As the kid took off, I motioned the bartender to lean closer. He held his breath, but complied. “That guy at the end of the bar? Keep him here. Offer him a drink, tell him … tell him a guy was in here a little while ago, paid for the drink, then got in an argument with his woman and left before you had a chance to serve it.”

Dave’s eyes narrowed. “I ain’t lookin’ to get myself in no trouble, kid.”

“No trouble, mister. It’s just I think I know him from back before the Outbreak, and I don’t want him to see me like this. I doubt he’ll recognize me in this condition.”

The eyes stayed narrow. I reached in my money belt, took out a plastic bag full of instant coffee packets, palmed it, and slid it across the bar. “For your trouble. And there’s more where that came from.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he took the coffee and whispered, “Anything happens to that guy, and people come around askin’, I’m gonna tell ‘em the truth. You hear?”

“Understood.”

He grunted and moved away. At a signal from Dave, an older woman who had been wiping tables came over and told me to follow her. She led me into the back and set two metal buckets of water on a pot-bellied stove, then handed me a washcloth, a dry towel, a comb, and a ball of homemade soap. I sponged myself down with warm water, wet the rag and the soap, and spent the better part of ten minutes scrubbing myself from head to toe. I even managed to get all the crust out of my beard. The comb looked clean enough, but just to be sure, I cleaned it in one of the buckets before running it through my hair. I had just finished toweling off when the old woman knocked on the door.

“You decent?”

I wrapped the towel around myself. “Come on in.”

She came inside and retrieved the two buckets, the soap, the comb, and the washcloth. “What do you want me to do with your old clothes?”

“Burn them.”

A nod. “Probably for the best.”

A minute or two later, the runner boy, Nicky, knocked at the door. I let him in, and he handed me my clothes and the key to my home. His eyes widened as they roved over the scars on my torso. A few seconds passed while I waited for him to leave, but he didn’t budge. I snapped my fingers in his face. “Got a staring problem, kid?”

He flushed, said, “Sorry sir,” and ran off.

A quick peek in the mirror told me I had accomplished my goal. Anyone who saw me walk out the front door would not recognize me as the same man who went in.

I dressed hurriedly and went back into the dining room. The newcomer with the medallion was still seated at the bar nursing a glass of grog. I nodded to the bartender on the way out, walked a block down the street, and ducked into an alley.

Now it was a waiting game. If the table of men who eyed my trade so jealously were really going to rob me, they would not wait long to come out. Too much chance of losing my trail. Perhaps a minute ticked by, and sure enough, I saw all three of them emerge from the tavern.

“Which way you think he went?” one of them said. He was short, older, thick beard, stocky build.

“There’s his footsteps,” another said, pointing at my tracks in the snow. “Come on.”

I eased back into the alley and waited.

SIXTY

They were good at their work, I’ll give them that much.

One of them did the tracking while the second scanned ahead, the third watching their six. They moved up the street quickly, following my footprints in the dim silver light. Finally, they reached the alley. I stood back in the shadows near a big green dumpster, hidden from sight.

The first of the three men, the short one, drew a pistol from under his coat and started slowly into the alley. By the way he held it, moving the barrel with his line of sight, I knew he had some measure of tactical training.

“You want a light?” the third man asked, taking an LED flashlight from his belt. I tensed, making ready to leap out and cross the distance.

“No. I can see just fine. Don’t want to make a target.” He took a few more tentative steps forward.

“I don’t like this,” the second man said. “Too dark, too many places to hide. Use the flashlight.”

Your friend is smart.

Three more steps. He was less than six feet away now. I held my breath.

“Okay, fine. Give me the-”

He diverted his attention for just a second to reach for the flashlight. It was all the time I needed.

Two steps brought me to his side. My hands flashed out and stripped the pistol from his grip. He stepped back in surprise, one hand reaching for another weapon. Rather than shoot him, I bashed him in the face with his own gun. When he stumbled back, I kicked him squarely in the balls.

As he collapsed, I trained the gun on the other two. “Hands in the air. Do it now.”

Slowly, they did as I said. The man I put down took a hand away from his groin long enough to try for his weapon again. I raised a boot and stomped on his throat—not hard enough to kill him, but enough to stop him from breathing for a while.

“Don’t try that again, asshole. I’ve been nice to you so far, but I’m just about out of patience.”

The man gurgled and sputtered, one hand on his groin, the other on his neck. A cut on his cheek spilled dark black liquid onto the snow.

“You two,” I said to the others, “take off your jackets. Do it slow. Your life depends on it.”

They removed their jackets and let them drop. I kicked them to the side of the alley and ordered the men to put their hands on the wall. When they did, I made them step back and separate their feet so they could not turn on me too quickly. Leaving them there for the moment, I grabbed one of the first man’s hands, put him in a wristlock, and forced him over onto his face. A search revealed a knife and a small .380 revolver, but no other weapons. I tossed them into a pile a few feet away and told him to join his friends against the wall. He whimpered and coughed while I searched the other two and tossed their weapons in the pile as well.

Like most citizens in Colorado Springs, the men had IDs on them. One was an old Texas driver’s license, and the other two were simple government issue IDs distributed at the refugee intake center. When out in public, civilians were required to carry their IDs on their person at all times. Tonight, that rule played to my advantage.

“I’m going to keep these IDs,” I said. “I know your names, and I know where you live. I could report you to the police, but it would be your word against mine, so here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to let you go. Your weapons belong to me now. If I ever see you again, I’ll shoot first and worry about the consequences later. Are we clear?”

They uttered a frightened chorus of assent.

“Good. Now get the fuck out of here.”

They got.

*****

After caching my newfound loot in a nearby abandoned building, I found a rooftop from which to watch the tavern’s front door. I did not have to wait long. The man wearing the medallion stepped out into the frigid night, turned his collar up around his face, pulled his knit cap down tight over his ears, and started walking northward. I slipped down from the rooftop and followed.

The first half-mile or so was difficult work. It is not easy to trail a person on empty streets without being spotted. My father and I used to make a game out of it in our neighborhood, him trying to spot me, and me trying to sneak up close enough to touch him without being detected. It took until I was about fifteen before I could beat him more times than I lost. Considering Dad was ex-Delta Force, it was an accomplishment.

Finally, the man turned onto one of the main thoroughfares connecting the refugee districts. Even this late at night there were a large number of people moving back and forth on the street, most of them third shift people. They made it easier to follow my target.