EEEEeeee! EEEEeeee! EEEEeeee!

O'Toole was in the hardware-store window, grabbing something from where it hung on the wall. What the hell was that, a rope?

A rope. A heavy, yellow nylon rope.

Kevin Shea heard the yelling, the screech of the alarm outside. What was happening out there? Whatever it was, the mass of men from the bar continued to stream outside, as though a plug had been pulled.

Shea, moving toward the door to leave, got caught in it. Men behind him pushing to be part of it, forcing him along, screaming. 'Keep moving, move it along, everybody, now, move it.'

Then, from the street, out of Shea's vision, chilling him. 'Hold him down! Don't let him go!'

Arthur Wade was strong and agile. He worked out whenever he could, at least three times a week, at the Nautilus place they had installed upstairs at Rand & Jackman. His percentage of body fat was a lean fourteen, and he still weighed the same one-ninety-one he had maintained at Northwestern, where he had played varsity third base his last two years.

But this thing had developed too quickly, taking him completely by surprise. Something hit him – hard – in the head behind his ear, knocking him sideways, against the pickup he'd parked next to, slamming the other side of his head.

'Hey…!'

A body slammed into him. Another. Fists into his sides.

What was going on? But there wasn't any time for figuring. He elbowed one man, then another, with his arms free swung at a third.

But they just kept coming, ten of them, twenty. More.

One of the men he'd elbowed came back, hitting low, jamming his genitals and he half-crumbled. There was no winning this one. He turned, kneeing up, connecting with a jaw. He kicked at the man, broke for the street.

But they'd come around parking spaces, spilling over from the sidewalk. Cars honking now in the street but pulling around the crowd, no one stopping. He straight-armed the first guy he ran into, but the guy was big and didn't go down. Somebody caught the back of his collar and pulled back at him, choking him.