Acuna didn't waste any time considering the geek; he wasn't experienced with felonious activity of a nondigital kind and anyway, Archie was working for Phipps, not for him. Takk was likewise out. The FBI like any federal agency was committed to affirmative action when it came to nonhuman agents, but Takk was simply too damn big not to be noticed. Takk was also needed to deal with Creek once Creek was out of the mall.

This left Ed, which was not an optimal situation. Ed was about as bright as a night-light. But there wasn't enough time for anyone else at this point. And Ed had done this thing before; so long as he had a script to stick to he'd be fine. Acuna walked Ed through the scenario a couple of times and gave him his FBI ID and an earpiece into which Acuna could issue commands if necessary.

Acuna's backup boys arrived shortly thereafter; Rod went over the plan and gave everyone their roles. Everyone piled into two vans equipped with fake tags and anonymous credit toll passes and went to the mall. Acuna stressed the nonlethality of the mission but he knew all of them, including Ed, were carrying slug throwers. He couldn't complain; he had one of his own nestled in a shoulder holster. In this fine of work, guns were an occupational hazard.

At the mall, everyone took their positions, and waited for Creek and the girl. They weren't long in arriving, and headed into the mall atrium to play a game.

Acuna wasn't very pleased with that. The atrium was large, with traffic from all four directions as well as escalators feeding traffic to and from the upper level. And on top of that there was this big goddamn plastic cube in the middle of it. Acuna had five guys on the ground, which was just enough to cover the atrium ground floor; he placed himself between the escalator banks to present an obstacle if Creek or the girl decided to head up that way. Acuna got on his headset, activated the signal disrupters they were all carrying in their pockets, and told Ed to get going.

Acuna had expected Creek to put up a fight; he hoped he would, since it would give Ed's story more credibility and make it easier for Ed to hustle the woman off while the other team grabbed Creek like a fugitive criminal. Acuna hadn't expected the girl to be the skeptical one; the story he'd fed Ed wasn't strong enough to stand up to scrutiny, and Ed wasn't exactly a world-class improviser. The girl had him on the spot before Acuna could feed him something reasonable, and then shut him down to talk to Creek.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Ed," Acuna muttered under his breath. "Just get the fucking woman already." Ed put his hand to his ear, as if listening, and glanced up at Acuna. Acuna realized he'd muttered loud enough for the microphone to pick up. Then he saw Creek turn around and look directly at him.

"Fuck me," Acuna said. By now Creek had pointed him out to the girl. The jig was up. "Fuck me running," he said, and then yelled in his headset microphone to his entire crew. "Get them," he said. "Get them both now."

Acuna saw Ed reach into his coat to get his pistol. So much for the nonlethal operation, Acuna thought, and moved to pull out his own gun. Things were getting bad, fast, just as Acuna figured. He was okay with it. He was expecting he'd get to this. Then something happened he didn't expect.

Creek hooked an arm around the lamppost he'd been leaning against, squished his big toe against the top of his shoe, and then kicked Agent Dwight square in the sternum. Dwight sailed backwards like a plush monkey launched by a Pro Bowl kicker, exhaling mightily all the way. Dwight's trajectory intersected with a large mall planter; Dwight hit it coccyx first, radically altering the speed and direction of his movement. At this point, Dwight's hand jerked free of his coat, taking the pistol he'd gripped with it. Dwight's trigger finger twitched involuntarily as his arm described a wild arc; the pistol, set for automatic fire (Ed believed in quantity of bullets over quality of aiming), burped out a volley of special load explosive-tipped ordnance, emptying the pistol's 15-round dip.

Three of these bullets rammed into the side of the WallBall cube, slagging the Plexiglas a fraction of a second before one of the players (the former Maryland star, as it happened) kicked the wall to launch himself toward the hoop. The Terrapin never made it to the basket; the wall, weakened by the bullet impact and the pressure of the powered shoes, fragmented at shoe impact and gave way, torquing the athlete's body until it faced downward and driving the player's leg through the cube wall to mid-shin. He screamed as skin was peeled off his shin by the Plexiglas and then passed out in shock as his tibia and fibula snapped with a pop like a cork off a spumanti bottle. The weight of his body pulled the leg out and dropped him to the ground.

The rest of the bullets connected with the mall ceiling and atrium skylight. The five that hit the ceiling made muffled booms; the seven that smashed the skylight cracked like close thunder, followed by the skittering sound of the skylight losing its structural integrity. Heavy sheets of safety glass peeled from the skylight and shattered on the ground floor of the atrium below, flinging shards of glass the size of Elvis rhinestones at hordes of screaming upscale consumers.

Creek had aimed the kick as well as he could to control the inevitable recoil, but "as well as he could" in this case wasn't as good as Creek had hoped. Creek spun briefly and violently around the pole before flinging off 270 degrees from where he started and collapsing on the floor. Creek howled and grabbed his right shoulder. He could feel the bone grinding; it'd nearly dislocated out of its socket. Creek gritted his teeth and jammed the shoulder into the ground and howled again as he felt the bone suck back into place. That was going to be painful for about a month. Creek got up just in time to have a sheet of skylight glass erupt on the floor beside him; a thumb-sized fragment went straight for his left cheek and hoed a shallow row into it. Creek shielded his eyes as another mass of skylight glass landed and showered him in chunks.

Creek uncovered his eyes to look for Robin and found her ten yards away, huddled near a small planter with a miniature palm tree. She had glass in her hair. He lurched in her direction; halfway there he found Dwight's FBI ID card. He pocketed it and kept going until he reached Robin. She was shivering.

"This is no longer a fun date," she said.

"I'm really sorry about that," Creek said. Another sheet of glass fell from the skylight; Robin barked an exasperated scream. "Keep your head down," Creek said.

"Way ahead of you," Robin said.

Creek looked up over the planter at where the gecko man had been standing; he was being pushed this way and that by frantic shoppers trying to get out of the middle of what they figured was a gang war. Creek looked around and saw four other men, one in each direction, fighting the current of panicked bystanders. Agent Dwight lay sprawled 50 feet away, not moving; Creek suspected he wouldn't be getting up any time soon.

"I think we should leave," Robin said.

"There's a problem with that," Creek said.

"Well, that's just great," Robin said.

"Hold on," Creek said. He looked up to gauge the distance between the atrium floor and the second level of the mall.

"Robin," he said. "We can't get out through the ground floor right here. We're blocked in every direction. We're going to have to go up."

"Gecko man is at the top of the escalators," Robin said.

"We're not going that way," Creek said. "We've got the Wall-Ball shoes on. We can jump up."

"Are you insane?" Robin asked.

"Robin, listen," Creek said, and pointed to a spot by the Wall-Ball cube. "We bounce on the ground there. We hit the WallBall court and then push off and get over the second floor railing."