“Rad!” exclaimed Spike, rushing in.

The room consisted of a desk with a computer, a bed, and a chaise lounge identical to the one in the office they had glimpsed. On the wall above the desk was a full cast poster of Eternal Love. Just over the fluffy pillows of the bed hung a life-size cutout of the Argentine footballer Lionel de Borges. On the far side of the room, an open door revealed a bathroom with a small shower. A miniature basketball hoop hung above it. Spike pulled it shut, picked up the plush ball from the desk, and took a shot—nothing but net. He slapped his chest with an open palm, then dove onto the bed, burying his head in the pillows.

Hawk sat at the computer, opened a browser, and started clicking. The screen filled with little boxes of security camera live feeds. He expanded one of the windows to full screen. It showed the ramp and entrance to the Cage with the black sedan parked in front, and half a dozen indistinct figures in trench coats stood around it as if on guard.

“Hunters seki,” said Spike.

Hawk hit a key, and another video opened. The front desk of the Cage, shot from an overhead angle, filled the screen. He pulled the time slider back until it showed the portly hipster opening a bag of chips and kicking his feet up on the desk.

“Fucking Kevin,” said Spike. “Does that guy even work?”

A moment later, a man in a black tracksuit walked in from the outside.

“That’s him. That’s Andreas,” Spike said in earnest, crawling to the end of the bed.

Hawk hit a button on the keyboard, and they had audio.

“I am looking for two boys. One of them is Asian, and the other one is African American.” The man spoke English with a fulsome, sophisticated accent.

“Not our line of work, bruh,” said Kevin the hipster.

“I appreciate that. I have it on good authority that they were here only moments ago.”

Kevin chuckled and popped a potato chip into his mouth. Chomp crunch.

“Can’t you see that I’m busy?” he said. He crunched down on a handful.

“How much to make it worth your while?” asked the man. He had folded his arms across his chest.

“Five million dollars.” Chomp, chomp, crunch, crunch.

“Fucking Kevin. Respect!” exclaimed Spike. He kissed two of his fingers and blew it at the screen.

“Hey man, there’re six million kids in the BAT. I don’t keep track of any of them. This is supposed to be a place where they don’t have to worry about the creepy shit that goes down out there. Dumabikya! Get lost! I’m on break.” Chomp chomp.

“Perhaps I did not make the gravity of the situation clear. This is a matter of life and death,” said Andreas.

“Fuck, dude. I make it my business not to see shit.”

“Can I look around?” said Andreas.

“Sure. A hundred bucks.”

Andreas slapped money on the desk and went into the Cage.

Hawk clicked the mouse, switching the feed.

Andreas walked without hurry around the ramps to the back where Nash had met the boys. At one point, he took a knee, touched the ground, brought his fingers to his nose, and lifted his head as if sniffing the air. He stood and climbed to the second level.

Hawk switched cameras again.

He leaned on the railing next to the bent-in-half metal table. In the background was the empty theater, the man in the chef’s shirt and pompadour haircut was spinning pizza dough into the air.

Hawk zoomed in on Andreas’s lean face. He wore a neatly groomed goatee and shiny black hair pulled back into a tight bun.

“It’s not the same guy who was talking to you,” said Nash.

“No, this is their leader,” said Spike, his eyes transfixed on the screen.

“The other two are his recruiters,” Hawk added. “They give you a choice: join up, or die. This guy is Spike’s tracker. He gets in his dreams.”

“Son of a bitch,” whispered Nash. He thought of the scars that marked the bodies of Francis and Ty. He now understood what Bridger tried to tell him on their midnight run out of the Mission Valley.

The monitor showed Andreas returning to the front desk where Kevin the hipster still munched on potato chips.

“Last chance,” said Andreas.

“You’re still fucking here?”

“I’m looking for two boys. One of them is Asian, and the other one African American. They were here a few minutes ago.”

“Oh yeah, them. You want their addresses?” said Kevin. “I have them right here.” He made like he was reaching into his pocket, coming back with a fat middle finger. “Get lost, asshole.”

In a fluid motion, faster than the eye could track, the hunter whipped out a pistol with a long silencer on the barrel. Pfzzt pfzzt, pfzzt pfzzt pfzzt.

Kevin, in the middle of shoving chips into his face, flew back into his chair, hitting shelves behind him, and sending skateboards crashing down on top of him as he fell to the floor.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“No!” cried Spike.

Hawk’s hands reached out to the monitor.

Andreas looked at his handiwork. “Thanks for the help, bruh,” he mocked and walked out of the Cage.

Spike climbed into Hawk’s lap, and the teen encircled him with his arms. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re okay. He can’t track you.”

“Kevin,” said Spike.

“I know,” said Hawk.

Nash took out his Little Joe special and called Bridger. “It’s me. Remember I told you the back door?”

“Yeah,” said Bridger.

“Wait about ten minutes, then use it. Meet us at the van. Get in and wait. We’re coming.”

“Okay—Umm, we?”

But Nash had already ended the call.

“Don’t let him get me,” Spike said.

“I won’t,” said Hawk, who kissed his forehead. “I promise.”

“I have a van. Let’s go. It’s near the Minnesota Avenue entrance.”

Back in the hall, Hawk called to the bouncer, “Diesel, we need an exit.” Diesel drew a velvet ribbon across the hallway and escorted them through a hidden door behind the podium. A long, dark corridor stretched away.

“Follow that. Turn right at the end,” said Diesel. “The gates are unlocked.”

“Thanks, man,” said Hawk.

“Will I see you again?” asked Diesel.

“I don’t know,” Hawk said. “Shit’s fucked up.”

Diesel ran his fingers through Hawk’s hair, his hand lingering on his chin. Their eyes sharing an unwritten history. “You be careful out there, Hawk.”

The hallway stretched on for fifty yards, getting colder and colder. At the T-end, they turned right into the open-air cage of the skywalk that interlinked the upper city of the BAT. The gray day had dimmed to a cerulean evening, and the flashing lights and holographic advertisements were blinking into existence.

They passed through a gate, and when it shut, it locked behind them with an electric buzz and click. They climbed the stairs to a rooftop full of food carts and cooks preparing their evening meals. They crossed a bridge to another building where huge vents, like open mouths, belched plumes of steam.

Spike took it like a parkour trail for the exhibition of his athletic prowess, while Nash tried not to break an ankle.

At the edge of the building, a group of men smoked and drank tea from little paper cups. Even in their hurry, they stopped to honor the vista. The last finger of the setting sun broke the carpet of clouds and skyscrapers. Its orange beam hit the icicles on a scaffold, turning them into crystal fire. The faces of Hawk and Spike were lit by this fire also. Their young and curious eyes surveyed a savage and fallen world. A world that was out to get them.

----------------------------------------

They emerged from the stairs at street level a block from where Bridger waited in Ol’ Betsy, the heater running.

“What took you so long?” said Bridger as they piled in.

“Made some friends,” said Nash. “Bridger, meet Hawk and Spike.”

The boys sat in the back of the van, taking in the handiwork. Spike held on to Hawk.

“What happened?” asked Bridger.

“Crazy shit,” said Nash. “What… you’re smiling?”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You look different. You’re smiling,” observed Nash.

“I said I ain’t smiling.” He stared forward, but a smile crept back into his features. “All I got to say is I love that coffee shop.”

Nash negotiated a turnabout between a noodle cart and a Mercedes. He crossed Minnesota Avenue, taking them out of Asiatown into the low brick buildings of that city on the Rocky Mountain front.

“West End,” said Hawk.

Nash kept an eye on the rearview but saw no sign of ominous black cars. He took a right and headed east. He’d cut through the Heights, up and around on Airport Road, giving him plenty of time to detect a follower. In the back, the boys spoke quietly.

“Don’t tell Nine,” said Spike.

“Dude, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I chanted. The Hunters heard it. Andreas heard it. He’s here now… and Kevin is dead.”

“It will be okay. We’re close to finding the Maji. Goofy Foot here has already heard him. He’s real. It all happens tomorrow.”

The boy drew his young friend near as Ol’ Betsy zoomed through the streets.

They traversed the ritzy neighborhoods of the Heights, and then they were on the Airport Road, looking down on the city, sparkling and alive in the night. The massive structures of the BAT rose up like a bazaar monolith from a science fiction movie.

Far on the West End of Billings, Spike guided him to a cul-de-sac of expensive homes, except for one, which had been boarded over. Notices stuck into the lawn on stakes. A muscular boy in a tight muscle shirt stood in the cold in front of an open garage, his arms crossed, watching Nash pull up.

“Shit,” whispered Spike, “he looks pissed.”

“You did not come back in a strange fucking car after dark with my little brother!” the boy shouted.

“S’okay, Nine. We just got a ride. They cool,” said Spike.

“The fuck, Hawk?”

“Good evening to you too,” said Hawk.

“Three hours late, I don’t know where the fuck he is. Mom is flipping biscuits.”

Nash got out. “Hey, man, it’s all good. I was just giving them a ride home.”

When the older brother’s eyes fell on Bridger, he took a step back.

“I know, right?” said Spike. “He looks like Dad.”

Nine glared at Hawk. “Thing is, when you say ‘ride,’ I gotta wonder what the fuck you mean, nigga.”

“Fuck off, Nine,” Spike spit back, but before the boy could finish, his brother reached out and slapped. The sound of it echoed off the houses.

Spike grabbed his face and stared at his brother. “I hate you!” he shouted and ran into the house.

“Shit, Nine. What the fuck, man?” said Hawk.

Nine was pulling back to slug Hawk.

“Guys. Guys,” said Bridger, his voice baritone and authoritative.

The bigger boy dropped his hand and slapped his own face hard, twice.

“Nine, come on. Stop that,” said Hawk.

“Look, I got this.” Hawk pulled something from his pocket and tossed it to the youth, who deftly snatched it from the air. “Quarter vile. It’ll help her for a couple days. She can rest. And I got this.” He took the money Nash had given him from his pocket. “There’s almost enough now. We’ll get the spin. She’ll be okay.”

Nine took the money and shuffled it. “Already?”

“Yeah, I guess I’ve been busy.” Hawk turned and started walking down the sidewalk.

“Fuck, nigga, come on!” shouted Nine. “Hey, you know I didn’t mean it. Come on, help me apologize to him. He never fuckin’ listens to me.”

“Start by not hitting him!” Hawk shouted.

“I know, fuck. I’m such a fuck up.”

“Fuck you, Nine.”

“I know. Fuck me, just fuck me. I’m sorry, bro.” He laughed, slapped his friend’s ass, and hoisted him over his shoulders.

Hawk laughed and yelled. “No, Christ!”

“Come on, I guess,” said Nine to Nash and Bridger.

Nash looked at Bridger, who swallowed a lump in his throat and shrugged.

The house was vacant of furniture. A small fire burned in the fireplace, surrounded by blankets and pillows. Spike sat in the midst of them, reading a comic book by the light of the flickering flames.

“Hey, little man, I’m sorry, man.” Nine apologized. Plopping down behind him on the bedding, he encircled Spike in his strong arms.

“You hit me.”

“I know. Fuck me. I’m sorry.”

“Why’d you hit me?”

“Cause I was fucking scared for you.”

“I was with Hawk.”

“I know, man. I know.”

“Hawk knows how to keep me safe.”

“I know.” Nine squeezed his little brother to him. “Look, you wanna make Momma feel better?” Spike nodded and wiped a tear away. “Here.” He gave him the box with the drugs. The boy opened it and held up the blue vial.

Spike was upstairs with his mother for a long time. He returned, wiping tears from his eyes, and fell sobbing into the pillows.

“It’s no fair. It’s no fucking fair. Why does it have to be like this?”

Nine looked at Hawk and said, “Tomorrow, this Maji sings?”

Hawk nodded.

“Okay, we’ll be there. He better be for real.”