At five past eight that evening, two men walked past the gate of the Tinker Bell Bus Carrier Depot. They sidled up next to a blind spot in the fence line where a tree blocked the corner cameras. One climbed the tree and pulled the other thither.

Warchild stepped over the top of the fence with little difficulty, hit the ground and rolled. He waited, waved to Rotter in the tree to jump, and caught him as he hit the ground. There was a sharp gasp of pain from Rotter.

Once cleared of the fence, they scampered in silence, their rubber soles making little sound on the concrete. A blue edged-lit area lay ahead, the size of ten football fields stacked with rows of oblong buses.

A cluster of lights grew brighter. It was a robotic mule on a tracked chassis approaching from a maintenance run. The illumination from its undercarriage and the torch on its articulated arm bathed the ground in a bluish LED wash.

The figures froze and flattened, merging into pools of midnight around drainage holes.

Once the robot mule passed, darkness returned.

Warchild helped Rotter to his feet and ran across the open stretch keeping away from the well-lit receiving area.

The bus farm was lit by two lone stadium lamps atop hangar-like roofs. From above, the layout of the buildings would have looked much like a capital F.

The pair moved in a series of spurts, communicating with hand signals.

Warchild, on point, made a fist. Hold. He sniffed the air. A breeze had picked up an odor. He knew at once what it was. So did Rotter, ingesting the molecules of air.

Palm parallel to the ground -- Down! They flattened on their bellies again.

Movements ahead.

Armed guards on foot.

Then Warchild made a sign every thief dreaded -- the erect index finger and pinky. People made that gesture in old Europe to ward off the Evil Eye. In the music world, this was a devil sign for the Goth and heavy metal devotees. In combat, the sign of the horns meant only one thing -- canine.

A dog patrol was dead ahead, a little more than a hundred yards away on the ramp, led by two rent-a-cops, carrying sidearms. The guards were not the worry.

A dog's hearing could capture frequency resonance and range far beyond that of the human ear. It could pick up a pin drop from two hundred yards away, even the earth's tremor before a quake. Then there was its special sense. Its olfaction was a thousand times more acute than that of primates, having over 220 million receptors in its nose, compared to 5 million in humans.

Warchild and Rotter knew it had smelled them, as they had it.

The dog stiffened. It had sensed menace lurking in the dark.

Guard dogs fell in two broad categories -- trackers or attackers. The former would alert its handlers, but wouldn't go near the targets. The latter would fly at your throat.

Warchild sensed this German Shepherd was an attacker. Pound for pound of aggression, the dog was by far the greater threat than the two human guards were.

Warchild cupped his mouth, breathing down onto the concrete to prevent his scent from drifting. If only he had pepper spray. At this distance, a mist of that substance would be like pouring Tabasco sauce down the dog's nostrils. And his and Rotter's as well.

The hound growled, locking its eyes on them in the dark, its nose tasting the molecules of scent.

Neither man dared move.

The dog pulled at the leash, ears flattened.

Warchild had no weapon, the claws drained and empty. So he lay there holding his breath. Let it pass. They usually did. It is the unwarranted action of the weak-minded that betrays, he had learned in SF School.

His heartbeat was deafening in his ears.

The voices of the handlers were muffled; their faces suddenly brightened from the reflected glow of a passed lighter. Cigarettes. No -- cigars, judging from the bright cherries.

The Shepherd became more agitated, barking into the dark, lunging repeatedly against its leash, fur bristling.

The guard holding the leash pointed at the direction the dog was barking. The second sentry held a heavy steel flashlight at shoulder height, sweeping the beam out toward the field from left to right. He found nothing. The torch's intensity thinned with distance -- at fifty yards, the night had overcome its effective brightness.

But the shine had afforded Warchild a glimpse of quick darting shadows to his right. He heard the scuffling in the underbrush. They weren't the only intruders. Big rats were around the motor pool at night, a welcoming presence.

A quick jerk of the tether from its master brought the hound to heel. The dog gave a final yelp as the patrol retreated, their voices fading away.

Warchild made an okay sign, then got up. Behind him, Rotter kept pace, moving toward a group of buses already washed and fueled for the morning's run. They moved in quick time, drifting from one undercarriage to another until they reached the intended heist.

These were auto-drivers meant for long-range inter-coastal ferrying; autonomous drive controls allowed the bus to run its pre-programmed course, and return to base once its circuit completed.

The Blue Bird Super Cruiser had no elaborate locking mechanism. Just a simple electronic seal applied to the door. All you needed was a wooden wedge and a long metal rod.

Warchild inserted the wedge into the top part of the main side door. Through the small opening, he extended the metal rod to depress the lever of the lock.

The interior had been cleaned, electrical power on full. Warchild accessed the onboard Nav-schedule -- the Blue Bird was scheduled for a run to Memphis. He'd need to reprogram a new destination. He took time to identify drive components and layout of the dash and went over procedures on how to activate manual override.

A few minutes later, "We're good to go," Warchild announced.

"What are we waiting for?" Rotter asked, seeing Warchild pulling out a recliner.

"Dawn -- when the fleet goes out on a timer. Once we're on the interstate, I pull the transponder and we make a detour. Not before. No need to trip up alarms when you don't need to."

"You've done this before?"

"Get some shut-eye."