here. We're going to need help burying this guy."

Georges pulled the cell phone from his pocket and dialed. He stared at the screen, then frowned. "No signal."

Fisher pulled a cigarette-pack-sized black box from his jacket pocket and held it up for them to see. "GSM signal jammer. Range is about thirty feet. You might have better luck outside."

At Doucet's nod, Georges headed for the door. It didn't budge.

"Almost forgot," Fisher said. "I locked us in."

"Locked us in?" Doucet repeated with a smirk. "Why the hell would you want to do that?"

"I don't want any interruptions."

Georges had returned to Doucet's side. The four of them glared at Fisher. Doucet said, "You've got five seconds to get out of here alive."

Fisher let the half smile he'd been wearing fall from his face. "Stop running your mouth, Lurch, and let's get to it."

Fisher barely got the words out before Doucet stepped forward, grabbed the arm of the couch, and tossed it aside as though it were a plastic chaise lounge. Fisher heard the distinctive snickof a switchblade opening a split second before Avent charged. The man was fast, but predictable, telegraphing his moves with his shoulders. He slashed wide at Fisher, who stepped back far enough to feel the blade's passage under his chin but close enough that a quick step forward brought him inside Avent's circle. He grabbed the knife arm at the wrist and the elbow, then dropped his own hips and twisted, putting all his weight into the torque. Avent's arm shattered at the elbow. From the corner of his eye, Fisher saw movement--two smaller figures, Georges and Andre--so he spun again, levering the screaming Avent's arm until he came around into their path. Fisher kicked Avent in the back of the knee, dropping him, then shoved him into Georges's legs. Georges stumbled forward. Fisher met him, sidestepping left to keep Georges between himself and Doucet. As he drew even with Georges's head, Fisher lashed out with a side fist that landed on the point of his jawbone, just below the ear. There was a muffled crack as the bone shattered. Georges gasped and went down, writhing. Seeing his two comrades down, Andre hesitated, but only for a moment before he, too, charged in, arms flailing in windmill punches. Fisher took a step back, waited until Andre's weight was on his lead foot, then toe-kicked him in the kneecap, shattering it. As he pitched forward, Fisher rammed his knee forward, catching him on the point of the chin. His head snapped back and he slumped backward, unconscious.

For a long ten seconds Doucet stared at Fisher, his chest heaving, the veins in his beefy neck pulsing. He glanced around, gave Fisher a sneering grin, and then walked over to one of the recliners. Beside it lay a cricket bat. Doucet hefted the thirty-eight-inch, three-pound length of white willow and squared off with Fisher again.