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Hispanic was probably going to turn out to be the designated talker.
    "Hi," the covert agent responded.
    "So wha'cha doin' here, man? You lost or something?"
    "Must be." Lightstone shrugged. "I was looking for the subway. Guess I took the wrong turn," he added, staring calmly at the two men.
    The Hispanic hesitated, appearing to be confused and uncertain as to what he was supposed to do next.
    It was now absolutely clear to Henry Lightstone that these men hadn't been expecting this kind of response from their intended target at all.
    So what do you do now, follow instructions or wing it? Lightstone thought, suddenly finding himself intrigued by some of the more interesting possibilities.
    "Maybe you need some directions, huh?" the Hispanic said.
    "Maybe."
    The smaller man glanced over at his companion, apparently seeking and receiving some kind of reassurance. Then he continued. "You know what I think, man? I think you need directions real bad."
    "You're probably right," Lightstone conceded. "Maybe you guys can help."
    The smaller man grinned widely, exposing a significant gap between his front teeth. "Okay, that's more like it. So how much you willing to pay?"
    "Oh, I don't know." Lightstone shrugged. "What's the going rate for directions around here? A quarter?"
    "A quarter ?" The Hispanic blinked and turned back to his companion, apparently unable to believe his ears. "You believe that, man? This guy gets himself lost in the Zone, like a friggin' dummy. And we offer to help, like a couple o' nice guys. And all he wants to fork out for all our trouble is two bits. Two lousy bits!"
    The smaller man suddenly whipped his head around to face Lightstone again, only this time he held a wide-bladed knife out in his extended hand. Lightstone recognized it as a K-bar fighting knife of the type that had been issued to U.S. Marines in World War II: a well-made, multifunctional, double-edged fighting weapon. And in the hands of a trained killer, an absolutely deadly and frightening tool.
    "You see this, man?" the Hispanic tracker snarled, stepping up closer to his seemingly unimpressed victim.
    "Looks sharp." Lightstone nodded, watching the other man a little more closely now. "You want to be careful you don't cut yourself."
    "What?"
    "Go home to your girlfriends, guys," Henry Lightstone said softly, "before you get hurt."
    The Hispanic's eyes seemed to bulge outward in a mixture of disbelief and rage. Uttering a savage growl, he lunged forward and slashed at Lightstone's face. Then he gasped in surprise when the federal agent almost casually deflected his attack with a sweeping forearm and locked his wrist into a tight double-handed grip.
    Henry Lightstone was still watching the second member of the surveillance team when he twisted his assailant's wrist sharply, causing the Hispanic tracker to scream in agony as the knife clattered on the cobblestone driveway.
    Maintaining the hold, Lightstone waited until the taller black man made his move, stepping in fast and whipping the chain-saw chain around in a rapid blur over his head. Then, using the leverage of the wrist-lock, the agent sent his cursing Hispanic assailant staggering backward and right into the downwardly sweeping arc of the lethal chain.
    Realizing too late what was happening, the shorter man made a futile effort to protect himself with his broken wrist. But he was much too slow, and his partner's effort to pull back on his swing only made things worse. The chain-saw chain whipped across his face—tearing deep bloody gouges out of his cheek and hand—and he screamed again, dropping to his knees and rolling over on his side in agony.
    "Gawd damn!" the black man cursed as he saw the dark blood dribbling through his partner's clenched fingers. Flinging the chain-saw chain aside, he started to reach for the 9mm semiautomatic secured to his belt behind his back. But then he froze when he found himself staring into the barrel of a 10mm Model 1076 Smith & Wesson double-action