But the kid was quick and, at least in the tactical sense, smart. He knew the neighborhood was riddled with alleys and laneways, many of them poorly lit, and he managed to make his way undetected to the street on which the warehouse had its front entrance. That street was well watched, but Turk sidled up between two empty parked cars, dashed across the open space in a particularly heavy gust of rain, and made it unseen to the mouth of another alley. It wasn’t the front of the warehouse Turk wanted access to, Bose surmised. It was the back lane with the loading bays. Just like in Orrin’s story.

Bose followed along the same route, feeling absurdly conspicuous. He reminded himself that his only objective was to keep the kid from making a huge mistake and getting himself or someone else hurt. The problem was, any attempt he made to approach Turk at this point might startle him into unpredictable action. Nevertheless, he had to make contact.

He was weaponless but he brought some skills of his own to the situation. Unlike the hacked pharmaceuticals the longevity-sellers traded in, the Martian treatment suppressed and enhanced certain neurological functions. It suppressed spontaneous aggression, which meant Bose was what people called “slow to anger.” It enhanced empathy and it suppressed fear. It also improved visual acuity and reaction time, which had helped gain Bose his police academy reputation as a first-rate sharpshooter.

Turk moved up the laneway to the place where it intersected the alley behind the warehouse. He crouched down, almost invisible in his black poncho, darting his head out to see what was happening. Bose used the opportunity to move up behind him.

Now or never. “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice low but just loud enough to be heard over the rattle of the rain.

The kid jerked out of his crouch and whirled around. Bose held his hands out, palms up. “I’m unarmed,” he said, taking a couple of steps closer. “And I’m not one of them.”

“Who are you, then?” the kid managed. He had the jug of methyl hydrate in it in his right hand, holding it so he could swing it like a mace.

“I used to be a cop,” Bose said. “You’re Turk Findley, right? The owner’s son?” The kid said nothing, but his unsurprised silence served as confirmation. “All I want,” Bose said, “is for us both to turn around and get out of here. Whatever you’re thinking of doing, it’s not practical. Not tonight.”

Rain guttered down from the kid’s sodden black hair into the collar of his poncho. He looked at Bose through the downpour. Then he said in a small, flat voice, “Behind you.”

“What?”

“They’re behind you.”