Gang members ordered the tourists from the hotel lobbies, then searched the rooms. Those who attempted to hide, or who struggled when they were dragged out, suffered a kick in the groin and a smash over the head from a gun butt.

Max limped beside his wife and teenage daughter. He watched for a chance to break free. He had lived on the island for the fifteen years since his discharge from the army. He knew every shop, every doorway, every alley. He pulled his wife Carol and his daughter Julia close to him and said:

"We're going to slip away from here. Move over toward the shops as we walk..."

"You can't outrun them," his wife told him. "You try and..."

"I know I can't run. That little alley beside Jim Peterson's restaurant? The lock on the gate is broken... You push on it, it opens. We're going to duck into that alley, close the gate behind us. We'll hide back there."

"You have your gun?" Carol asked him.

Max pressed his coat. There was the outline of an auto-pistol. "You ready?" he asked. Carol nodded. "And you, Julia?"

His daughter clutched his arm and nodded. They pushed through the mob of terror-stricken friends and neighbors. The restaurant was three doors ahead of them..

"One more thing," Max told them. "Nobody comes with us. Now move fast."

They passed the restaurant. Max took a last look around, then shoved his wife and daughter ahead of him, knocking the iron grill open with the force of their bodies. In an instant he kicked the gate closed behind them. Then he pushed them into the shadows.

A bare bulb lit the narrow alley. Max found a bottle and gently smacked the bulb.

The alley went dark. He slipped the Colt Hard-baller from his belt. "Let's go," he whispered.

He led them down the alley. Behind them passed a line of men on motorcycles, screaming and howling and laughing, like something from a nightmare.