"Acknowledged," Messerling said. "Stay sharp, and out of sight. And don't lose them."

He gestured, and the operator cut the connection. "Well, gentlemen," Messerling said, turning back again to Cerreta and Powell. "Let's go join the party."

46

"Here they come," Messerling murmured, his head lifted just high enough to put his binoculars over the low stone edging of the balcony he and the others were lying on.

Cautiously, feeling cold and awkward and more than a little scared, Powell arched his back and eased his own head up over the stone. Beyond the tree-lined esplanade to the south, he could see the lights of the Galen's Tenth puttering its way northward along the Hudson River, headed for the boat basin directly below them.

The boat basin. Powell lifted his head another inch, shifting his gaze downward over the balcony to look across the wide stone walkways and manicured grass and neatly trimmed trees of the World Financial Center Plaza to the dark water and gently bobbing floating docks. At any given time, he knew, there were at least a couple of yachts tied up there, as well as a tour boat or one of the city's fleet of water taxis. But at the moment the basin was empty, all other ships moved out at Messerling's orders.

The plaza itself looked just as empty. The normal daytime pedestrian traffic of financiers and clients was long gone, the evening's collection of youthful cyclists and skateboarders had retired to homework or TV, and the throngs of commuters waiting for ferries to Hoboken or Fulton or Port Imperial were already home.

But here, unlike the boat basin itself, the emptiness was an illusion. Crouching behind the hedges or lying prone behind low walls or stretched out behind balcony walls like the one he and Messerling were on were over forty armed and armored S.W.A.T. cops. Another twenty skulked around the buildings and park areas to the north and south, backup forces for a three-sided box that would theoretically trap the incoming gang soldiers against the Hudson with no way to escape.

Theoretically.

Turning his head, Powell looked to his right at the majestic glass walls and arched roof of the Winter Palace nestled between the taller but far less spectacular Buildings Two and Three of the World Financial Center. The Winter Palace was the WFC's showpiece, a glittering multilevel expanse of marble and brass and sixteen live palm trees that served as a haven of calm and stability amid the more frantic chasing after money that took place in the buildings around it all day.

It was also the site of public performances and exhibits, as well as a myriad of private functions for the city's wealthy and powerful throughout the year, and the owners had not been at all happy at the possibility of a full-bore firefight taking place on its doorstep. Messerling's insistence that this was the only way had fallen on deaf ears, as had his assurances that even rabid gang fighters were surely rational enough to surrender once they saw the firepower arrayed against them. It was only when the Police Commissioner himself had intervened that they'd finally been able to get some grudging cooperation. If any of those impressive windows got shot out, Powell mused, the gang would be the least of their worries.

"All units, stand ready," Messerling murmured into his helmet mike.

Powell shifted his attention back to the river. The yacht had reached the entrance to the harbor and was making its way inside, moving with the ease and confidence of a pilot who'd performed this maneuver dozens of times and knew exactly what he was doing. "Anyone have a view of the civilians?" he asked. "Spotters?"

"They're both in the wheelhouse," Spotter One's voice reported crisply in Powell's ear. "Along with an older male and female and... looks like three young males and a female."

"Copy," Messerling said. "All units, keep that in mind if we have to open fire."

Powell reached up to wrap his hand around his mike. "What do we do if they're still aboard when they spot your people?" he asked Messerling.

"We'll wait as long as we can," Messerling told him, covering his own mike. "But the primary objective here is to contain and neutralize. We do not want these people escaping the box and running loose in the city." He lifted his head a bit. "Damn," he muttered. "They're taking one of the north docks."

Powell hunched himself up to look. Sure enough, the yacht had turned into the open area between two of the northern docks, a spray of water roiling at its aft end as the pilot reversed the screws to brake the craft to a halt. "Is that a problem?"

"Most of my men are on the south and east sides," Messerling told him. "The only close cover we had on the north is that curved wall right beside the basin, and there was only enough room there for five guys."

"But you've got men on the other balcony over there, right?" Powell asked, nodding past the Winter Garden toward the counterpart to the balcony they themselves were on.

"Sure, but they can't do anything from there except provide backup fire," Messerling gritted. "I'd rather avoid gunfire entirely, and a massive show of force on the ground is the best way to do that.

We've got the troops, but now they'll have to cross a lot of open ground to get to the debarkation area."

Two young men hopped from the yacht to the dock and began tying up the ship. Other shadowy figures had appeared from below decks, and even before the boat was completely secured they were slipping over the side onto the dock. Looking around cautiously, they moved in an orderly line toward the double set of stairs that led up in both directions from the basin to the plaza level. The reached the steps and split into two groups, one heading up each flight. Back on the yacht, other figures were appearing from the companionway, lining up on both sides of the deck as they waited their turns to disembark. "I don't see any heavy weapons anywhere," Messerling murmured.

"Anyone?"

"Negative," Spotter One's voice replied.

"Negative here, too," Spotter Two confirmed. "In fact, I don't see any drawn weapons of any sort."

"Maybe we can catch them sleepwalking," Messerling said, reaching for the bullhorn at his side. "All units: stand by. One... two..."

The leading men in the line reached the top of the stairs, one group now directly beneath the curved wall where the nearest cops lay in wait—

"Go!" Messerling snapped.

And abruptly, the entire plaza area blazed with daylight brightness as a dozen small floodlights opened up from concealment on balconies and behind shrubs. At the same instant, the cops behind the curved wall popped up into view, their compact Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns pointed down at the line of men suddenly frozen in place along the stairways. "Police!" Messerling shouted into the bullhorn, his amplified voice echoing eerily back from the buildings around them. "You're completely surrounded. Stay where you are and put up your hands."

Caroline's first terrified thought as the light burst suddenly in her eyes was that there had been an explosion in one of the dark buildings towering over the boat basin. She gasped, throwing up an arm to shield her face, her hip slamming painfully into the edge of the yacht's control panel as she jerked backward—

"Police!" an amplified voice boomed across the night. "You're completely surrounded. Stay where you are and put up your hands."

Her breath went out in a huff, her momentary panic twisting into confusion and stunned disbelief.

The police? But how—?

And then her brain caught up with her, and the hard knot in her stomach suddenly loosened amid a surge of unexpected hope.

Her secret message had gotten through.

Squinting against the glare, she looked over at Sylvia. The Command-Tactician's face was turned away from her, impossible to read. But there was something in the way she was standing that sent a shiver up Caroline's back. If the police expected her to simply surrender, they were in for a nasty surprise. Even before the echoes had finished bouncing off the buildings she sensed a flurry of silent Green commands ripple across her mind—