And floundered off-balance as the deck of the yacht suddenly rocked beneath her and the sound of multiple splashes came from the far side of the ship.

"What the hell?" Powell said, frowning with surprise as the entire far side of the yacht seemed to explode with Whitewater spray as at least twenty of the soldiers hurled themselves into the harbor.

"They're in the water," Messerling snapped into his mike. "Units Five and Six, get down to the basin and watch for them to come up. And watch out for those sonic weapons."

There was a curt acknowledgment, and a half-dozen armored cops crouching behind the low wall fifty feet south of the harbor vaulted over their protective barrier and ran toward the harbor, MP5s held ready in front of them. "Watch it—they're at the south dock," Spotter One warned. "I can see two—make that three of them in the water, hanging onto the side."

Powell looked that direction. Sure enough, there were three heads bobbing together in the water at the section of the dock opposite the yacht's aft end. The two outside men each had a hand up on the edge of the dock to steady themselves, while the one in the middle was apparently just treading water.

"Damn fast swimmers," Messerling muttered. "Stay sharp everyone; these three may be a diversion."

The six cops reached the railing by the south ramp and came to a halt, lowering their muzzles to point into the water where the three men were hanging.

And a second later jerked back in startled confusion as, with a single powerful heave, the two submerged men on the sides hurled their companion upward out of the water and over the railing to drop squarely into the center of their formation. There was a burst of stray gunfire into the air as he grabbed the two nearest cops and shoved them back into their comrades, sending the whole bunch sprawling to the pavement. Regaining his own balance, the attacker ducked to his right and sprinted in a zigzag run toward the south esplanade and the Hudson River beyond.

"Damn it," Messerling snarled into his mike. "Get him!"

The words were barely out of his mouth when all hell broke loose.

In the water of the harbor, a dozen of the other would-be escapers suddenly popped into view, their heads and torsos bobbing upward like dolphins surfacing. Each of them had one arm cocked back behind his head like a quarterback preparing to throw an end-zone pass, Powell saw in that brief glance, with the other arm stretched straight forward in front of him. He caught the glint of metal

—"Watch it!" he snapped, cringing back reflexively. The men reached the top of their bounce and dropped back beneath the gentle waves—

And half a dozen of the spotlights scattered around the plaza suddenly shattered and went dark.

"What the—?"

"Slingshots," Spotter Two snapped. "They're targeting the lights—"

"There they go!" someone else cut him off.

The men lined up on the north boat basin steps, who had been standing impassively under the glare of the lights and guns of the cops crouched above them, were suddenly scattering in all directions.

Some of them jumped back down to the level of the dock and sprinted east, where the height differential between basin and plaza would provide cover from the guns trained on them from across at the park. Others leaped up over the railing and ran toward the row of trees lining the north end of the plaza and the buildings beyond, while still others charged straight into the guns of the cops crouched behind the curved wall. One of the cops half rose and lifted his gun—

Abruptly, a high-pitched yelp cut through the air, sending a violent twitch through Powell's body.

The effects on the cops below was even more dramatic. They staggered backward, the one who'd been bringing his gun to bear nearly falling over as the weapon's muzzle swung drunkenly around.

Before he could recover, a metal disk came spinning at him from one of the figures sprinting toward the trees, knocking the weapon out of his hands.

At the corner of Powell's eye, another group bobbed back to the surface of the water, and he looked back just as they let fly a second slingshot volley. With a multiple tinkle of shattered glass, the rest of the spotlights went dark. By the last dying flicker of their light, Powell saw that the attackers had overrun the dazed cops on the curving wall.

"It's like a three-ring circus down there," Messerling muttered. "All right, that's it. Ground level: masks on. Flash-bangs: fire."

There was a stuttering chuff of grenade launchers, and Powell turned his head away, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Two seconds later, the flash-bangs went off, bursting with a thunderclap of sound that seemed to lift him straight off the balcony and a flash of light that was dazzling even through his closed eyelids. The light faded, and he lifted his head again to look over the balcony.

Even with the spotlights gone, there was enough light filtering into the area from the city around them to see the plaza. There should certainly have been enough light for them to see the bodies laid out on the stone walkways, writhing or twitching with the aftereffects of the grenades.

Only there weren't any bodies to be seen.

The soldiers had vanished.

"Where did they go?" he demanded, looking frantically around the plaza, blinking his eyes as if that would change the reality stretched out in front of him. There wasn't anywhere down there where that many people could be hiding. There certainly wasn't any place they could have gotten to in such a short stretch of time, especially not with flash-bangs going off all around them. They couldn't be gone.

But they were.

"Look alive, spotters," Messerling called into his mike. "Where did they go?"

"I don't know," Spotter One said, sounding as confused as Powell felt. "They were right there. And then..." He trailed off in confusion.

"Flankers, move in," Messerling ordered, his voice under rigid control. "Seal the area, and I mean seal it. Units Seven and Two, check the buildings on the north side for open doors. Unit Nine, get aboard that yacht and retrieve the hostages."

"No," a voice said from behind them. Powell twisted around to look—

As Fierenzo and Roger Whittier dropped into a crouch beside him and Messerling.

"Fierenzo?" Messerling demanded disbelievingly. "I thought you'd been kidnapped."

"Forget the yacht for now," Fierenzo told him. "You have to make a perimeter—"

"Just a damn minute," Messerling cut him off, glaring up at him. "I thought this whole thing started because you'd disappeared." He shifted the glare to Powell. "Powell said these guys snatched you."

"Never mind that now," Fierenzo said. "Call Unit Nine back. By my count, there are another twentyfive soldiers still aboard."

"By your count?" Messerling demanded. "Look—"

He broke off as a sudden commotion erupted from the shrubs and trees of the park area at the plaza's south end. "We're under attack!" a voice snapped over the radio. "They just—oof!"

He broke off. "Gas 'em!" Messerling snapped. "Wisbaski?"

"I'm on it," a cop at the far end of their balcony snapped back. Standing up, he swiveled his multishot CS grenade launcher around toward the sound of the struggle below and lifted it to his shoulder.

But before he could fire, another of the strange yips swept across the balcony, sending another twitch through Powell's muscles and staggering Wisbaski backward. With a muffled curse, he stepped forward again, the muzzle of his launcher weaving noticeably as he pointed it toward the commotion below.

And as his shoulders tensed in preparation for firing, another of the metal disks shot up from the plaza, catching the underside of the launcher and knocking it back and up. The shot went wild, the gas canister arching almost straight up into the air, trailing a thin plume of tear gas behind it.