Flanked by his two watchful bodyguards, Vicious strode into the emergency room, his face more than normally expressionless. He hated hospitals. He hated the smells, hated the weakness and fear thickening the atmosphere, and despised the hypocrisy of doctors and nurses. He'd been admitted to a hospital only once, as a kid, and he'd left with the determination never to go into one again.

He made a few exceptions, however, and Kito was definitely one of them.

With his imposing presence and two dangerous-looking men at his side, he made his way to the desk easily, the crowd parting like water to allow him to pass. The duty nurse, already rattled, assigned an orderly to guide him to where Kito was being treated, a private room on the 21^st floor, without even being asked.

When he arrived, Kito was already up, allowing a nurse to settle his arm in a sling and put his jacket over his shoulders. The nurse looked afraid. Kito obviously was not wasting his charm in this place.

"Finally," he growled, "someone who's not going to tell me I should be in bed."

Vicious said mildly, "You don't look like you're dying."

For a second, Kito was poised on the edge of losing his temper. Then he grinned, and the nurse ducked out hurriedly. "I needed you," he said.

"I assume that's why you called me in."

"Not just to improve my mood." He frowned. "You hear what happened?"

"Not much. Just that you got hit. Was it Ferro?"

"Not him personally," Kito sneered, "but they were his men. They're idiots, they left a body behind. As for our boys, Matthews took two in the lungs, but they say he'll make it. Chen's dead, though." His expression had hardened.

"How did he get to you?" Vicious asked. When Kito was this angry, it was a good idea to keep him talking.

"That's not your concern. It's being handled."

"Why do you need me, then?"

Kito's eyes flicked to Vicious' two men, and both promptly left the room, taking up positions of guard outside. Vicious shut the door and looked curiously at Kito.

Kito said, "I want you to get Ferro."

"Kill him?" It was a stupid question, but Vicious was stunned. He was being given his first real hit, and it was huge.

"What do you think I want you to do, marry him? Kill the bastard. And I want you to make an example of him. Do it with some style. I know you can do that. Can you get to him?"

"Do we have anyone on the inside?"

"Not after today, we don't. Everyone's going to have their head under a rock."

"I'll need money, then, for some high-tech equipment."

Kito's brow twitched. "You already have a plan?"

"I have some ideas. It'll take me a day or two before they're a plan."

"You can have anything I've got. See my secretary for contacts. From now until Ferro's dead, on this job, you're talking as me. But I have one more condition."

"Name it." His mind was already working on the problem, like a dog with a meaty bone.

"I have a charity function to attend, a week from Saturday. It's a big press deal. I'll be there in a tux, with my wife, getting my picture taken as a fine upstanding citizen who's made a big contribution to the cause. That's when I want you to do it. While I'm there in front of all those cameras. My sources say Ferro will be home that night, so you'd have to get him on his own ground. Can you manage that?"

Vicious pondered it. "I don't know. I'll tell you tomorrow."

Kito had his mean look on again. "You do that."

~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ :~

Most men moved up in the syndicates slowly, gradually gaining trust and responsibilities as they proved themselves. Vicious felt as if he were moving up in leaps instead, from one crisis point to another. Focused on breaking Ferro's security, he worked under pressure, knowing that once more his career was balanced on his sword's edge. But he never stopped to wonder if he could do it.

Ferro's estate was actually a compound. Security had been stepped up after the failed attack on Kito, but Ferro had two weaknesses. One was that he had no imagination, so his extra security measures were predictable. The other was that he had a wife and two kids, which limited how deadly he could make the grounds directly around the house. That left a comfortably large area to use as a killing ground.

Besides his own expertise, Vicious needed the help of a few consultants. Normally he would have taken several weeks, spreading his contacts widely, to avoid alerting his target. With Kito dictating the deadline, however, he didn't have that luxury. Two different security specialists had warded Ferro's estate, so first Vicious learned everything he could about them and their techniques. Then, three days before the hit, he quietly kidnapped both, injected them with a slow-acting, lethal poison, and promised them the antidote when he returned safely from the job. They cooperated to his complete satisfaction.

He needed one person to watch his back, someone familiar with breaking security and whose brains and loyalty he could trust absolutely. But a traitor in the Red Dragons had fingered Kito, so until that person was dealt with, he could be sure of no one in his organization.

There really was, in the end, only one person he could turn to.

~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ :~

Crys stepped up into the truck and gazed around, impressed. Twenty monitors were arranged in a curve around a central station, and the bank of controls was so complex, even her training with the Hyenas didn't tell her what half of it did. On the far side of the main console, two men were bound to chairs, with the black bird perched over them. She was pleased Vicious still had the bird, even if he refused to give it a name.

The bound men were pale and frightened. Looking at them, she had to work to stifle her already-strained conscience. She knew the list of Ferro's crimes, and that the Hyenas would consider Ferro's death a reason to party for a week. These facts were small comfort when she wasn't really certain Vicious would let these two small fry live, and knowing she was here tonight to help him kill a man, even if it was someone who richly deserved it.. Everything about this went against what she wanted in her life. She was up to her neck in syndicate shit. And why? Because Vicious had looked soberly into her eyes and told her, If I fail, I'm dead. And you're the only person I trust with my life.

She loved him. She was a fool. But running her hands over the console, she saw that she could do the job. "This is first class."

Vicious was already changing into the black, specially-treated clothing that would get him past the infrared and thermal sensors. His head emerged from inside the slick cloth. "I wouldn't give you anything but the best."

"Even so, I still wish I hated you," she sighed, sinking into the command chair.

He didn't say anything, but as he passed her, he paused for just a moment to run a finger down her cheek. That single, very rare gesture of affection told her he knew how much he was asking of her. Still... She jumped up and caught him at the door. "There is an antidote, right?" she asked, keeping her voice down.

"I said there was."

"Then why won't you tell me where it is?"

He smiled. "Because they might ask you."

"So now you think I'm some kind of saint?" She gave him a push. "Go on. Do your dirty work, you bastard."

He faded into the night, so quietly that within seconds she no longer knew exactly where he was. She shut the door, set the controls, reviewed all the engaged monitors, and sat back in the command chair. The only monitor that was an actual television was showing coverage of the charity event Kito was attending, and she watched closely as she tucked the headpiece into her ear. "Testing"

"Loud and clear," came Vicious' murmur.

"I see your boss. He looks real cute in a tux."

"I'll tell him you said so. Going silent."

Nervously, she pushed the little speaker more tightly into her ear. She could hear sounds around Vicious, and even his breathing, but she wouldn't hear his voice again unless something went terribly wrong. She wiped her hands on her thighs and checked the progress of the software decoding the front gate's security lock. The monitors, married to Ferro's own, showed that Vicious had guessed right and the guards were concentrated at the back gate, the security chief believing that no one would have the nerve to waltz through in plain sight of the street. But when the combination was broken, he'd be exposed for only about three seconds. She glanced at the two bound men, and one leaned forward as far as he could. "Look, lady, you're not like him. Let us go. He knows everything he needs already. Just give us the antidote and let us go."

She snorted.

"Come on! I can tell you're a decent sort. I have a family. Kids. And I've told him everything!"

"You may have forgotten something," she said. "Or something may have changed."

The other man raged, "Forget it, Fred. She's his whore, she doesn't care."

Crys gave him a long look so full of deadly promise that he recalled his helplessness and shut up. "Wrong. I'm not a whore." She dismissed him and turned to the other man. "But Fred, the clown is right about one thing, at least. I don't care about you. So why don't you pay attention now? If you miss something, I won't be happy with you. And then you might not get that antidote."

The computer flashed out eleven numerals. She read them to Vicious, and a moment later one of the monitors showed the gate slide back enough to let Vicious through. She switched modes, and the dim scene became a complicated crisscross of heat sensor rays. The suit would keep them from detecting him, unless one roved over his face, and she concentrated on guiding him so that wouldn't happen.

For the next half hour, ignoring the weight of tension in her stomach, Crys helped Vicious past obstacle after obstacle ­ motion, sound, heat, color, and DNA sensors, a laser web, a neo-sound wall, and live guards and dogs. Vicious avoided the latter and competently disabled the others as he went, one after another, each time muting the interrupt and back up alarms as well, taking his time, making no mistakes. In one place she had to press Fred for advice, but for the rest, it was just her and Vicious.

Then something moved in one of the fringe monitors. Unexpectedly, the front gate rolled back and a dark limousine nosed up. Crys' hands clenched, and she quickly lifted them off the console. Ferro. Dammit, the informants said he wouldn't be arriving for at least another hour. He was supposed to be dropping his wife at some party up town.  She cursed. "Vicious, it's Ferro. He's early." 

He tapped his microphone once, letting her know he understood.

"How long before you're in place?"

A series of staccato taps told her. "Ten minutes. Shit. All right, let me see what I can do to hold him up."

With one eye on the clock and one on Vicious as he moved silently, ever closer to position, she tied her hair up into a bun as Ferro's limo glided through the gate and onto the long driveway. Then she dialed Ferro's private hotline, positioning herself so the video wouldn't show the interior of the truck. "Mr. Ferro? Please, this is Lillian."

His small, dark eyes squinted at her suspiciously. "Who?"

"Lillian. I'm the night maid, sir."

As Vicious had told her, even in these dangerous times, Ferro had never bothered to learn his servants' names and faces, leaving those details to his wife and his security chief. So he didn't question her, just demanded why she was calling him on this line. She said, "Mrs. Ferro told me to do it, sir. She says she left her purse somewhere. I couldn't find it, so she thinks it's in the car."

"Tell her that's too bad, live without it."

"But, sir! I don't dare! Could I meet you at the door? If you could bring it from the car, I'll be happy to drive it to her at the party."

For a second, she thought she'd failed, but then he snarled, "Oh, all right. But I don't see the damned thing."

"When you get here, I could help you look..." She trailed off with a whimper, then crossed her fingers.

"I'll find it," he snapped. "You just be ready to go. I have more important things to do than fetch purses."

"Yes, sir! I'll be there!" She clicked off the phone and told Vicious, "You have until he finishes looking through that limo."

One tap acknowledged her.

Great. I just had a conversation with a walking dead man. This is really how I wanted to spend a Saturday night. She absently reached out a wrist to the bird, but it declined the invitation. It had been totally Vicious' creature since the day they met. Smiling ruefully, she turned back to the monitors.

She couldn't see Vicious at all, even knowing exactly where he was trying to go. Ferro had kept his wife's landscaping creativity to a minimum, but there were still azaleas around the walkway to the house, and although they were cropped low, they allowed plenty of shelter for Vicious. She just hoped he was already close to being in position, as he'd indicated he would be.

The car pulled to a stop, and three men got out. Ferro, in a pale cape-coat, gestured grandly to the other two, and they leaned into the back of the limo, probably looking for the purse. When Ferro was satisfied it wasn't there, he yelled something, then dismissed the car with an irritated jerk of his arm. Both men straightened, one shut the limo's door, and the car pulled away again. Flanked by his bodyguards, Ferro shoved his hands into his pockets and strode toward his front door.

When he rose, Vicious was just a shadow, a black space against the darkness. She him move, saw the glint of starlight from his sword, and then the three heads went flying, round balls bouncing on the ground seconds before the bodies collapsed, just like in a cartoon.

She put her hand over her mouth. She couldn't throw up. She still had to get Vicious out of there, quickly, resetting all the security, and without being detected.

Nearly an hour later, she met him outside the truck. He wasn't smiling or in any way showing triumph. Just another night's work. But he did hug her and thank her. She said, "Those two men in the truck, those security guys. They know who did this. You're going to kill them, aren't you?"

"No. There's no percentage in it. They work for the Dragons, too, you know. We'll need them again." He rubbed her shoulders. "You're tense. You worry too much."

She pushed his hands away. "Don't ever, ever ask me to do syndicate work again. Not for any reason."

He stared at her a moment, then nodded. "I understand."

"Good." She turned and walked to her car without looking back.

~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ :~

Without much interest, Spike caught the video report of the death of Ronald J. Ferro, a businessman with "suspected ties to organized crime," but he got the real story from his current girlfriend, Sally, a dealer in the Golden Star Casino. The gambling satellite was the closest he'd been to Mars since leaving it two years ago, and he was still four years too young to legally go through the doors. Doohan would kill him if he found out. But he'd wanted to see it, and he talked Sally into finding a way. She'd filched one of the uniforms used by the casino's runners, the teenaged gofers who ran the errands that were beneath the dignity of the waitresses. Wearing the stupid-looking uniform, he'd be almost invisible.

She was helping him into it while she filled him in on Ferro's funeral. "Of course you couldn't tell his head was cut off. I mean, the undertaker fixed that all up." Sally's worst fault was talking in a breathy way that emphasized the smallest thing.

He shrugged into the green coat. It was stiff and cheap. The casinos didn't waste money on their runners. "Then how do you know? Sounds like a story to me."

"I told you. Rija dates a guy whose brother works at the mortuary."

"And he thinks somebody snuck onto a gangster's estate and just whacked the heads off three guys, huh? Guys with guns? Come on."

"OK, don't believe me. But that's what everyone's saying."

He settled the stiff, round little hat at a rakish angle. "Never mind that. How do I look?"

She looked him up and down. "Like a tall skinny monkey."

"It had better be because of the uniform."

"Of course it is," she giggled. She took his arm and led him inside. "Now stick close to me. We can't keep this up for long. We just go through, give you a look around. And if we run into anybody, let me do the talking."

He agreed, although he had no intention of obeying her. He was pretty sure that, once he'd gotten an idea of what the casino was like, he could change back into his suit and find a way to hang out without being caught. Sally had been teaching him the tricks of the dealers, and he was looking forward to seeing if he could spot them. Maybe he'd even sit down at a table. Maybe Sally's, and scare her half to death. He smiled at the thought.

The casino floor was loud, crowded, and full of distractions, but no challenge to a guy used to flying races. He was just beginning to enjoy himself when Sally pinched his arm, and he saw the runner heading towards them. Then she relaxed. "Oh, it's just Jake. He's all right."

Jake was a head shorter than Spike, with a round freckled face and red-gold hair that stuck out at angles from under the hat. He looked familiar, but Spike couldn't place him until he stopped in front of them, staring, with his mouth open and pale green eyes going wide. "Spike?"

The eyes were what Spike remembered, and he gaped back. "Roach??"

"Aw, come on, nobody calls me that now!" He rocked on his heels, staring at Spike and shaking his head. "Son of a bitch! Nobody's seen you since you left the District! Hey, you grew."

"You didn't." He couldn't help grinning. Just seeing Roach again brought it all back, the danger and the fun of the District, the camaraderie of his little circle of boyhood friends.

"So what are you doing here? Shit, buddy, we have to have a long talk, catch up with each other! When did you get hired?"

"Uh..."

Roach looked resignedly at Sally. "Sneaking in another one, huh?"

"What's the harm?" she demanded.

"Sally, he's my age, and you always said I was too young for you."

"I'm not getting into this," Sally scowled. "Since you two know each other, why don't I just go to my table and get out of the way of the big reunion?"

She flounced off, and both young men laughed. Roach grabbed Spike's shoulders and shook him, then started to drag him away. "Come on, we can talk in the runners' room. I can't believe I'm seeing you! We all figured you were dead, or gone upscale on us. What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Racing. Monoracers."

"Damn. Leave it to you to be doing something cool."

"Working in a casino isn't cool?"

"It will be when I've worked my way up a bit. Being a runner is just one step from being on the streets." He opened a battered door and ushered Spike into a lounge which, with its mismatched furniture and out-dated food equipment, gave mute testimony to Roach's statement. But its casual messiness made Spike feel at home, and he draped himself on one of the couches. Roach fetched a six-pack of beer and sat beside him, and over the next couple of hours, breaking only occasionally when interrupted by other runners, the two of them hashed over old times, caught up on news of the rest of Spike's District friends, and laughed over how different their lives had turned out from what they'd expected.

Not everything was funny. Of the four who had been the core of a loose gang, Tiger was dead, the victim of a random drive-by shooting, and Sammy was in prison for drug smuggling, a fate Roach had narrowly missed. "I was with him, but they didn't spot me. You know, he'll be out in ten years. We should have a reunion," Roach grinned.

In the mysterious way such things become known on the street, Roach had heard about the death of Spike's mother. Spike brushed aside his sympathy with impatience, so Roach said only, "Too bad. She was a really gorgeous woman," as if only ugly ones should have to die. "But why would a syndicate hit on your mom?"

"Who said it was a syndicate?"

Roach rolled his eyes. "You've been stuck in that desert too long, if you don't know a hit when you see one."

The whole subject made Spike's skin feel prickly. "She worked for the syndicates sometimes. Maybe she messed up."

"Must've been big time, then." Seeing Spike's expression, he smoothly changed the subject, saying, "Remember that kid from two years ahead of us, Jacko, who thought your mom was so hot? He's here, in the casino. He's a bouncer now."

Spike rolled his eyes. "I suppose he's still got the IQ of a tapeworm?"

"Worse than ever. But you don't need brains to be a bouncer. Actually," he admitted, "you don't have to be too sharp to be a runner, but runners can change. Once a bouncer, always a bouncer."

"I'll try to keep that bit of wisdom in mind."

~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ :~

Rolf Mueller "owned" the casino, which meant that he was a front man for the syndicate, but his lifestyle suited his role. Looking through the simple two-way glass, Vicious saw an office furnished so luxuriously that the kid waiting there seemed, and obviously felt, painfully out of place.

Vicious wanted to just go in there, grab the kid, and shake out whatever information he had. In all this time, this was his first real lead to finding Spike. But he recognized the kid as one of those who used to hang around with Spike in the District, and while Jacob "Roach" Bell might be willing to take the reward Vicious had offered, friendship might interfere. He'd already resisted several threats from Mueller's boys, insisting on speaking directly to Vicious and no one else. Now he was sitting in one of Mueller's deep leather chairs, twisting his hands together, sweating a bit, and giving off all the signs of someone who was beginning to second-guess himself.

Mueller eyed the kid with contempt and said, "He works for me. I can scare him into talking."

"I don't think that's wise," Vicious said quietly. "We may need him again sometime. And I want to be sure I have the truth. So I talk to him alone. And in private," he added, yanking the power cylinder from the monitoring console. As the ruined machine sparked and crackled behind him, he asked blandly, "Any problem with that?"

Mueller stared at the wreckage and swallowed a protest. "No! None. Whatever you want. I've got things I have to do anyway."

"Good. Thank you. I'll remember this."

Mollified, Mueller held the door for him.

In the office, the kid jumped up when Vicious came through the door. Vicious smiled and said, "Roach, isn't it?"

"You remember me? We only met once!"

"I remember. Sit down. And ask your question."

"Question?" Pale, the kid sank back into his chair.

"It's all over your face. If you're tongue-tied, let me try to guess what it is and answer it for you." He sat on the edge of the desk, reducing his height and menace without reducing his authority. "If you remember me at all, from back then, then you remember I was Spike's friend."

"Yeah. That's what he said."

"It was true. It's still true. You have no reason to accept my word, but I'll give it anyway. I haven't been looking for Spike all these years just to hurt him."

"Then why do you want to find him?"

"We were friends. I don't have a lot of friends."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

The green eyes narrowed suspiciously. The kid wasn't a total idiot. "You're offering a lot of money just to look up an old friend."

"Money doesn't mean much to me."

He spoke the truth, as far as it went, and he could see the change as the kid decided to trust him. "Well, it means a lot to me," Roach grinned, and inside Vicious, the coils of impatient violence that he'd been controlling so rigidly now unwound and relaxed.

"You'll have it. And a better job. I'm not sure you'll be too popular here, since you refused to give your message to Mueller."

"I figured he'd just horn in on the action."

"You figured right."

"You mean it? I can get out of here?"

"I mean it. But don't think I'm doing it for you. I'll do it because Spike wouldn't like it if I left you here after you helped me find him."

"You're probably right." Roach was almost glowing with pleasure, despite his effort to seem cool. Vicious estimated he would probably last another year or two, no more, even as just a syndicate gofer.

"So where is Spike?"

"I don't know the exact place, but I know pretty close. He's on Earth. He's been living there with some guy named Doohan."

The name jolted Vicious. He remembered questioning Doohan at the space port. The face came to him, tough, weathered, and shrewd. Obviously he hadn't questioned the old man forcibly enough.

Roach rattled on, "He's been monoracing. I don't have any contacts in that area, or I'd have more specific coordinates. But from what I hear, Doohan's a kind of living legend. Anyone on the race circuit would probably know where to find him. Or this." He pulled out a photo and handed it to Vicious.

Roach meant the red monoracer in the background, but Vicious didn't even see it. Spike was in the foreground. He was actually looking at Spike. Older, taller, with broader shoulders and shorter hair, but unmistakably Spike, leaning with typical insouciance on the ship, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Spike wasn't dead, but alive and even thriving. And, apparently, still clinging to the Swordfish. Why had he let that lead drop after the first few days?

He stared for so long that Roach cleared his throat before saying, "Can I have that back? He gave it to me."

With an effort, Vicious lifted his eyes and handed the picture back. He felt weirdly detached as he took out his phone and gave orders for Roach's reward. He hadn't realized how close he'd been to giving up hope of ever finding Spike again, and in a half-dazed state he thanked Roach and sent him away, then got back on the phone and arranged for all his business to wait until he made an emergency run to Earth.

One of his men had tracked down Doohan's coordinates by the time he reached his own ship. He called Crys and gave her the news just before entering the Gate. He smiled at her enthusiastic reaction, and was still smiling when the ruined hulk of Earth rolled beneath him.