The Crystal Springs Resort. He snorted. Resort? Last resort was more like it. And the only springs he’d encountered were the ones that creaked whenever he shifted his weight on the bed. The old slag at the front desk hadn’t even glanced at the personal data scrolling across his computer screen when Sly slotted their credsticks to pay for the room. (They’d kept their new identities— David Falstaff and Cynthia Yurogowski—but Sly had changed things so they both hailed from Bellingham now.) Falcon thanked the spirits they both looked Amerindian—or sort of. People were less likely to question them.