The other passengers were all watching. Even the ones who had stepped off the trolley with their luggage and were now lined up on the street outside, under watch by other guards.

“I got him!” yelled the man to his colleague.

The woman with the purple beret walked down the aisle to join them, while the driver left her seat, drew her gun, and guarded the remaining passengers.

Old Boy handed Beret Girl the business card. She read it, then gave Donny her own lookover, followed by a pat-down.

“Easy,” said Donny, which produced the opposite response. When she was done, she made him sit back down.

She had his wallet out, and looked through its contents.

“My bar card’s right there.”

“I have it,” she said, holding it up along with his Texas driver’s license. She looked at her colleague. “Did you get his phone?”

He shook his head.

She signaled Donny to hand it over.

“Open it up,” she said.

“I don’t have to do that,” said Donny. “Not without a warrant.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Give me the phone.”

Donny handed it to her, still locked.

“You’re coming with us,” she said.

She pocketed his wallet and phone. Then she tried to open his briefcase, but found it was locked too. A simpler lock than the phone, a physical one with a three-digit code.

“What’s the combination?”

Donny didn’t answer. Beret Girl took out her knife. Preparing to carve open the gift from his grandmother.

“Fine,” said Donny, holding up his hand to halt her. “One-one-one.”

She opened it, and leafed through Donny’s files.

“You know that material is protected by attorney-client privilege,” said Donny.

“Whatever,” she said. She flipped through the file he had on the Tributary. Pictures of the judges, who were also the jury. Not all 501, but the ones thought to be most influential. The pictures of Heather. The background material her family had provided, which included some reports by private investigators whom you could more accurately call corporate spies.

“Seriously?” said Donny. “This is what we fought for?”

“Doesn’t look to me like you did too much fighting,” said Old Boy. That was when Donny took a good look at the tattoos on the guy’s forearms, some of which evidenced uniformed service in the wars of Donny’s youth, others the fresher ink of the uprising and the secret battles that preceded it. The right arm had a puckered scar carved into the muscle.

“He played a role,” said Beret Girl, putting the papers back in the folder. “But looks like the reports are true. He’s switched sides.”

“It’s not like that,” said Donny.

“Uh-huh,” said Beret Girl. She dug deeper in the briefcase and pulled out the inlaid little wooden box he kept in the inside pocket. A souvenir from the tourist shop in Matamoros, that day he got Joyce across. “What’s in here?”

“Medicine,” said Donny.