Roland moved on, reluctantly, and found what his hindbrain suspected was the old jail. The APC’s he’d seen last night were parked out front. The compound was crowded and busy. Roland counted fourteen guards just outside. Mind you, they were human guards. No powered armor, no heavy artillery, nothing at hand that could do much more than tickle him. They wouldn’t present a danger. But they would cause a hell of a lot of noise if he attempted a daylight prison break.

He scrambled up onto a half-collapsed condo that had been abandoned after a heavy mortar shell gutted the inside. It provided a good view of the jail. For the next hour Roland just watched. His hindbrain mapped the pattern of the guard rotations and noted the security protocols they followed when each new vehicle arrived. He took a lot of deep breaths and, gradually, pulled enough scents from inside the jail to have a decent idea of how many people were in there. He’d never smelled Marigold or the other Rolling Fuck negotiators before. But his nose picked up on three people with a handful of aftermarket modifications. Most of the Martyrs he’d met had been limited to civilian-grade healing suites and sensory upgrades. It was a safe bet that these were their targets, then.

When you’ve got the message, put down the phone. Roland wasn’t sure where, or when he’d heard that aphorism. But it came into his head and, a moment later, he realized the sun was pretty low in the sky. It’d be bus time soon. He headed back through the high shadows and across the cracked and bullet-scarred boulevards until he was able to merge back into the evening crowd at the square. Manny and the Christian girl had moved on from the cafe by that point. He actually ran into them in front of some building with a sign that identified it as the “House of Miriam.” They were saying weird, chaste, religious-y goodbyes.

“Oh, hello, Aaron!” Sasha smiled when she saw him. Manny turned around and flashed him a weary smile too. Roland could still see pain in the kid’s eyes, but it was at least cut with a bit of arousal. He decided that was a good thing. Ever since Oscar’s death, Manny had been riding the line between function and complete emotional collapse. He decided to encourage the fixer’s weird little friendship with the Christian girl.

“Hey!” Roland said. “How was the, ah, coffee? Smelled like it was mostly chicory and food dye when I walked by earlier. But maybe they sold y’all the good stuff.”

“They did not,” Manny said.

“You must be blessed with an exceptional nose,” Sasha said, and gave him an odd look. Then she asked, “What did you get up to?”