Sly’s first impulse had been to say something flippant like a liter of synthahol and thirty-six hours of sleep. But she put that thought aside at once. Knife-Edge was still after her. He’d gotten her once, and had no reason to stop trying. Holing up and waiting it out would be just plain dumb, she decided, particularly after Falcon told her what he’d learned about the Amerindian runner. The Office of Military Intelligence—no drek. That meant they were playing with the Sioux government, the military— maybe even the fragging Wildcats. No, holing up was not a good idea. This wasn’t going to just blow over. She had to do something, right now.