Did Drake know that Sam was still alive? If so, he would continue trying to kill him. Perhaps the fiery destruction of the panzer had made Drake’s tool Tessien believe that both Sam and Begay had perished in the wreck. Jacqueline had implied as much. Lofwyr’s statement that Sam was an “unanticipated player” also confirmed the notion. If Drake believed that Sam was dead, that slim advantage might allow Sam to get to Drake first.

Sam looked down at the mess he had made. He’d never be able to explain it away if he was here when Wilson returned, which could be any minute now. He had to get out, fast. He popped Lofwyr’s chip, hoping that the abrupt exit might damage Wilson’s precious files. While removing the evidence of his presence, he noticed a few cartridges with the Genomics proprietary seal. He tossed them into his case. Before heading the the door, he cleaned himself off as best he could. If he looked too out of place or hurried too much, he’d never get off the premises.

Can you tell me where I might find Dr. Wilson?” he asked the secretary.

“He left in such a hurry. Mr. Voss… I could call around and find him for you.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ve finished here and left a message for the doctor in his office, It’s nothing urgent. No need to disturb him.”

Sam walked down the corridor, wishing that he could run all the way to the airstrip. He felt dirty, as though he were walking through a cesspit instead of the shining white walls and spotless floors of Genomics. He wanted to be clean again. Each stop at a security station was an agony as he anticipated an alarm. None came, but he didn’t relax again until long after Lofwyr’s jet had lifted him into the sky.

39

“I’m telling you, Crenshaw, I don’t like it.”

“And I’m telling you to shut up.”

“But it’s dangerous out here,” Addison whined. “I’d rather be back in my cubicle, decking against the Special Directorate I know how to handle IC.”

The hour was still early and most of the native wildlife hadn’t crawled out from whatever smelly holes they hid in during the day, but Addison crowded her as though he feared the dilapidated buildings themselves might try to bite him. She didn’t like the Puyallup Barrens any better, but she knew enough not to show fear in the face of a predator. At the very least, there would be several watching from shadowed alleys or darkened glass-toothed windows. Addison’s nervousness could mark them as outsiders, targets. If that triggered an attack, his nearness could hamper her response. She could get hurt.

She backhanded him across the shoulder and widened the distance. He blinked in surprise. “Just shut up. Keep talking and it will get dangerous. If this deal goes sour because of you, you can try walking back to the arcology.”

“All the way from here?”

“Don’t worry. You probably won’t make it out of Puyallup.”

He scurried to catch up.

One block up, they reached their destination, a dive named Olaf’s. The sign buzzed and crackled as the letters still lit struggled to join the already dead “a.” Huddled by the door were two chipheads. One mumbled a disjointed litany of the sensations swirling through her dying brain, while the other fumbled through the usual sob-story. Crenshaw hurried past, then had to pull Addison away from the grasping hands of the panhandler.

The din of what passed for music was loud even before Crenshaw opened the door. Once inside, the noise was near-deafening. But she knew why the patrons liked it that way. It kept them from hearing the retching at the next table or a fight in the booth behind. More important, no conversation could be overheard.

She adjusted her eyes and saw that, like the streets, the crowd was sparse. She’d be done with her business and long gone before the regulars started to show up for their nightly party. That was fine with her; the regulars at a place like this tended to be toughs who thought they owned the streets and expected to be treated like kings. They were excitable and arrogant, and most of them smelled bad.

Addison stumbling along in her wake, she strode past the bar toward the back room. The barkeep caught the credstick she tossed and leaned to press the stud that unlocked the door.

Once inside the small room and with the door closed, the noise level dropped. Overhead, a small fan chopped ineffectually at air already thick with the odor of crowded humanity. A harsher, more vile stench oozed from the peeling walls and battered furnishings. Crenshaw crossed the room to put her back to the wall opposite the door. Addison followed, nervously eyeing the occupants.

One of the quartet of Orks who almost filled half the room did an imitation of the decker’s body language. His companions roared with laughter. Their amusement didn’t touch the two norms in the other half, who sat as far from the Orks as from each other. The one nearer the door was thin, almost cadaverous, with metal gleaming from beneath his shirt sleeves and from the implanted shields over his eyes. The other had no obvious cyberware, and seemed as nervous as Addison, The two norms watched Crenshaw and waited, She waited, too, for the Orks’ laughter to die down.

“Good evening. I’m Johnson, and this is my associate Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith will be providing Matrix cover and research as necessary. He will also serve as contact point should any of you wish to pass information outside of arranged meetings.”

The thin man snorted. “Well, well. Shoulda guessed it was you was the Mr. Johnson. I’d heard you’d moved into this burg, and the ad had your style. Thought you’d clawed up the ladder, A. C. Get your ass trimmed or you just sprawling for a thrill, like the rich folks do?”

“Nice to see you, too, Ridley,” she lied. She hadn’t liked him when he worked for Mitsuhama and nothing had changed that. But like has nothing to do with it, she reminded herself. It was business and he was good in the shadows. “New arm?”

Ridley flexed his right arm and stroked the satin-buffed foil sheath that was its skin. “Previously owned. Yak hack tried to geek me with it, but he wasn’t fast enough. I ripped it off to compensate for the trouble he put me to. Nice piece of work, so I kept it.”

“You fast enough with it?” one of the Orks asked.

“Try me, tusker.”

The Ork snarled and sprang at his chair, drawing a wicked knife from her boot sheath. She got no further because the biggest of the four grabbed her by the collar and slammed her back into her seat.

“Keep it friendly. Sheila.”

Sheila said nothing, but her eyes promised Ridley a reckoning.

“You in charge?” Crenshaw asked the big Ork.

“Dat’s right, Mr. J. I’m Kham and my guys are de best muscle gang on dis side of Seattle.”

“Not gonna claim the whole town?” Ridley scoffed.