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until we reached my cell. Then he spoke.
    “Your last day, today.”
    His earlier coldness was gone.
    “Yup.”
    “How did you know the feds would be coming?”
    “Just a guess.”
    “Take some advice, Ripley. Get a job, and get a girlfriend. Stay out of here.”
    “Sure.”
    The guard shut the door behind him, and I was alone in my cell again. I lay on my cot, and stared at the ceiling. There I was, at the dawn of the new electronic frontier, in which, against all probability, I had somehow become a gun for hire.
    I had plenty of thinking to do, and only one day to do it in.
    9

Chapter 3
    At 10:05 a.m., after getting dressed in my civilian clothes and counting the money I had had on me when I was arrested ($13.87), I was escorted to the gate of Cedar Creek. Philips and Garman, true to their word, were already waiting for me.
    Neither of them bothered with pleasantries.
    “First things first,” Philips said, as I got into a black Ford sedan. “We’ll stop by your mother’s apartment.”
    “She doesn’t want to see me.”
    “I don’t want her to get a rush of maternal guilt and start making waves. Tell her you’re going to be working away for a month.”
    Philips turned the car onto the road, and sped up. It was strange after six months in a tiny cell to be free to move around once again, even if it was in an FBI car.
    I didn’t look over my shoulder to see the prison receding into the distance, but I felt its gravity decrease. I had already said my convict’s prayer last night: “I’m never going back inside again.” But I added another line: “That’s where you’re going, Knight. That’s where I’ll put you.”
    We passed through various districts, until we came to the rundown neighborhood in central Seattle where I had lived with my mom before getting arrested. Philips eased the car to a stop on the side of the street, which was strewn with gravel, shards of broken glass, and a graffiti gallery. He and I got out, leaving Garman in the car, perhaps to make sure that nobody stole the wheels, which sometimes happened in that neighborhood. Philips pushed the doorbell, but no one answered.

    “It’s too early,” I said. “My mom works late.”

    “I phoned yesterday and told her we were coming,” Philips said.
    He stood for a moment, looking expectantly at the window. His trust seemed like a sliver of decency showing through the tough surface. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, and dialed. No answer.

    “The way the FBI told it, I was public enemy number one, right?”

    I turned and walked back down to the car.
    He ignored my comment. After we both got back into the car, he said somewhat defensively, “It doesn’t matter. We already have all the clothes and equipment you’ll need.”
    We set off again, with Philips and Garman saying nothing. In a short time, the car was on the freeway, and we were passing a sign telling us that we were heading out of town, and thanking us for having driven so safely.
    “Where exactly are we going?” I asked.
    “You’ll find out everything you need to know shortly.”

    The rest of the journey was silent, with the early morning talk radio making up for the total lack of any conversation, with a learned discussion on the war against terrorism. I tuned it out, and spent my time thinking through the coming weeks, like a chess player figuring out moves that he might never make.
    We had been on the road for two hours when the car wheels hit the sandstone gravel in front of a roadside diner. I came out of my reverie, and looked around. The aging, anonymous place seemed perfect for an undercover rendezvous. It was decorated with all the taste that aluminum and neon allow. Inside, it was quiet, with just a few early morning travelers clogging their arteries with cigarettes and fries.
    10

    Garman escorted me to the restroom and back, while Philips sat down and browsed the menu.
    An unsmiling waitress came over and took our order. Three coffees, Philips