At the suggestion of the young woman whose name Sly learned was Mary Windsong, they picked up and moved. Sly was pretty sure she hadn’t said anything to her torturers about the motel—if she had, the three of them would already have been blown to drek—but it didn’t make sense to take any chances they could avoid. Mary led the way, riding a hog much too big for her, her long braid trailing back in the wind. Falcon had driven the Callaway, Sly sitting in the passenger seat, her cyberdeck clutched protectively in her lap. They’d gone to some little tavern with the improbable name of The Buffalo Jump, then installed themselves in the tiny back room.