“Well, I got to drop off these four loads. No reason why you and your fellows need sit around while I do. I know a decent place. Not on my route, mind you, but I can drop you off close.”

Grace and the others accepted his offer and got out when he pulled up at a stoplight. “Three blocks thataway—Hillman’s Last Stand. Can’t miss it. Tell ’em to clean up a room for me.”

“Will do,” Grace said, and added to herself, In my nightmares.

Three blocks down, Hillman’s Last Stand took up a block. Grace didn’t much care for the looks of the couples entering. “I suspect they rent by the hour. Maybe the minute,” Jobe said.

“Guys, why don’t we look for someplace else farther down the road. Anyone opposed to the walk?” Neither was.

The Hilltop Refuge at least looked better. Cleaner, too, on the outside. Grace and her crew were the only ones checking in at the moment, but no pimps or streetwalkers appeared to be in evidence.

“We want two rooms,” she told the desk clerk.

“Good, ’cause we don’t rents singles to threesomes. We ain’t that kind of place, if youse knows what I mean. Youse do wants the single, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Grace agreed. “Does it have a bath or a shower?”

“Shower. The water’s metered. Pays for it by the liter.”

Grace sighed. She started to produce Wilson’s smart card, then reconsidered and found a free diamond rolling in her pocket. “Can I pay for the room with this?”

“No way.” The clerk shook his head. “‘Stones or the road,’ the boss tells me. The door’s thataways.”

“No problem,” Grace said, producing the smart card.

The clerk ran it through, then frowned. “Ain’t nobody’s been usin’ that card for a while.”

“An old family heirloom, given to me by a trusted friend.”

The clerk whistled. “Must trust youse a lots,” he said as he passed her the bill to sign. “Two nights minimum stay. You wants to stay longer, we gots weekly rates.”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Grace said, signing.

“Don’t get no rebates,” he warned, handing her two key cards and pointing at the elevator.

An hour later, showered and feeling really clean for the first time since hearing raiders were in Allabad, Grace knocked on the men’s door. Jobe opened it into a room no larger than her own. Brown on brown on brown decor helped to hide the dust, dirt, and rocks the cleaning people had missed. Grace had found dirty underwear in one of her drawers. “Anyone else hungry?”

Jobe stepped right out. Chato followed, the pack on his back. After wandering several blocks and passing up places that looked too greasy, too expensive or both, they settled on a place that promisedDINNER LIKE MOM USED TO MAKE .

“Mom must have been trying to poison Dad,” Jobe muttered as they left an hour later, half their dinners still on their plates, the other half indigestible in their guts. “My first wife is no cook, but even she treats a man’s belly better than that.”

The night was dark, and no moon was visible through the thick haze. They walked under streetlights that gave flickering light or none at all. Halfway back to the hotel, three men stepped from between parked trucks to bar their way. A half-dozen sauntered out of an alley that had appeared empty a moment before. Jobe wordlessly edged Grace back to the brick wall of a building.

Knives, clubs and chains showed in the solid front forming in front of Grace. She reached into a pocket and tapped her ’puter, but got only static where the Net should have been. Jammed. “Should have brought my walking stick,” Chato said, shrugging off the pack and making ready to swing it. Jobe slid off his wide leather belt with its heavy copper buckle. Grace pulled her steel comb from her hip pocket, then inverted it so the sharp handle point was out.

“That’s all you gots? This is gonna be fun.” Someone laughed, then shouted, “Take ’em!”

The attackers came in one rush. Beside Grace, Jobe took a swipe at the closest with his belt, connecting enough to make the guy curse, then slammed him with a leather-clad fist on the return, but danced back to the wall to avoid a swinging chain.

Grace stepped into one oncoming thug and got his attention with her comb. He came up short in a hurry, falling back into the arms of a guy making ready to swing a nail-studded club. The two went down in a ball, but Grace was too busy deflecting a knife blade with her comb to take any advantage.

When she backpedaled to the wall, three guys were down in front of Chato. That heavy pack was doing a job. But now there were ten attackers in front of them. “Do it right this time, you guys, so I won’t need to get no more,” someone ordered.

The knife guy came at Grace, slow, crouching low. The club guy was using his weapon more to poke at Jobe. The one Grace had almost given a new belly button was back, only now he held a trash can lid ahead of him.

Six went for Chato.

He knocked two down, but the third, a big guy, got a hand on the pack and started a tug-of-war. Distracted, the Navajo missed the guy who hit him low, knocking him down. In a flash, two thugs were kicking him.

“Help Chato!” Grace shouted, taking a swipe at the arm of the guy with the trash can lid. He yelped and got in the way of the club guy, but the knife got a good slice of Grace’s right arm.

She switched the comb to her left hand—not as good but not bleeding—and realized there were even more attackers. Two of them held Jobe’s arms while two more slugged him. Four were kicking Chato, while a fifth raised the pack high and made ready to slam it down on the Navajo’s head.

The guy with the knife had a wicked twist to his lips where other people had smiles. “You and me, girlie, are going to have fun,” he said, stepping in with two more right behind him.

Out of the night came a cry. “Spirits of Wind and Fire to me!”

“For Scotland and St. Andrew!” mingled with it.

Suddenly there was only the knife guy in front of Grace. “Huh,” he said, turning around to check on the gang that was no longer there. Grace lunged, putting six inches of steel spike into his gut. She twisted it as he screamed, then pulled back as he dropped his knife to clutch at himself.

She turned to aid Jobe, but he was slamming together the two guys who had failed to notice that things had changed and were still holding tight to his arms. Their heads hit with the sound of ripe melons smashing, and Jobe turned with Grace to help Chato.

The Navajo was still down, but there were four others on the ground with him, one with a chest caved in by the pack. The big fellow holding the pack was doubled over, the fist of a white-haired man deep in his gut. The attacker went down as the pale man chopped expertly at his neck.

A man in a skirt was helping Chato up. No, that was a kilt, complete with sporran. What had they fallen into?

“Thank you, whoever you are,” Grace said, offering her hand, then pulling it back when she realized it was covered with her own blood. “Sorry about that,” she said.

“Only sorry we were not here soon enough to save you such bloodletting,” the man said, hustling them around a corner and out of sight of the carnage. A bright liquor store sign cut the darkness, showing Grace the man’s white eyebrows, white hair and pink eyes—an albino. “I am Benjork Lone Cat, and this is my associate, Danny O’Bannon, at your service.”

“Aye, you kin say that again.” The kilted man laughed around a brogue that would be thick even on Alkalurops.

“I don’t know what would have happened if you had been a few seconds later in arriving,” Jobe said, shouldering his pack.

“We would hae missed out on some good fun,” Danny said.

“We had better look at your arm, ma’am,” Benjork said.

“Grace. Grace O’Malley,” Grace said as she offered her bleeding arm. The man produced a first-aid kit from a pouch in the back of his belt, cleaned her wound, and applied a bandage.