shot, but Phoebe opens up. Her first two shots go through the back window of the Mercedes. The third one leaves a hole in the back; the fourth shot hits the left rear tire. The car jerks to the left, turning toward us, and Phoebe empties the rest of the magazine into the driver's side.
The car wobbles and then veers quickly to the right, shooting off into the narrow ditch that runs along the side of the road. As I come up on the wrecked car, slowing the scooter to a stop, Phoebe hops off. She's got another gun in her left hand, and she stands at the edge of the road, precision shooting into the Mercedes. When the slide on her pistol locks back, she steps away from the edge of the ditch. She nods, letting me know that she's finished.
I hold the scooter steady between my legs as I reach into my poncho for more grenades. I throw one under the Mercedes, and after I kick the scooter down into the ditch, I lob the second one after it. Both grenades go off noisily as Mere pulls up with a screech of tires. Pedro's frightened face is transfixed in the passenger side window.
Phoebe opens the back passenger door and enters first. I follow, and Mere stomps on the accelerator pedal as soon as I'm in the car.
I put on my seat belt as Mere drives north, heading for the Pan-American Highway.
Phoebe's hair is wild about her head, still moving even though there is no wind in the car. “Secutores,” she says.
I nod in agreement. The strike teams were human mercenaries.
“I like biting back,” she says with a grin.
Her hate has become something else.
THIRTY-FIVE
We drive north, heading toward the Atacama Desert, one of the driest places on the planet. It's not on Mere's list as Arcadian-friendly, which is precisely why we head for it. The altercation with Secutores outside of La Serena will focus attention on the rustic city—both from the mercenaries and from Hyacinth. With any luck, they'll stumble over each other for a day or two.
Mere wants to know what our plan is with Pedro, who sits very quietly in the front passenger seat, trying his best to not be conspicuous. He didn't see what happened to his scooter, but I suspect he knows. And he's street-smart enough to know that even if I hadn't wrecked it, he was going to have to ditch it anyway. It was an anomaly that witnesses to our assault are going to remember.
They won't remember much else, but they'll remember the scooter. Our pursuers will be excited to have a clue, but it's worthless knowledge.
“He's useful,” I tell Mere. “We should keep him.”
“He could get killed,” she replies.
“We'll get two bulletproof vests,” I offer.
“It's different,” she argues. “I made my choice. He didn't.”
“Does it really matter now? If we drop him off somewhere, he's on his own in a strange town with no money. What's the first thing he's going to do? Call someone back in La Serena. He's just going to return there, where people know about him and his scooter—especially when he doesn't have it anymore. Someone will tell Secutores or Hyacinth. They'll find him. They'll make him talk. But what does he know? Nothing very useful. At which point, he'll have no value and they'll discard him.”
“What if we give him some money?” Mere asks. “Tell him not to go back to La Serena?”
“Where is he going to go? Does he look like a kid who could just pick up and go to another city and start over? What sort of life do you think he's going to fall into?”
“This isn't fair.”
Phoebe laughs quietly.
I lean forward. “No, it's not, but he's useful. He's a local kid. He can go many places without attracting attention. We lessen our risk of being spotted by having him be our errand boy. He's smart and he's cautious. He has a better chance with us.”
Mere's hands tighten on the steering wheel. She glances at Pedro, who has become aware that we've been talking about him. The boy twists around in his seat and stares at me. “Are you going to kill me too?” he asks in Spanish.
He's wiry, but he still has a round face, full of young innocence that probably serves him well. His brown eyes are inquisitive and intelligent, and up close, I can tell that he's as concerned about his haircut as he is his scooter.
“You're in no danger from