faint silhouettes of four figures standing close to the upright barrel. Tyler pointed at her and to the right; he pointed to himself and indicated the left.
Far off in the distance, he heard a train approaching. Tyler pointed to his ear, and Priest nodded. He gave her a thumbs-up,and he took off at a run. He glanced back to see Priest running as well. They would use the sound of the train for cover.
The clatter of the train grew. Tyler again glanced over at Priest and ran faster to synchronize their arrivals.
The close cry of the train charged his system. These four hobos could be harmless, or they could be wanted men. His lungs stung with the cold.
The train roared past.
One of the homeless looked up toward the train. His head tracked left, and he spotted Tyler. The man said something sharply to the others, turned, and ran, his attention on Tyler and not on the woman in the trees who stood nearly directly in his path.
Tyler shouted, “Federal agent!” his voice lost to the roar of the train.
Priest stepped out of the shadows, her gun raised, and the one attempting to escape dove into the snow, face down, his hands already on the back of his head.
The others turned, looked around, and in drunken contemplation took in Priest and Tyler. They seemed to be callused to such raids, shaking their heads and chatting among themselves.
Tyler spotted four discarded cans of Colt 45. None of the recent snow had collected on them. “Federal agent,” he repeated. The haggard men wore multiple layers of ragged clothing. All three had teeth missing and streams of mucus frozen beneath their noses.
A matched set,
Tyler thought. He’d seen plenty of similar homeless on the streets of D.C. and in Metro’s lockup.
“You lock us up, you’d be doing us a favor,” their spokesman said.
“Some questions is all,” Tyler answered. He lowered his weapon and approached the three. Her gun aimed at the man’s head, Priest patted down her captive, removed a pocketknife,stood him up, and led him over to the fire. One by one, Tyler singled out one of the three and patted him down for weapons. All three carried knives. None were bloody.
“We’re going to divide you up into pairs,” Tyler announced. “A couple questions, and we’re all done.” None of the men showed signs of a fight, nor did he see even trace amounts of blood on their clothing—and there was no doubting that
any
of this clothing had been worn for a long time. They smelled ripe.
Priest pushed her guy up to the fire barrel. Tyler studied the nearby shelters—some of cardboard, some plastic sheeting. “How many others?” he asked the spokesman.
“One. Not doing so great.”
“Passed out?” Tyler asked.
“Going on dead,” answered the toothless man.
That won both Tyler’s and Priest’s attention. “Hurt?” Tyler asked.
“You could say that,” answered the shortest of the three. “A nigger,” he said, eyeing Priest. “In that first lean-to over there.”
All four were white. They looked to be between forty and sixty.
“I’ve got them,” Priest said. “Go have a look.”
Tyler headed over to an arrangement of fogged plastic sheets, some twine, and at least one large truck tire. There was a lump inside, vaguely the shape and size of a human being. It was buried beneath jackets, a dark tarpaulin, and a torn orange flotation vest that was stenciled in silver with USCG—Coast Guard. Tyler kicked the lump, trying to wake it. He kicked again, and the lump moved and groaned. “Fuck off,” came a weakened, sickly voice.
Erring on the side of precaution, and not trusting his source, Tyler inspected the three other makeshift structures and found them empty. No surprises. Five men, in a camp that in the summer might have held three times that.
He heard Priest begin to question the other three. Tyler rousted the lump—he smelled of urine and something much, much worse. “Get up!” Tyler ordered. The lump groaned. He didn’t want to search this
Far off in the distance, he heard a train approaching. Tyler pointed to his ear, and Priest nodded. He gave her a thumbs-up,and he took off at a run. He glanced back to see Priest running as well. They would use the sound of the train for cover.
The clatter of the train grew. Tyler again glanced over at Priest and ran faster to synchronize their arrivals.
The close cry of the train charged his system. These four hobos could be harmless, or they could be wanted men. His lungs stung with the cold.
The train roared past.
One of the homeless looked up toward the train. His head tracked left, and he spotted Tyler. The man said something sharply to the others, turned, and ran, his attention on Tyler and not on the woman in the trees who stood nearly directly in his path.
Tyler shouted, “Federal agent!” his voice lost to the roar of the train.
Priest stepped out of the shadows, her gun raised, and the one attempting to escape dove into the snow, face down, his hands already on the back of his head.
The others turned, looked around, and in drunken contemplation took in Priest and Tyler. They seemed to be callused to such raids, shaking their heads and chatting among themselves.
Tyler spotted four discarded cans of Colt 45. None of the recent snow had collected on them. “Federal agent,” he repeated. The haggard men wore multiple layers of ragged clothing. All three had teeth missing and streams of mucus frozen beneath their noses.
A matched set,
Tyler thought. He’d seen plenty of similar homeless on the streets of D.C. and in Metro’s lockup.
“You lock us up, you’d be doing us a favor,” their spokesman said.
“Some questions is all,” Tyler answered. He lowered his weapon and approached the three. Her gun aimed at the man’s head, Priest patted down her captive, removed a pocketknife,stood him up, and led him over to the fire. One by one, Tyler singled out one of the three and patted him down for weapons. All three carried knives. None were bloody.
“We’re going to divide you up into pairs,” Tyler announced. “A couple questions, and we’re all done.” None of the men showed signs of a fight, nor did he see even trace amounts of blood on their clothing—and there was no doubting that
any
of this clothing had been worn for a long time. They smelled ripe.
Priest pushed her guy up to the fire barrel. Tyler studied the nearby shelters—some of cardboard, some plastic sheeting. “How many others?” he asked the spokesman.
“One. Not doing so great.”
“Passed out?” Tyler asked.
“Going on dead,” answered the toothless man.
That won both Tyler’s and Priest’s attention. “Hurt?” Tyler asked.
“You could say that,” answered the shortest of the three. “A nigger,” he said, eyeing Priest. “In that first lean-to over there.”
All four were white. They looked to be between forty and sixty.
“I’ve got them,” Priest said. “Go have a look.”
Tyler headed over to an arrangement of fogged plastic sheets, some twine, and at least one large truck tire. There was a lump inside, vaguely the shape and size of a human being. It was buried beneath jackets, a dark tarpaulin, and a torn orange flotation vest that was stenciled in silver with USCG—Coast Guard. Tyler kicked the lump, trying to wake it. He kicked again, and the lump moved and groaned. “Fuck off,” came a weakened, sickly voice.
Erring on the side of precaution, and not trusting his source, Tyler inspected the three other makeshift structures and found them empty. No surprises. Five men, in a camp that in the summer might have held three times that.
He heard Priest begin to question the other three. Tyler rousted the lump—he smelled of urine and something much, much worse. “Get up!” Tyler ordered. The lump groaned. He didn’t want to search this
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