The samurai materialized in the the doorway, silhouetted briefly before slipping inside. Once safe in the darkness, he spoke. “The veetole’s on its way out to sea.”

“Think it was on the ground too long?” Sally asked.

“We’ll know soon enough if it was,” he replied.

In the silence that followed, Sam could hear the Ork changing magazines for his HK227. The other two followed his example, then silence fell again.

It was less than a minute before the Ork complained, “We can’t just haul dis lot down de street.”

“Cog is sending a car.”

“We’re supposed to wait around? Frag it! If de badges or de Raku samurai are on our tail, we’re meat sitting here.”

"We can’t move our guests safely without a car," Sally insisted.

“So who needs dem? We’re back on our own turf. De’re dead weight now.” The Ork’s slight emphasis on “dead” made it clear what he considered the proper way of disposing of the Renraku prisoners.

“I think you underestimate their value.”

“We did de job we was paid for. And we got de disks dat Ghost grabbed. Dat’s plenty. You’re looking for too many extra creds.”

“I have expenses to meet.”

“I ain’t paying your expenses with my life.”

“You want to buzz now? Give me your credstick and I’ll give you your cut,” Sally said, holding out her hand. “Of course, you’ll only get the standard one on ten for leaving before the goods are fenced.”

Sam could feel the tension mount as the magician and the Ork stared into one another’s eyes. Finally, the Ork looked away. He shrugged, mumbling, “Job’s a job.”

“Sally smiled. “Don’t worry, Kham. This one’s going to finish just fine.”

The Ork snapped her a sullen look as if he had heard it all before, then he vanished, grumbling, into the dark interior of the building.

While they waited, Sam looked after Jiro’s wound as best he could, ripping up a piece of his own shirt for a bandage. The salaryman seemed dazed by the loss of his wife and still said not a word as Sam worked over him. Having done what he could, Sam sat down cross-legged on the filthy floor, his thoughts as dark as the room.

Ghost appeared in the doorway again, startling Sam, who had not seen the Amerindian leave.

“Car’s here.”

Sally gestured to the door with her shotgun. “Let’s go.”

The car was a stretched Toyota Elite, its opacity-controlled polymer windows set to dark. The driver’s window was down and a broad-faced Korean kid grinned a, gap-toothed invitation. He flipped a switch and the rear door yawned wide.

The Renraku employees climbed in, taking the plush synthleather and velvet seat while Sally and the Ork settled into jumpseats facing their prisoners. Ghost Maker slipped into the front seat on the passenger side.

As soon as the doors closed, the driver babbled something in a street dialect from which Sam only made out the name Cog. Sally nodded and switched on the audio deck. The voice that came out was rich and deep.

“Your friend’s call caught me just in time, Ms. Tsung. I’ve been unavoidably called out of town, but I am most happy to provide this small service before I leave. The driver is one of my regulars. You may rely on his discretion.”

There was no more to the message, but Sally seemed satisfied with its content. At least the noises she made to the driver sounded agreeable.

The privacy panel slid up from the seat, cutting off Sam’s view of the street ahead and the driver’s rearview screen. The blackened windows wrapped them away from the world and held them in silence as the vehicle proceeded on its twisty path through the Barrens. Only once did something from outside impinge on them as a heavy thump struck the right rear quarter panel. Their captors remained unperturbed.

Perhaps an hour later, the car slowed and the privacy panel dropped, revealing a litter-strewn alley lit fitfully by the intermittent violet flashes of a neon sign just out of sight on the cross-street ahead.

The doors opened on both sides, but the car did not stop.

“Out,” Sally ordered.

Were they being released? Sam could hardly believe it. Crenshaw was up and out the door while Sam was still struggling to extract himself from the embrace of the soft cushions. The Ork’s foot helped him on his way, sending him sprawling headfirst into a noisome pile of trash. Sam emerged in time to see Sally leap gracefully from the car and five shadowy figures scramble into the vehicle. The doors snapped shut just before the Toyota cleared the alley mouth. It turned left, away from the neon sign, and was gone.

So, their captors were not releasing them, after all. In fact, their numbers had grown. At least a dozen youths, male and female, were in the alley with them. In the flickering light, he could see that many wore fringed and beaded garments, and all wore feathers in their headbands. The smallest of the bunch sauntered up to the tall shape of the street samurai. A flash of neon threw his features into silhouette, revealing a profile as hawklike as that of the man he addressed.

“Hoi, Ghost Who Walks Inside. Welcome home.”

He knew he ought to be hungry, but he couldn’t feel it. The sight of the bowl of krill wafers and soycakes their captors had left the night before only turned his stomach. The water bag, however, was flattened and limp, almost empty. Water he must have, even this tepid, foul-tasting stuff.

The day had passed in a sweaty haze. Their captors had left them in a room with a single door and windows sealed with opaque rigiplastic sheets. A little light crept through where one of the panels had lost a corner. Sam’s attempts to peep though were rewarded with a limited view of graffiti-covered bricks. He recognized the general pattern of the taunts and protection slogans, but found the gang’s symbols unrecognizable. It was still enough to confirm his suspicions that this turf belonged to a gang of Amerindians.

Jiro moaned, awake again. The salaryman had been drifting in and out of fitful sleep for hours now. “What is happening?” he murmured groggily. “I do not understand.”

Crenshaw harumphed her annoyance. “Quit your whining. It gets on my nerves.”

The woman’s utter lack of feeling was getting on Sam’s nerves. “I suppose you don’t object to what’s happened.”

“I’ve been in worse situations.”

“How could it be worse?” Jiro moaned. “Betty is dead.”

“You could be dead,” Crenshaw retorted.

“Perhaps that would be better.”