They rolled through the hot city night, past dumpsters and derelict houses, cocooned in air-conditioned, cream-leather luxury. Spencer rubbed at his hands. They felt so dry. Each time the car passed under a streetlight he could see Milt’s blood in the creases of his knuckles and palms and fingernails. He just couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how hard he tried.

“Tell us about these guys, Spencer,” said McGrath.

Spencer gave them a rundown as they homed in ever closer on his phone’s tracker.

“The guy with the gun, Dom, he’s totally willing to use it, so—”

“These little punks, Spence, they don’t want to hold on to a hot float, just want to joyride it a little, be the big I am, then dump it somewhere near whatever shithole they crawled out of. It’ll be fine. We just need to find it before they carbecue it.”

“In there,” said Johnny Boy, pointing down an alley.

The Yo-Yo pulled over.

McGrath looked around. Boarded shops, empty offices, no street lighting. Utterly deserted, as if mankind had vacated the planet while they’d been driving. “Take us down there slowly. Lights off.”

The Yo-Yo overrode the automatic headlights. They turned into the alley. Their progress was almost silent but for the crunch of tire on trash and rubble. All four men scanned the shadows. Fire escapes, piles of garbage, and the occasional wrecked car loomed and glided silently by.

Johnny Boy signaled the Yo-Yo to stop. He killed the air, dropped his window, listened, then waved the Yo-Yo on again. A few moments later he again signaled a halt. He cocked his head slightly, sensing something. Then Spencer heard it too: the faint boom of heavy bass.

With the subtlest gesture, Johnny Boy signaled the Yo-Yo to proceed.

The bass got louder. It sounded like a hip-hop beat.

With the car’s air-conditioning off, Spencer felt sweat gather on his throat and trickle into the collar of his T-shirt. He looked at the others. He was the only one who seemed to be feeling the heat.

The alley narrowed and then ended abruptly at a wall of blackness.

The music was getting louder.

As they passed the last buildings, Spencer realized the blackness was a vast open wasteland. Beyond shimmered the sliding mass of the Detroit River. Lights twinkled far away on the Canadian side of the water.

About a hundred yards in front, Spencer saw a small glow—the interior light of his car. Every now and then whooping and laughter would cut through the aggressive beat of whatever station they’d retuned his radio to. He gave his speakers a one-day life span at the rate they were being pulverized.

McGrath leaned forward between the seats, assessing the situation. Johnny Boy looked at him. “We could back off, wait up for a while?”