Some water still surrounded the old island that sat far out in the New York harbor. Tethered out on the mud flats they found a boat which Starling rowed slowly toward the dark bulk of the island. The faint light of the moon allowed the marauders to see something of their objective. The island was overgrown with vegetation, a product of a century of neglect. Thrusting up from the tangle of trees and underbrush were the silhouettes of a number of buildings. A pinnacle, a decorative reminder of a time when men built buildings for the love of creation, probably housed a lockout. Probably a half asleep lockout, thought Bonner.

Laziness had made them slow and fat. Most of the raiders and smugglers stayed out of the island city. They were scared of the hundreds of square miles of shattered buildings and they had heard that the New York garrison was tough and ruthless. That was true once the shooting started but up till then they could be fooled . . . And if you fooled them, they were as good as brought down already.

The boat rocked slightly in the shallow water and Bonner wondered, for one happy moment, if the Stormers weren't so greedy and reckless that maybe one day they would wipe each other out. It would save everyone so much trouble . . .

They rowed in close to the island and Bonner gestured to Starling to haul in the oars. They coasted a few yards in silence. Bonner slipped over the side. The water was waist deep. He grabbed a line in the bow and hauled the boat to a splintered jetty that thrust out into the bay.

"Let's move it," hissed Bonner.

"Let's hit the tower first," said Starling. Bonner could just make out Starling's outline. The tall man looked as if he was wearing a neckless of sausages around his neck. Starling had a special love of dynamite the way some men loved whisky.

"Go," said Bonner quietly.

As soon as Starling had released one arrow, he had another fitted into the bow. The two blasts came within a second of one another, shattering the night. The echoes of the explosions rolled across the bay, through the empty night like thunder.

If there had been a man on guard up there, he was dead now.

The three men darted from the water and scrambled up onto the island proper. They followed Bonner's lead. He skirted one wing and made a bee line for the main entrance. The Winchester was snug in the holster on his back, the AUG held lightly in front of him. From inside the cavernous buildings came confused and sleepy shouts.

The first Stormer came out of the huge main door and down the steps. He was shooting wildly in the darkness. Bonner picked up the muzzle flash and stitched a line of bullets across the man's chest. The Stormer behind him collected a short burst in the same place.

Seeing their comrades fall the Stormers following backed up and slammed the great gate shut. The thud of the door closing echoed throughout the building.

"Pussies," snapped Starling.

They could hear more Stormers scrambling across the steep pitched roof.

"They can't see us," whispered Bonner. "Cooker, don't use that thing until we're inside."

"Gotcha."

"Take the door. Star."

Starling hefted the weight of a dynamite bundle in his hand and lit the fuse. The snap of the flame drew a burst of automatic fire from the roof. Starling rolled left and threw the dynamite toward the door. The sound of the detonation echoed out over the water, the door disappeared, and released the screams of the men cowering behind it into the cold night air.

Bonner was off at a sprint, firing into the black hole where the door had stood. He crashed through the smoking splinters and darted behind a long counter where a Stormer would have sat when on duty. Starling and Cooker were right behind him. Bonner could hear the tank man frantically pumping to get the pressure up in his cylinders.

"How many?"

"Fifty. Maybe more."

The stairs and the corridors that ran off the long hallway were lit with the feeble light of kerosene lamps. The whole building seemed to ring with footsteps. On the iron stairs above them, they could hear the heavy boots of the Stormers as they raced around trying to locate the interlopers. The stairs rang—they were coming down.

Above the bellowed orders, Bonner could hear the beginnings of a low chant. It came from the upper stories:

"Breakout! Breakout! Breakout!"

The prisoners were roaring. Gunfire meant that salvation was near. Their voices were throaty with fear and exultation.

"Bonner, we got to get ourselves lost in this damn building. They know where we are."

"But we'll meet 'em on the stairs," said Cooker.

"So fry them," said Bonner coldly.

They made their move, running for the staircase. With close quarters fighting coming up, Bonner had drawn the Winchester from its nest. He held the light AUG in his left hand. Together the two guns would lay down a carpet of lead in front of him. But Bonner put his best weapon forward.

"Okay, Cooker, you're on."

"My pleasure," cackled the gas-man. He scurried up the first set of stairs. On the first turn he came face to face with two Stormers. He opened the nozzle wide and the two victims were hit with a wall of fire. Instantly, the stairwell filled with the stinging smell of burnt gas, followed by the sweet, frying smell of burnt meat. With agonized screams the Stormers danced the bizarre and pain-wracked dance of men burning to death. They held their burning hands before them and watched as their skin blistered and charred, dripping from bone like wax from a candle.

Bonner raced by the flaming corpses, registering their screams as he passed. He hardly heard them. But they would come back to him some night, some bad night, when he couldn't sleep, when his mind would be tortured by the thought of the endless killing. But that was in the future. Right now those burning corpses were just Stormers, Stormers who had once been in his way. No longer.

They reached the second floor. Three Stormers reared up from behind an old desk like cobras. They loosed their rounds tearing holes in the plaster of the stairwell. From over Bonner's shoulder came one of Starling's arrows. It slapped into the desk and blew away the three Stormers in a shower of splinters. Two were killed instantly, the third writhed in silent pain, his face a mass of wooden needles.

"You owe me," shouted Starting, his voice echoing in the stairwell.

Bonner paused, listening for the chanting. "Third floor," screamed a voice, "third floor." One of the prisoners had brains enough to show the way.

"One more up," said Bonner and he started taking the steps two at a time. His brain was working feverishly. The Stormers would know by now that they had not been attacked by a large force. This meant that they would be coming down off the roof and searching the building systematically. Also, they would know that whoever attacked the place was there to stage a breakout. Bonner knew they could expect a hot reception when his small force made it to the cell level.

Just before the top of the stairs, Bonner brought up Starling.

"Okay," he panted, "top of the stairs to the left is the big room. Cells line the walls. Can you get the dynamite in there and clean up the Stormers? They gotta be waiting for us."

"No problem," came the customary reply. Starling caged a light off Cooker's thrower.

"We go in right behind the blast. Keep looking up, a balcony runs around the top of the room, just below roof level."

"Check." Starling threw the deadly bundle in a graceful arc. It bounced into the room and exploded with a roar so intense that for a single terrible moment Bonner thought the whole ancient building was going to come down around them.

A smoking crater took up most of the middle of the vast room. Bonner darted left and pressed himself flat against the first cell door. From the little barred window in the cell door came a voice.

"Hey man, lemme out. Gimme gun. I can fight." Bonner trained the snout of the AUG along the roof line watching for the dust to clear.

"Come on, man," whined the prisoner.

He was going to give away Bonner's position. "Shuttup," he ordered.

"Aw, man . . ."

"Shut your mouth," hissed Bonner.

The whole building had gone quiet. It was as if the blast had temporarily numbed every Stormer in the place.

The smoke was dissipating and Bonner could make out a Stormer kneeling on the balcony peering into the mist. The Steyr AUG let rip and the man toppled. Bonner was coming to love his little gun.

It was as if Bonner's fire was a general signal for the fight to start again. From every comer of the room came the sounds of gunfire. Bullets sprayed wildly, chopping across the walls in neat rows. Illuminating it all were the short spews of fire that Cooker spat'at the gallery. Men ignited like balls of paper held over a flame. The screams of the burning Stormers mixed with the wild cries of the prisoners.

"Let us out."

"Don't bum me."

"Let us at the fucks."

"Let's go, man, let's go."

Somewhere of to the right, Bonner heard the chattering of Starling's automatic. He was doing his job, like always.

"Starling!" shouted Bonner.

"Yah?"

"Start letting 'em out."

'' Awwwright,'' screamed a prisoner, '' awwwright!''

"Starling! Starling!" yelled a voice, "it's me. Harvey! Over here! Starling!"

"Starling," yelled Bonner, "find him."

Cooker was dancing around the room firing great balls of flame into the room. Sometimes they connected with a Stormer, sometimes not. Bonner couldn't be sure but he thought that they were no longer drawing fire from within the room.

He started sliding the bolts off the metal doors. They flew open and a crowd of prisoners flew out, like animals released from a cage. One dashed into the middle of the room and fell through the jagged hole made by the bomb.

On the far side of the room Bonner could hear Harvey's happy hysterical screams.

"Starling! Un-fucking-believable!"

"Cooker," yelled Bonner.

"What?"

"Cut the flame, you're setting the place on fire." The old floorboards and the piles of debris turned up by the blast were burning brightly.

"Starling?"

"Yah?"

"Got him?"

"You bet!"

"Then let's get the hell out of here."

"Right behind you, boss."

The halls were clogged with prisoners, all of them running blindly for the stairs. Suddenly, the adrenaline pumping through him like sweet, powerful high octane fuel, made him feel like he was flying. The deafening noise of the prisoners, the vicious gunfire, the crackling of the flames all blended into one symphonic, seamless belt of noise. He had ceased to think, his brain, the command center that told him to be scared or wary or worried had shut down, he was an animal of pure instinct. Acting, reacting, fighting on the strength of his nerves. He seemed to be able to see everywhere, anticipate every move of his enemies;  it was as if he controlled them and could make them dance to his tune. The killing got easier and easier, until it was effortless.

This was the Bonner men feared most. Standing in the midst of the firefight, his senses heightened, sharp, taut. The men who opposed him saw that look, the set jaw, the blazing eyes and knew they were going to die. Back there, a thousand miles away Coldchip had felt it: the man was marked, he had something deep in his soul that the rest couldn't find or didn't have. They were just men with guns. Bonner was an avenging force meting out justice and death at will.

A crowd of prisoners had started down the stairs and were caught there by some Stomiers working their way up. They fell in a hail of bullets. Smoke from the dozens of small fires that Cooker had started began to creep through the building.

"I know another way out," screamed Harvey.

"Go," shouted Bonner.

Harvey headed for a wide main corridor yawning down the middle of the building. A score of doors opened onto it.

"There's another set of stairs here. One of these doors."

The four men started kicking in the thin wooden doors. Just as Bonner smashed one in Cooker called out: "Found it!"

But Bonner could not move. He stood framed in the doorway, transfixed.

"Bonner," screamed Starling, "let's go!"

Bonner took a step into the room. Hanging from the ceiling, head toward the floor, was a man—at least what had once been a man. The floor was slick with his blood. His blood and that of a thousand others. The skin had been carefully lifted off his chest and it hung around his shoulders and head like a dirty, bloody curtain. Cowering in a comer, his hands covering his head, was another man. He squirmed as if trying to make himself smaller, in the forlorn hope that Bonner would not see him.

"Bonner!" screamed Starling.

Bonner advanced. The man wore the red shirt and black stripe of Leather's torture squad. They were specialists in pain. There was nothing they didn't know about inflicting it until men begged for death. Begged, that is, if the squadsmen had left their victim a tongue and a voicebox. Bonner looked at the dead man. He couldn't save him but he could exact his revenge.

Bonner stood over the squadsman. The man raised a tear-stained face, pleading, beseeching. Inarticulate sounds came from his throat. Bonner didn't know the man that had been tortured. He didn't care if he was a thief, he didn't care if he was a murderer, it didn't matter. No man deserved that.

He pumped a whole fast clip into the torturer's head, the force of the close range shots bouncing the man's head on the floor like a rubber ball.

"Jesus, Bonner." Starling had grabbed him by the shoulder. "There are a whole lot more than fifty. This place is becoming plenty hot. Let's go . . ."

Bonner left the room behind Starling, calmly reloading as he went.

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