“Yeah, I saw it,” Curt said without taking his eyes off Jack. “But this doesn’t look like a doctor’s apartment, and I can’t be a hundred percent sure with his guy’s get-up. Take a quick look around for an envelope or something with this joker’s name on it.”

“I’ll be happy to give Jack a message,” Jack said. He eyed the gun in Curt’s hand as well as the rifle in Carl’s.

“Thanks, wise guy,” Curt snapped. “Just stand there and be patient for a sec.”

Jack thought briefly about taking his chances by running into the bedroom and diving out the window, but he dismissed the idea as impractical, since he was on the fourth floor. He’d only get hung up on the fire escape.

“Why are you looking for him?” Jack asked.

“He has business with the People’s Aryan Army,” Curt said. “Serious business.”

“I’m sure Jack isn’t involved with any army,” Jack said. “He’s very much against war and violence.”

“Shut up!” Curt said.

“I found something,” Mike said near the bedroom door. He had picked up Jack’s trousers and was struggling to get Jack’s billfold out of the back pocket. He pulled it free and flipped it open. He whistled when he saw the medical examiner badge and held it up for Curt to see.

“Just check the name, for crissake,” Curt snapped.

“Maybe we should discuss this business you were referring to,” Jack said.

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Curt said.

“Ah, here’s a driver’s license,” Mike announced. “And the name is Jack Stapleton all right.”

“Jack frequently uses my apartment to change in,” Jack offered.

Suddenly there was more clatter of heavy boots on the stairs out in the hallway. Steve’s voice shouted up: “Hold up, Curt. There’s been a misunderstanding!”

Curt’s brow furrowed. He momentarily glanced in the direction of the open door but then immediately returned his gaze to Jack. Seconds later Steve, Kevin, and Clark stumbled into the room. Behind them were three other figures who leaped into the room, spread out, and shouted for everyone to freeze.

Curt spun around to find himself staring into the barrels of three Tec machine pistols.

“Don’t even think about it,” Warren warned as he zeroed in on Curt.

For a tense moment no one moved or breathed.

“Okay, Spit,” Warren said, breaking the silence. “Get the pistol and the rifle.”

Spit eased forward, holding his machine pistol in his right hand. He collected first the handgun, which he pocketed, and then the rifle. He stepped back.

“Now I want all you dudes to line up facing the wall,” Warren commanded. He motioned with his gun.

There was a delay as a sneer spread cross Curt’s face.

“Hey, man, you either do as I’m telling you or the story’s over,” Warren said. “You know what I’m saying?”