This is exactly the kind of place where you could buy a cheap antique of a computer, he suddenly thought. Except they’d probably try to hold you up for too high a price.
They thudded their way across the cracked concrete parking lot until Willy brought them to a halt next to a beat-up sedan.
It was hard to tell what color the car had been originally. One door was bluish-gray, and a fender was green. The rest seemed to be beige, except for the leprous gray spots of body putty.
“Everybody out,” Willy ordered.
Willy hopped from behind the wheel and got a firm hold on Caitlin’s arm. In his other hand he had a Bowie knife, which he quickly showed to Matt, then lowered the weapon to the side of his leg where it wasn’t so obvious to the people passing by on the street. “Just so you don’t try anything stupid-like,” the boy said in his back-country drawl.
Ng held his gun down against his leg, but Matt knew he could have it up and shooting in a moment. Part of him was amazed that these guys were so cool about showing weapons so openly. But then again, they weren’t doing anything to catch anyone’s attention. They were just transferring themselves from a late-model car to a beat-up old rattletrap.
The seating arrangements were just the same. Matt was in the back, sandwiched between Ng and Mustafa, sitting on his hands. He wondered if they were going to fall asleep there under his butt.
Willy sat behind the wheel, his knife having disappeared as miraculously as it had leapt into his hand. Caitlin had the passenger’s seat, right in front of Ng’s gun.
People still called that the death seat, Matt suddenly remembered. He tried to push the thought out of his head.
Willy started the engine, and the clunker lurched forward ahead of a cloud of bluish smoke. “You be careful with that gun, you hear?” he ordered Ng. “I don’t want you makin’ no useless holes in this here seat. When we finish, this car’s gonna be mine.”
Matt twisted to look out the filthy rear windshield at Cat’s sports car. It looked as out of place as a butterfly in an ant farm.
“Left the keys on the front seat,” Willy said. “Somebody’ll be moving it along any minute now.”
They headed back to the Beltway and began retracing their path — probably to throw off anyone who might have been tracing Caitlin’s car, Matt realized.
Their counterclockwise journey took them across the Potomac River above the Northwest section of D.C., halfway around the city, then across the much wider expanse of the river south of the city on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge.
They left the Beltway on the first exit past the bridge, entering Southwest Washington. This was still a decayed neighborhood. Willy pulled into a no-name gas station and drove right into the mechanic’s bay. A man was running a rag over a delivery van. When he saw the newcomers, he just walked away.
“Change your partners, once again,” Willy said. “You’ll get to sit in the back with your pal,” he told Caitlin. “And with my pals, too,” he added.
The back of the van was a little roomier, Matt had to admit. He and Caitlin sat side by side. Ng and Mustafa sat across from them. The Asian boy still covered them with Willy’s pistol.
Matt’s main complaint was that he couldn’t see where they were going. The rear of the van was completely enclosed. They were in a dark box, heading who knew where. Judging by the speed they were traveling, Matt figured that Willy was back on a parkway.
But then they got off, went through several turns, and came to a stop. Willy opened the rear door. Matt noticed he had his knife in his hand again. “We’re here,” the blond boy announced. “Shake a leg, you two.”
Willy pulled Caitlin out, keeping his grip on her wrist. Then it was Matt’s turn. He was very conscious of Ng with the gun behind him. Matt tried to take in his surroundings, but all he got was a quick glimpse of red brick before Willy gave him a not-too-gentle smack in the head with the hilt of his knife.
“You ain’t here to play tourist. Just watch where you’re walkin’. Let’s go.”
They were hustled to a scarred wooden door, which swung open just as they reached it. Inside was a reception committee — another trio of tough-looking street kids, each carrying a military rifle.
Matt paused in the doorway, his nose wrinkling at the mixed smells of sweat, beer, mildew, and rotting wood. Mustafa shoved him through.
“Went like a piece of cake,” Willy said. “We picked her up with no problem, and this one was with her.” He nodded at Matt. “Lucky thing Rob showed us pictures of all the suckers.”
He made his knife disappear, but kept his grip on Caitlin’s arm. “Come on along,” Willy said. “We got some people want to see you.”
The prisoners were marched into what had probably been a cozy parlor about 120 years ago. Now it was just a ruin. A few strips of wallpaper still dangled on the walls, but they were mainly defaced plaster. A couple of big pieces of furniture that no one had bothered to take with them sat rotting against the walls. They’d been moved to clear a space in the middle of the room, where a pair of tables held maps, papers, and a collection of mis-mated, old-fashioned computers.
Two figures stood in the improvised command center — Matt recognized the setup immediately. Then he realized that one of the gang members looked familiar.
Rob Falk was a little taller than the mental image Matt had kept of him. His skinny frame had put on some muscle. His chest was thicker, and Matt could see the sinews in his bare arms exposed by his sleeveless gang shirt.
“A little different from the gawky wimp at Bradford, huh?” Falk gave Matt and Caitlin a sort of sneering smile. “That’s what happens when you get stuck on the wrong side of the Beltway. For a while there, it was touch and go. Then I met James—”
“No last names,” growled the big black guy standing next to Rob. He was built like a wrestler, with arms as big as most people’s legs, a shaved head, and grim, almost glaring, black eyes.
“James is the warlord of the Buzzards, one of the many…ah, voluntary organizations available for suburban youth.” Rob’s lips quirked. “Yeah, I know, the new technological opportunities combined with urban renewal were supposed to mean the end of the old street gangs. It didn’t happen. When the people who got displaced from their old neighborhoods arrived in the suburbs, they found a stew just simmering. All kinds of immigrants, legal and illegal. Salvadorans, Mexicanos, Cubans, Nigerians, Jordanians, Pakistanis, refugees from the Balkans. Plus, there were people just coming to the big city. You met Willy? His parents grew up in a coal-mining town in Appalachia — until the coal ran out. Lots of folks have come to this country — this city — in search of a better life.”
He laughed. “I sound like a damn politician, don’t I?” Then the laughter left his voice. “Instead, they were stuck out along the Beltway. None of these folks have found a place in your brave new world…but they did find a place in the Buzzards — a fine gang with a tradition that goes back a good seventy-five years, now.”
“And the Buzzards found you,” Matt added.
Rob gave him the same look that Mr. Fairlie used for a good answer. “Very good!”
He nodded to the big guy beside him. “James saw that I understood the new technology and could use it. We had a rough time at first, scraping the necessary hardware together. Finally, we ended up heisting a couple of these so-called appliance stores.”
“Got a couple of good holo-sets out of the deal, too,” Willy said.
“It’s mostly junk, of course, especially compared to the systems you’re used to,” Rob went on. “But I managed. Compiled some pretty good programs, didn’t I?” His smile became shark-like. “Good enough to sucker in the great Cat Corrigan and her friends from many lands.”
He shook his head at Matt, making a “naughty-naughty” gesture with his finger. “I can’t figure out how you got involved in all this, Hunter. From what I remember, you always seemed a pretty levelheaded, safe and sane, boring guy. But then”—Rob looked over at Caitlin—“I guess you wouldn’t be the first to be led astray by a pretty face.”