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"T here she is," Decker said, as they started to eat.
    Blake Douglas took a bite of hamburger and watched the young woman step through the doorway of Bestburgers. She looked to be in her twenties. Her blond hair hung straight to her shoulders. She wore a sweat shirt, jeans, and leather boots. Her purse hung from her shoulder by a long strap. Blake was sure she was carrying a pistol in it.
    "She's pretty," he said.
    "Don't let her looks fool you," Decker told him. "She's a snake, or she wouldn't be a member of the People's Strike Force."
    Blake took a sip of his milk shake. The woman named Lana Jeffers walked to the counter, sat on a stool, and leaned forward to pull a menu from behind the napkin holder. It made him feel bad to think that someone so pretty was a terrorist.
    "She comes in here at five in the afternoon every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday like clockwork," Decker said. "We thought the counterman might be her contact with the PSF, but we haven't seen any funny stuff. I guess she just likes the hamburgers."
    "They're not bad," Blake said, taking another bite.
    "We've been hoping she might lead us to the others," Decker went on. "But no luck, so far. That's where you come in."
    Blake nodded. He felt a knot in his stomach, but he knew it had nothing to do with the burger. It was nerves. It was guilt. It was knowing he must try to become Lana Jeffers' friend, only to betray her.
    Decker frowned at him. "What's wrong?"
    He shook his head. "I'm not sure I'm cut out to be a spy, that's all. It's like playing dirty."
    Decker leaned forward. He put his elbows on the table and stared at Blake with narrow eyes. "The People's Strike Force doesn't play fair, either, pal. Look what they did last month in Los Angeles. They gunned down a guard and two innocent people during that bank job. Don't talk to me about playing dirty. We'll go after them any way we can."
    Across the diner, Lana was talking to the man behind the counter. He wrote on a pad as she gave him her order.
    "Was Lana with them in Los Angeles?" Blake asked.
    "She was," Decker said. "The police nailed the other three, but she got away. She's a slick one, pal. As slick as they come."
    "Did she do any of the shooting?" Blake asked.
    "She did plenty. She sprayed around enough lead to open a pencil factory."
    "Did she hit anyone?"
    "No," Decker admitted. "Does that make her an angel? It makes her a lousy shot. What's with you, Douglas?"
    Blake shrugged. "I don't know . . . she looks nice. She doesn't look like someone who . . ."
    "She'd put a slug in her own mother if she thought it would help their cause." Decker scowled at Blake. "Are you with us on this? Because if you're not, you'd better speak up quick." He glanced at his wrist-watch. "You've only got two minutes and thirty seconds."
    Blake lifted the burger to his mouth, ready to take another bite. But he realized that he had lost his appetite. He put the burger down.
    "Go on and back out," Decker said. "If you have cold feet, you've got no business being with the intelligence division.
    Maybe you're not cut out for it. Maybe you belong back in a patrol car, wearing that nice blue uniform."
    Blake met Decker's steady gaze. "I'm not backing out," he said.
    Blake turned his head as the front door of the diner swung open and two men stepped in. Hunter and McBain.
    "They're early," Decker said.
    They both wore business suits. They both drew revolvers from under their coats as they walked toward the stool where Lana Jeffers waited for her supper.

"P olice!" Hunter yelled at the back of Lana's head. She sat up straight as if she had been poked in the back with a stick.
    The diner went silent. Every head turned toward the two policemen and the woman. Blake, heart pounding, slid his chair back from the table.
    McBain tugged Lana's purse. Its long strap flew off her shoulder. She started to turn.
    "Don't move," Hunter said. "You're under arrest."
    Blake slowly stood up. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
    "Okay,