The Queen had provided that lead-pipe cinch. Reading Mike's mind, she'd told Malone that he planned to raid the sporting-goods store with the rest of the Spooks that night. Lucky again, Malone thought; he might have had to wait two or three days before the Spooks set up a robbery.
But, of course, he might just be riding for some kind of horrible, unforeseen fall.
The main part of the sporting-goods store was fairly well lit, even at night, though it was by no means brightly illuminated. There were show-window lights on, and the street lamp from outside cast a nice glow. But the back room was dark, and the four men there were well concealed. A curtain closed the room off, and Malone watched the front of the store through a narrow opening in it. He stared through it until his eyes ached, afraid to blink in case he missed the appearance of the Spooks. Everything had to go off just right, precisely on schedule.
And it was going to happen any minute, he told himself nervously. In just a few minutes, everything would be over.
Malone held his breath.
Then he saw the figure walk slowly by the glass front of the shop, looking in with elaborate casualness. He was casing the joint, making sure there were none left in it.
Mike Fueyo.
Malone tried to breathe, and couldn't.
Seconds ticked by.
And then—almost magically—they appeared. Eight of them, almost simultaneously, in the center of the room.