"Pass out the complimentary booze," Max smiled. He was almost an old-timer on the island. "Keep them pacified." Despite the lobby's warmth, he kept his coat closed. He was shivering. He wore a sports coat, slacks, a pinstripe shirt with a tie, shined shoes: Max was a traveling salesman accustomed to dressing quickly.

"Not that easy," the clerk told him. The balding man leaned across his desk, spoke quietly. "I got some people here — the reservation came on a fancy corporate letterhead, they pay with corporate checks, but they've got two Secret Service agents with them. I can tell. These big guys in gray suits, nasty metal things with handles on them right here..." the clerk reached for his left armpit, "...you get the picture. They ask me what's going on, I can't tell them. They look at me like I'm dog shit on their shoe."

"Do you really think they're Secret Service?" Max had studied all the guests in the lobby. He saw one wide-shouldered young man with a briefcase in his hands, stationed in front of the door leading to the hotel's party lounge, who looked like he was on a military field, standing at parade rest.

The clerk pointed at his lapel. "They got these little buttons — and anyway, the sheriff told me. There's two of them with these six professor types. Why did all this have to happen this weekend?"

Max stared hard at the young Secret Service agent, then he turned and without a word limped quickly out of the hotel. As he did so, there was the nearby sound of automatic weapon fire.

"Mayday, Mayday!" the officer chanted into the shortwave radio's microphone. "This is Deputy Sheriff Fletcher of the Avalon Sheriff's Office on Santa Catalina Island. We are under attack by an armed motorcycle gang. We are under attack by an armed motorcycle gang. They have automatic weapons. They have killed several residents. They are taking hostages.

"Mayday, Mayday. Please, anyone hearing this call, notify the mainland. We are under attack..."