The little handheld CB radio Mindy was holding suddenly chirped. She smiled and pressed the "talk" button.

"Yes, runner," she said. "How's it look?"

"61426, looks like it's empty in back," a male voice came back. "Two up front. That's it. Ninety percent sure."

"I'd like a hundred better," Stephanie grumbled.

"We're not going to get that," Peter Conklin, one of the gladiators, said. Peter was a large man, very muscular, with a shock of unruly black hair and intense dark eyes. "But Doug's good, and I think we can count on him to be conservative. If he says ninety, I think we can be pretty sure."

"Hope you're right." Stephanie paused to look over her allies. Mindy and her sister Fran, Peter, and six other gladiators, equally divided by gender. All wore black, but they'd run out of anything resembling black pants before everyone had been outfitted. As a result, Mindy and Fran were wearing legless leotards, and both had painted their bare legs black. On their thighs they all wore the daggers which were standard in the arena, and all but one had sheathed swords hanging from their belts.

That one--Peter Conklin--was wearing a holster containing a .357 magnum, at the moment their only firearm.

Stephanie's outfit--which had been liberated from her abandoned apartment by two of the gladiators--was all-black as well, but utterly different from the leotards, sweatshirts, and sweatpants the others were wearing. Her pants were leather, as was her zipped-up jacket, and she was also wearing leather boots--with spike heels. She looked like something out of some B-grade "Nazi Girl" movie.

"Okay," Mindy said. "Let's roll, we've got about five before he gets here and we need to be in position." Staying in the shadows, the seven women and four men moved out of the alleyway they'd been hiding in and up to the street; at a run, half of them crossed to the other side. They'd chosen this area carefully, there were parked cars and trucks along both sides of the somewhat narrow roadway. All took positions among them, hiding themselves carefully.

Except for Stephanie. Her high heels clicking sharply on the pavement, she walked out to the middle of the road. Standing facing the center of the city, she fluffed her hair carefully and pulled the zipper on her jacket three-quarters of the way down; she wasn't wearing anything underneath it, and she trusted that that would be obvious when headlights were shining on her. Resisting an irrational urge to check her makeup--she did not have time for that--she stood and waited.

Headlights appeared at the rise of a small hill ahead of her; then the truck, army drab, made its appearance, rolling slowly down the street. On the front were the numbers "61426," painted in white. Immediately Stephanie went into her act, waving her arms frantically and yelling for them to stop. For a moment it looked like the driver did not plan to, it really appeared as if he were prepared to run her down. But, just as she was getting ready to jump out of the way, the truck's brakes squealed and the truck slowed to a stop. The passenger side door opened and a man dressed in Army fatigues jumped out.

"Lady, get the hell out of the road!" he shouted. "You tryin' to get yourself killed?"

"I need help," Stephanie protested, moving toward him. "There are some men--they've been chasing me, and--and, I don't know what they plan to do!"

"We ain't," the man snarled, "in the business of helpin' civilians, not right now."

"Oh, please," she cried, spreading her arms so her jacket bulged open even more and moving closer, making sure her heels clicked loudly. "Can't you just give me a ride for a few blocks so I can get away from them? Can't you do that much, at least?"

The man hesitated. "Damn it, lady," he started to say. But his eyes kept moving between her face and her chest, and, she hoped, the driver was doing the same thing.

Proof that she was right came just a moment later, when there was the sound of a scuffle in the truck's cab.

The man in the street reacted quickly, turning back toward the cab and reaching for the gun at his side. Stephanie, her mission as a distraction over, lunged at him, grabbing at his arm. She managed to get hold of his wrist, and she was able to delay him for a moment before he shook her off and drew the gun on out.

That was all he had time for. Mindy and Peter, who'd been coming up from behind him, were on him. Peter grabbed his arm and pushed the gun upward, but the soldier was a strong man and Peter probably wasn't going to be able to hold him long.

Mindy, however, came up behind him and gently laid the edge of her sword against the side of his neck, the blade extended far enough that he could see it. "If you don't stop," she hissed, "you lose your head. Gladiator's guarantee." Wide-eyed, the man stopped struggling. Peter took his gun from him.

"What about the other one?" Stephanie asked.

"Under control," Fran called from the cab.

"Cool, let's do it," Mindy barked. She, Peter, and Stephanie guided the first soldier, at the point of Mindy's sword, into the empty back of the canvas-topped troop carrier. While they were doing that, Fran and the others hauled the driver, still alive and unhurt, into the back as well.

"Okay, boys," Stephanie said with a smile. "Time to get naked!" Less than five minutes later the truck was underway again. Two of the male gladiators, dressed in the mens' fatigues, were up front; the remainder, along with the two soldiers, bound and gagged and left in their underwear, were in the back.

"Do you have any idea," Mindy asked, "why Melanie wants this done?"

Stephanie shook her head. "All I know at the moment is that she wants us to scout out the route from DC to Annapolis. Harry was very specific, we're not to engage anyone or do anything, just gather information. They want to know what kind of defenses are out here, where they are, and how heavy they are."

"They plan to come in that way, then," Mindy said. "Not up I-95 like everyone is expecting."

"I guess. But it's only a little detour. Anyway, I don't know the overall plan. For all I know we'll be asked to check the road going up to Rockville next. They may be trying to figure out which way in is the best way."

"I just hope," Fran noted, "that this truck isn't expected to be somewhere at a certain time. If it is, they'll come looking for it when it doesn't show up."

"I hope not too," Mindy agreed. "But if they do, they'll send a couple of M.P.s, not a platoon of armed soldiers. We have three guns now, and the element of surprise; we should be able to take them easily. I hope not because I hope we can run this whole thing without killing anyone."

"I hope so too," Fran said. "But, I guess, this is war, if we have to we have to..."

Mindy threw her a sharp glance. "You," she said, "don't have a gun. If we get into a shootout with some fucking M.P.s--or anybody else--you just stay down until it's over. Okay?"

"I want to do my part," Fran said stiffly.

"I know, honey. But I told you, I've got a feeling, okay? I got a feeling about tonight I just don't like."

Stephanie looked from one to the other. Before they left, Mindy had really pushed hard to prevent Fran from being a part of the team, citing one of her well-known "feelings." But, as Fran was one of the quickest and most agile fighters in their ranks, she was going to be an asset; the younger girl knew it and insisted, and at last Mindy had given in. Stephanie just hoped that this time, Mindy's "feeling" didn't reflect reality. And they had, already, come through one of most dangerous parts of the mission unscathed--as verified by the two tied and bound soldiers.

The truck rolled on through the empty streets. A dozen times they encountered roadblocks set by the police or by other soldiers, but in all cases they were waved on through. In the back, Stephanie and the gladiators had used their knives to cut small holes in the canvas cover so they could look out and help the men up front assess the defenses.

Other than the roadblocks set at major intersections--which were staffed by no more than six men each, mostly police officers, armed only with handguns and shotguns--they did not encounter any defenses until they reached I-95/495, the Capitol Beltway. Here there were a couple of National Guard tanks, a helicopter, and a small suburb of tents, suggesting the presence of about fifty to seventy-five soldiers. Stephanie made notes in a small day-planner she'd brought for that purpose; she also noted that quite a few military vehicles could be seen on the Beltway, most of them moving South toward Alexandria. Passing the Beltway, they rolled on toward Bowie, and, out here--once they'd passed a few intersections--traffic became much more normal. It was, Stephanie noted, being stopped and turned around at the Beltway, creating a huge logjam of cars and trucks backed up in the other lane.

At Bowie there was practically nothing, just an outpost at the intersection south of the city, a single truck with a tall radio antenna and a few soldiers--clearly, an early-warning station. They drove on, encountering nothing and seeing nothing--until they approached Annapolis itself. Here, near a community called "Greenwood Acres," they encountered another roadblock--this one manned by people in Navy uniforms. Many of them looked very young, as if they might be cadets from the Naval Academy.

And here, their truck was selectively stopped.

A man in Navy dress came up to the side of the truck. "What's your business here, soldier?" he snapped.

The driver--Bill Conley--knew his part, a part they'd worked out carefully. "We were ordered to go to a town called 'Oyster Harbor,' sir," he said politely.

The Navy officer glared. "Oyster Harbor? And what were you supposed to do there?"

"I don't know, sir. Our orders say we should go to the docks there and await further orders."

"No one told you this road was closed?" Stephanie, listening from the back, frowned. The road did not appear closed; cars and trucks were going by in both directions, unimpeded by the Navy men.

"No, sir."

"Well, it is closed, soldier. You'll have to turn around and go back."

"But sir..."

The Navy man took a step back--and as he did, Stephanie, with a chill, saw others aiming rifles at the truck. "I said now, soldier! Turn this truck around and get it out of here! You have two minutes!"

Bill wasted no time trying to consult with the others. He threw the truck into reverse and swung it around. Then it lurched forward again; those in the back were tossed around as he bumped it over the median. Moments later--well under the two minutes they'd been given--they were back on the road and rolling toward Washington again.

"What in the fuck," Mindy breathed, "was that all about? I thought they were going to open fire on us!"

"You don't figure we've been found out, do you?" Fran asked.

"Maybe," Stephanie said thoughtfully, "one of these guys can tell us." She knelt down beside the soldier she'd helped capture and took off his gag. "Well?"

"Bitch," he said sullenly.

"Whatever. Do you know why we were treated like that back there? I'm sure you heard it all."

"Why should I tell you? Traitor!"

"You should tell us," Stephanie said evenly, "because we apparently made a mistake approaching that roadblock. Those men seemed to think we should have known better. Next time they might shoot first and ask questions afterwards, and if that happens you'll be dead too."

The soldier, an expression of uncertainty on his face, glanced at his companion--who nodded. "Well, it can't hurt," he said finally. He looked back up at Stephanie. "The Navy has sealed off Annapolis. They've sent us messages that we are not to expect any help from them in the defense of Washington."

"Did they say why not?"

"They said they're concentrating their attention on keeping Annapolis itself secure."

"So why can't an Army truck drive through there?"

"I don't know. The bulletin we got told us not to try to go there, period." He grinned. "I think you've made a big mistake," he told her. "I think the Navy's gonna report back that this truck tried to go through, headed for Clam Harbor or whatever it was. The guys back in DC are gonna know that's wrong, we all knew we wouldn't be allowed in. You're probably gonna have a nice welcoming committee waiting back in DC."

"Thank you," Stephanie said. She put the gag in place, rose, and turned to Mindy. "Think he's right?"

She shrugged. "He might be." She unfolded a map they'd brought with them. "Let's take a detour at Bowie," she suggested, pointing. "Head south a few miles, then come back in a different way. It might not stop them from spotting the truck if they have the number, but at least we'll avoid any direct roadblock set up to intercept us."

"Sounds good. Let's tell Bill."

The detour presented no problems, and, eventually, they came up behind the jam of traffic which was being turned back at the Beltway. As they sat in the miles-long line, a Jeep with M.P.s in it came up beside them on the shoulder.

"You don't wait in traffic!" one of the M.P.s yelled. "You know better than that! Take the shoulder!" Bill nodded, swung the truck out of traffic, and followed the Jeep up to the checkpoint--where they were waved on through. They all breathed a sigh of relief at that point; evidently the soldier had been wrong.

"Okay," Mindy said as they worked their way back toward the center of the city. She dug into a backpack they'd brought and pulled out two bottles, one of rum and the other, Scotch. Stephanie and Fran ungagged the two soldiers after giving them admonitions that unpleasant things would happen if they started yelling. "Time to party, boys!" Mindy said as she opened the bottles.

"I'm not drinking that," the former driver said sullenly.

Mindy smiled. "Okay, boys, let me spell it out for you here: we would prefer that our descriptions--and our first names, and the stunt we pulled to hijack your truck--not become common knowledge among the troops in Washington. I'm sure you understand that. Now, if we just leave you tied up in the truck here, well, whoever finds you is gonna know something went down. So what we're figuring on doing is letting you get drunk enough to pass out. Then we'll put your uniforms back on you, and we'll leave you and your truck parked in a secluded spot. If nobody finds you before you wake up, well, that's fucking cool for you, you might come out of this no worse than having to explain to somebody where you've been all night. If somebody does find you, well, you decided to party, you got drunk. Either way, the tall tale you might try to tell about a hijacking isn't going to be taken seriously. Get my drift?"

"Yeah," the other soldier said. "And that's why we're not touching that stuff."

Mindy pushed her lower lip out. "Well, that's sad, boys. Because if you don't, you see, then we have to take out next best option." She drew out her sword. "And that's to let them find your dead bodies. Don't doubt me, boys. I'm a gladiator with years in the arena under my belt. I've beheaded close friends of mine out there. Slicing off yours won't bother me a bit."

The two soldiers looked at each other. "Okay," one of them said. "Untie our hands and give us the bottles."

Mindy grinned. "That's more like it. You won't mind, I'm sure, if we take precautions? While your hands are free, I mean?" She shrugged. "Doesn't matter much if you do. Peter?" The other gladiator nodded, drew his own sword, and they took positions behind the two soldiers, the edges of their blades resting against their necks. Fran then began untying their arms--while leaving their legs bound.

"Just drink, boys, and nothing will happen," Mindy assured them. "Try anything, and, well, I suppose I don't really have to spell it out!"