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pistol aimed right between his eyes.
    "You don't want to do that," Henry Lightstone said calmly.
    The black man brought his hands back up slowly and nodded, indicating that he understood.
    "Put your hands behind your head, interlocking your fingers, and then spread your feet," Lightstone continued, and then waited for the man—who was now completely cooperative—to follow his instructions. "All right, good. Stay that way. Now what's your friend's name?"
    "What?"
    "Pay attention. I said, what's your friend's name?" Lightstone repeated.
    "Listen, man, Ah don't know. . . ."
    "Shut up and listen to me," Lightstone ordered in a cold voice, keeping the Smith & Wesson semiautomatic dead-centered on the man's broad nose. "If you fail to respond to my instructions, or if your friend tries to stand up or does anything stupid with his hands, then I'm going to put a hollow point between your eyes, and then one between his, and then walk back out to the street and call the cops. You understand what I'm saying?"
    The black man nodded.
    "Now what's his name?"
    "Carlos."
    "And your name is?"
    "Fred," the black man muttered unhappily.
    "Carlos, did you hear what I just said to your buddy Fred about you getting up or trying to do something stupid with your hands?" Lightstone asked.
    The stricken Hispanic tracker responded with a burst of abusive Spanish through his bleeding fingers, but he stayed down.
    "Care to translate that?" Lightstone asked.
    "He understands," the man who might or might not have been named Fred responded.
    "Good. Does he carry a piece too?"
    The black man hesitated.
    "Never mind." Lightstone shook his head impatiently. "Okay, Fred, what I want you to do is bring your feet back together, right, just like that. Now turn around slowly to face the wall to your left—right there, that's it—and spread your legs again. A little farther this time. Good."
    Stepping around and behind the tall, spread-eagled assailant, and keeping an eye on his temporarily disabled partner, Lightstone reached under the black man's jacket and removed the 9mm semiautomatic. After releasing the magazine and jacking the live round out of the chamber, he quickly disassembled the weapon and tossed the slide, receiver, barrel, and mainspring into a nearby trash can.
    A quick one-handed search from the man's head to his ankles—conducted while Lightstone kept his own pistol tight against his side to discourage any thoughts of a desperate grab or spin move—confirmed that the taller and presumably more dangerous of the two trackers was now completely disarmed.
    Stepping back, Lightstone quickly moved around and knelt down by the still prone Carlos. A second quick search turned up another identical 9mm semiautomatic—the parts of which also went into the nearby trash can—and a small switchblade. Lightstone tossed both knives back into the darkness of the alleyway, and then gestured with the Smith & Wesson at the black man.
    "Okay, Fred, help him up."
    Silently the black man obeyed.
    Henry Lightstone waited until both men were standing up, the man supposedly named Carlos still muttering threatening curses and clutching a bloody hand to his severely torn cheek. As he did so, the federal agent held the 10mm pistol down at his side.
    "I suppose it'd be a waste of time to ask if either of you happen to remember the name of the person who hired you?"
    Silence.
    "Yeah, that's what I figured." Lightstone nodded. "And I don't suppose it would matter much, one way or the other, if I decided to take you guys over to the local police station and let them ask the same question, right?"
    More silence.
    Shaking his head and sighing to himself, Lightstone slid the Model 1076 Smith & Wesson back into his concealed jacket pocket holster, then reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a quarter. "Now, about those directions . . ."
    "Say what?" the black man growled, his forehead furrowed in confusion.
    Lightstone tossed the coin to the taller of the two