Harlan Coben - Home

“Let’s try this again,” Myron said. “Do you know the boy who ran away yesterday, the one they were fighting over?”

“The other American,” Dog Collar said. “He your friend?”

“Does it matter?”

“He killed all three of them, like he was taking a stroll. Just sliced them up without a care.”

Myron tried another avenue. “Did you know those guys?”

“Course. Terence, Matt, and Peter. Used to beat the shit out of me, all three of them. If I had a pound in my pocket, they wanted me to give them two.” He looked up at Myron. “If you had something to do with it, well, I’d shake your hand.”

“I didn’t,” Myron said.

“You just want the boy they was hassling.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story. He’s in need of rescue.”

Dog Collar frowned.

“Do you know him, yes or no?”

“Yeah,” Dog Collar said. “Course I know him.”

“Can you take me to him?”

Some wariness came back to the kid’s eyes. “You still got the five hundred pounds?”

“I do.”

“Give it to me now.”

“How do I know you won’t run again?”

“Because I saw what your friend did. You’ll kill me if I run.”

Myron wanted to tell him that wasn’t so, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to keep him scared. Dog Collar stuck out his palm. Myron gave him the five hundred pounds. The kid jammed the money into his shoe.

“You won’t tell anyone you gave it to me?”

“No.”

“Come on, then. I’ll take you to him.”

Myron tried to chat up the kid as they hopped on a train at Gospel Oak. For the first part of the ride, the kid jammed in earphones and turned up the volume so loudly Myron could clearly hear the misogynistic lyrics through the kid’s ear canal.

Myron wondered whether the phone’s signal could still reach Win. When they changed lines at Highbury and Islington, the kid turned off the music and said, “What’s your name?”

“Myron. What’s yours?”

“Myron what?”

“Myron Bolitar.”

“You’re pretty good with your fists. Took care of Dex like he was wet tissue.”

Myron wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he said, “Thanks.”

“Where in the States you from?”

Curious question. “New Jersey.”

“You’re a big bloke. You play rugby?”

“No. I… I played basketball in school. How about you?”

The kid made a scoffing sound. “School. Right. Where did you go to school?”

“A university called Duke,” Myron said. “What’s your name?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“How come you’re working the streets?” Myron asked.

The kid tried looking tough, but as with most kids, it came out as more sullen than threatening. “What’s it to you?”

“I don’t mean it as an insult or anything. I just hear most of the, uh, business is online nowadays. It’s on Grindr and Scruff and apps like that.”

The kid lowered his head. “It’s punishment.”

“What’s punishment?”

“The streets.”

“For what?”

The train stopped. “We get off here,” the kid said, rising. “Come on.”

The street outside the station was crowded and noisy. They headed down Brixton Road, past a Sainsbury’s store, and ducked into a shop front called AdventureLand.

The cacophony of sounds, none pleasant except perhaps in a nostalgic way, was the first thing to assault the senses. There was the crash of bowling pins, the digital ding-ding of arcade scoring, the harsh buzzing of missed shots, the mechanical whoop-whoop-whoop of made free throws. There were the artificial noises of virtual planes being struck down and monsters dying under heavily armed assault. There were neon lights and Day-Glo colors. There were Skee-Ball machines and Pac-Man and air hockey and shoot-’em-ups and race-car simulators and those claw cranes trying to snag generic stuffed animals from within a glass cage. There were bumper cars and Ping-Pong and pool tables and a karaoke bar.

There were a lot of teenage boys.

Myron’s eyes swept the room. There were two rent-a-cops by the door. They couldn’t have looked more bored without some sort of neurosurgery. He didn’t pay them much attention. What Myron did notice, almost immediately, were the several men milling about trying to fit in-no, trying to blend in.

They wore camouflage pants.

The kid with the dog collar weaved through the crowd toward an area called Laser Maze, which looked like one of those scenes in Mission: Impossible where someone tries to move without crossing one of the beams and setting off an alarm. There was a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT behind it. The kid moved over to it and looked up at a surveillance camera. Myron joined him. The kid gestured for Myron to look up into the lens. Myron did so, smiling widely and giving the camera a little wave.

“How do I look?” he asked the kid. “My hair’s a mess, right?”

The kid just turned away.

The door opened. They walked through it. The door closed. Two more camouflage-pants-clad men were there. Myron pointed at the pants.

“Was there, like, a really big sale on those?”

No one found this amusing.

“You got a weapon on you?”

“Just my winning smile.”

Myron demonstrated. Neither man appeared particularly impressed.

“Empty your pockets. Wallet, keys, phone.”

Myron did so. They even had one of those bowls where you empty your keys and change before heading through airport security. One of the men took out a metal wand and ran it over Myron. That wasn’t good enough. He started to pat down Myron with a little too much gusto.

“Oh God, that feels good,” Myron said. “A little left.”

That made the man stop.

“Okay, second door on the right.”

“Can I have my stuff back?”

“When you come out.”

Myron looked at Dog Collar. Dog Collar kept his eyes on the floor.

“Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to find what I’m looking for behind that door?”

This door too was locked. There was yet another security camera above it. The kid looked up at it. He gestured for Myron to do the same. Myron did it, but this time there was no winning smile. Show them.

There was a clanging noise. The door, made of reinforced steel, swung open. The kid went inside first. Myron followed.

The first word that came to mind: “high tech.” Or was that two words? AdventureLand was kind of a dump, with arcade games that had seen better days. This room was sleek and modern. There had to be a dozen, probably more, high-end monitors and screens on the walls, on desks, everywhere. Myron counted four men. None wore camouflage pants.

Standing in the middle of the room was a heavyset Indian man with a shaved head. He wore headphones and held a game controller. They were all playing a military-style shooter video game. While everyone around him frantically attacked their controllers, the heavyset man seemed relaxed, almost casual.

“Shh, give us a second, will you? Those damn Italians think they have us beat.”

The heavyset Indian turned his back to them. All eyes were on the center screen on the far wall. It was a leaderboard in some sort of game, Myron guessed. First place listed ROMAVSLAZIO. Second place was FATGANDHI47. Third place was HUNGSTALLION12. Uh-huh, dream on, gamer boy. Other teams on the leaderboard included UNECHANCEDETROP, GIRTH-VADER (probably a friend of HUNGSTALLION12), and MOMMY’S-BASEMENT (honesty-finally, a self-aware gamer).

The heavyset Indian raised his hand slowly, like a conductor about to begin. He looked over at a thin black man by the keyboard.

“Now!” the heavyset Indian said, lowering his arm.