When he flicked on the lights, things happened so fast they barely registered. He found himself looking into a taut-skinned face set on a peculiarly long neck. Before he could react, there was a movement behind him and a stunning blow at the base of his skull. A second blow smashed him heavily between the shoulder blades, driving the breath out of him, and something snapped fiercely around his throat. He fell to his knees, clawing at his neck, dazed and breathless, with dimming vision.

As the darkening room began to swirl about him, the band around his throat suddenly loosened, and he dropped, gasping, to his elbows, letting his forehead sink to the floor.

The long-necked man in front of him grasped his hair and pulled his head up. "All right, Oliver," he said, his voice a deep baritone that didn’t belong with the ferret-like face, "give us trouble and you’re dead, you understand?"

Gideon tried to speak but couldn’t. He nodded his head, his mind a jumble.

"All right, you know what we’re here for. Let’s have it."

Gideon managed to croak a response. "Look, I don’t know what this-" The band which had remained loosely about his neck was tugged viciously from behind. The darkness closed in again. Gideon gasped, swayed backwards, and lost consciousness.

He seemed to be out for only a second, but when he came painfully to his senses, he was lying on his stomach. His jacket had been removed. He groaned and began to turn over.

"Lay there," the baritone said. "Try to move and I kill you now."

While they searched his clothing and probed roughly at surprising parts of his body, he lay on his face trying to gather his thoughts and his strength. What could be going on? Who did they think he was? No, they had called him by name; they knew who he was. It wasn’t money; that was clear. They were looking for something specific. They knew what they were about, and they had the brutal competence of professional killers, at least from what he’d seen at the movies. It had to be a bizarre mistake.