Leather lay on his bed and stared out the window watching the gas dome burn. The explosions had died down but a bright orange ball of flame dominated the night sky. The air was heavy with black smoke. The Cap that night was an evil place. Stormers stood in little bands at street comers and in the bazaar talking in low tones. The Radleps were out in force, maintaining order. They stood between Leather and mutiny.

Jojo entered Leather's room. "So," he asked, "should I give orders to disarm the Stormers?"

Leather, calmer now, knew that whatever he did in the next few hours would either save or destroy his empire. "No, leave 'em alone. Take away their guns and we'll just stir them up. Put some extra leps on the liquor warehouse. I don't want anyone getting drunk and starting a firelight. They are pretty mad about Colley, aren't they?"

"Yeah. And they feel like shit because they were beaten by Bonner."

"Yeah. Bonner." Leather turned back toward the window. It all came back to Bonner. Always Bonner . . . Leather had played his top card, his ace— Dara—and Bonner had beaten him. Tears started into Leather's eyes. He was a fucking cripple and his empire had been slammed—all the work of Bonner.

Leather turned to Jojo. "I still want him dead. Now more than ever."

"Leather, please, let it ride."

Leatherman twisted his face into a grimace of hate. "No way, man. No way." ,

The dark streets of Chicago were silent, save for the roar of Bonner's engine. It was missing on six cylinders and he was running on rims; he couldn't be sure but it sounded as if he had broken a piston ring. If he didn't put the car down soon the engine would seize. He pushed the last ounce of power out of the tired engine, making for the bus station and the soothing ministrations of Lucky. He steered the car up the long, curving ramp and found the mechanic waiting in the bay, holding a kerosene lantern and his old Colt.

"Heard you coming," said the little man. "Fucked the old girl again, I see." He sighed heavily. "Boss. . . ."

"Yeah," said Bonner, as he took a few things out of the car, "I know. I don't have any respect for machinery." He started down the ramp.

"Well, you don't," shouted Lucky.

"Yeah, yeah," said Bonner.

"Did you get any oil, like I asked you?"

"Nope. Sorry."

"You'll be sorrier when you need it," shouted Lucky, his voice echoing in the dark space.

"Take your time," said Bonner, "I'm not going to be riding for a while."

Bonner walked through the dead streets. He told himself that he should go thank Dorca for getting Seth out to meet them. He remembered that he had a present for the big barkeep someplace . . . The hell with it, he thought, I'll do it tomorrow.

He climbed the dusty stairs to his rooms. The woman was still there. She smiled tentatively at him as he entered. She put her arms around him and laid her body lightly against his.

"I'm glad you're back," she said. He stroked her hair absentmindedly and smiled, then gently disengaged himself. She understood and vanished into the kitchen. He sat on the edge of the bed and rested his head in his hands . . .

Deep in the night tortured dreams of Dara and Leather and vicious firefights awakened him. He opened his eyes in the darkness, the woman slept by his side. In the streets he could hear the coarse-voiced singing of a drunk. He thought of Dara. He thought of Leather. In his bones he felt the dull ache of failure. In his heart he felt the hot need for revenge. The war was just beginning.

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