Chapter 13. A copy of the Chronicle snapped to the tabletop with a sharp crack. A large angry face quickly leaned over it aggressively, barking across the long mahogany table. The large type headlines screamed the news. Bombing terror. Three killed in mysterious gangland attack. Is this your idea of a smooth operation?

He snarled.

The tall, raven-haired woman across the table

arched her eyebrow and said,

nothing.

Her fingers curled into tight balls of quiet rage.

Professor's zombie was unaccustomed to insolence.

The cheerful, round-faced man beside her was, however. Indeed,

he was an expert practitioner. Kid Chaos leaned back in his chair and plunked his boots up on the

rich wood of the table. Smooth operation. Dear heart, it's a rousing success. His grin was broad, but there was something in his eyes that dared Malcolm to speak to him as a subordinate again.

Success! You blew that grocery store halfway to hell, Malcolm growled. And how much resistance do you think our protection clients will put up now, Kid Chaos Beamed.

We're the only game in town, Pookie.

In every neighborhood in the city, little-honous shopkeepers will have a pretty good idea of just exactly what will happen to them if they don't grin and pay up.

It won't be a beating or a few broken bones.

We'll take the little piece of heaven they've worked and slave to build and blow it to a million

little pieces.

The little man giggled excitedly until it seemed that he might burst with his own delight.

Malcolm cursed under his breath, but the publicity, not publicity, Mr. Malcolm, advertising.

The little man sprang up on the table and struck a heroic pose. Free action! Not publicity, Mr. Malcolm. Advertising.

The little man sprang up on the table and struck a heroic pose.

Free advertising at that.

Every headline in town is spreading the good news.

...