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was literally ripped apart by … something not yet known. Within minutes of that exchange, Chang’s own headquarters had been hit by several RPG rounds.
    Cross got word to an ancient Cambodian headman that the destruction of his mortal enemy—Chang—was a gift. A gesture of respect, for which no payment was expected.
    Later, a gift was delivered to Red 71, the crew’s known headquarters. An elaborately carved ebony stick, whose characters Rhino laboriously translated: “We can redeem this for a body. Payable anytime. And it can be any body we want.”
    The failure to deliver Cross caused the disappearance of two members of the “government” team that had reached out for Chang. If a nameless blond man and an Asian cyber-expert called Wanda were still alive, it wasn’t known to the Cross crew. The whereabouts of Percy—a human war machine who returned to an inert state as though someone had thrown a switch in his brain when he was not on combat assignment—were unknown. But he would always be a high-value asset to whatever part of the government had sent Cross after a “specimen” he had never collected.
    Two members of the team the blond man and Wanda had assembled had been freelancers: Tracker, a Chickasaw who had no purpose other than to carry on the work of his ancestors, and Tiger, whose own tribe was either mystery or myth.
    Neither had disappeared. Tracker signed on after a lengthy prove-in period. He had no interest in money, but considered the Cross crew to be the logical descendants of his own people … people who did not hunt, gather, or farm.
    Tiger worked jobs. “I do out-call, you know,” had been her parting words to Cross. But only when the objective suited her. Her loyalty would always be to her sisters.

    THE ENTRANCE to the Badlands was clearly marked … to those who knew. Those who didn’t became permanent residents. Land ravaged by toxic waste was always in need of fertilizer.
    The Shark Car cut its lights and motored serenely past the rusted-out hulk of a semi-trailer, guided only by the thermal-image screen that had rotated to replace the instrument panel. The screen was bisected: one showing what was ahead, the other a rearview camera.
    The city-camo car coasted to a stop parallel to a chain-link fence torn in so many places that even its ceremonial swirl of concertina wire couldn’t actually keep anyone out.
    Buddha touched a button hidden under the console. Three parallel laser beams of blue and orange shot from behind the grille. They passed over an abandoned gas station lacking signs, pumps, and windows. All that remained was a squat concrete structure.
    Both front windows zipped down. Ten minutes passed. Cross did not smoke. Buddha held his custom 4.5mm semi-auto pistol on his lap, watching the screen.
    A figure appeared atop the fence. A teenager with a bright-blue Mohawk, folding his body into the shape that had given him his name, “Condor.”
    “Any more surveyors?” Cross called out softly.
    “Not since the last one,” the teenager replied.
    “You’re doing good,” Cross told him.
    “How come you ask?” the teenager said. “You gave us that cell to call you on if—”
    “It’s machinery,” Cross said. “You can’t be sure it’s working unless you test it regular, and—”
    “You told
us
never to do that,” Condor finished the sentence. “I get it.”
    “Yeah, you do,” Cross said, flicking a thick roll of bills wrapped in rubber bands over the fence.

    “ VISITORS? ”
    “Mostly regulars,” Bruno answered Cross on his cell. “But a first-timer’s been sitting at the same table for over an hour. No dances, just buying booze. Asked one of the waitresses for powder. She told me. So I walked over and told him we don’t do that here. And we don’t
let
no one do that here, neither.”
    Cross described the man in the photo the new dancer had shown him hours ago.
    “Yep,” Bruno said. “That’s him. And he’s been drawing a bead on the new