Part 1 (2/2)
Ten yards past, he glanced back. She stared at him, unmoving.
”Want to buy a dog?”
The man in a shabby gray overcoat was right in front of him, and he had to stop abruptly to avoid a collision. ”I, er...”
”Want to buy a dog?”
The dog in question was in the man's arms. A mangy cross about the size of a small poodle but of no detectable breed.
”He's a good boy,” the man said, thrusting the dog forward. The dog snarled and snapped at Sam, missing his arm by a fraction of an inch.
”No, I...”
”Hardly ever bites,” the man said.
”No.”
Sam took a wide step around the man as the dog's teeth snapped together again in midair. The end of the alley neared.
To his right, a door opened on a second-story fire escape. A man in his fifties burst out of the building dressed only in Mickey Mouse boxer shorts and a Hawaiian lei around his neck. He was carrying a coffee machine. He leaped down the metal steps three at a time and disappeared across the street and around the corner of a building just as two policemen in black tactical gear burst out of the same door, hard on his heels.
Sam escaped onto Church Street with a slight sigh of relief and a relaxing of his nostrils. His cell rang, right on cue, as he turned into Thomas Street, and he tapped his Bluetooth earpiece into his ear.
”Hi, Mom,” he said.
”What kept you?” Fargas asked on the other end of the line, his mouth full of something.
Sam looked up at the building opposite. He caught a glimpse of Fargas behind a window on the second floor, the two black circles of a pair of powerful binoculars jutting out from his long mop of unruly hair. Sam made a discreet waving motion with his left hand.
There was a flash of white from the window that he took as a sign Fargas had waved back.
”Cut through Gamer Alley,” Sam said.
There was a short pause while Fargas digested that. ”Quick hit on the way?”
”Just sightseeing,” Sam said. ”What are you eating?”
It would be caramel corn. Fargas was the only person he knew who could eat caramel-coated popcorn for breakfast.
”Caramel corn,” Fargas said. ”Want some? I'll toss a couple pieces out the window.”
”Suddenly not hungry,” Sam said. ”Can't think why.”
He walked casually past the Telecomerica building as if he had no interest in it whatsoever. He didn't even glance at it.
”You sure this is possible?” Fargas sounded a little nervous.
”I'm sure it's not,” Sam said. ”Be no fun otherwise. They've got industrial-strength firewalls with a DMZ and a secondary defensive ring with ASA and IPSec. Impenetrable.”
”Then give it away, dude,” Fargas said. ”I'm not going to jail for the sake of a hack.”
”Fargas,” Sam said, ”you're my brother and I love you, but you gotta get your head out of your b.u.t.t before you fart and suffocate yourself.”
”I'm not your brother and you don't love me,” Fargas pointed out.
”You know you're the one I'd turn gay for.” Sam grinned up at the window.
”I thought you liked Keisha,” Fargas said.
”I'd definitely turn gay for her,” Sam said. ”If I was a chick. How is she?”
”Still not interested.”
”Her words or yours?”
”She's a soph.o.m.ore. You're a senior. That's just wrong. Should be illegal.”
”Have you asked her for me?” Sam asked.
”You can't ask her yourself?”
”She's a soph.o.m.ore. I'm seventeen. That's just wrong. She's got to ask me.”
”Loser,” Fargas said.
Sam said, ”Okay, here we go.”
The cafe was long, low, and thin: a brick-lined tunnel reaching into the depths of the city block. The table Sam wanted was in use, but the smartly dressed businessman was just draining the last of his coffee, so Sam loitered by the door for a moment, pretending to read the chalkboard breakfast menu until the man left.
He ordered a chai latte from the surly, mon.o.browed waitress and waited for it to arrive before opening his schoolbag. His bag of tricks. Dirty tricks.
His table was at the back of the cafe, deep in the heart of the building, beside a large leafy potted plant with an interlaced trunk. The position had been carefully chosen.
Opening his schoolbag was both exciting and terrifying. It was crossing a line. It was the start of something, like strapping yourself into a roller coaster. No, more like a Special Forces soldier going behind enemy lines or a spy setting out on a dangerous mission that depended on skill, wits, and fast reactions to stay alive.
He pulled out his laptop, and from the front pocket of his bag, he took a parabolic aerial, unfolding the wings and embedding it at the base of the potted plant.
”You in place?” Fargas asked in his ear.
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