But complications had set in, and without the means to reach orbit—he would have been arrested and executed as soon as he left the atmosphere—he was forced to accept the best black market medicine he could afford. It had been good enough to repair my leg, but that was exactly the kind of injury the war made commonplace. Complex damage to internal organs required an additional level of expertise which could simply not be bought on the black market.

So he’d died.

And here I was, chasing the man who’d killed Cahuella and his wife; aiming to take him down with a single diamond flechette from the clockwork gun.

Back before I became a security expert in the employment of Cahuella; back when I was still a soldier, they used to say that I was such a proficient sniper that I could put a slug into someone’s head and take out a specific area of brain function. It wasn’t true; never had been. But I’d always been good, and I did like to make it clean and quick and surgical.

I sincerely hoped Reivich wouldn’t let me down.

To my surprise, the secret passageway opened directly into the heart of the anchorpoint terminal, emerging in a shadowed part of the main concourse. I looked back at the security barrier which we’d avoided; watching the guards scan people for concealed weapons; checking identities in case a war criminal was trying to get off the planet. The clockwork gun, still snug in my pocket, wouldn’t have shown up in those scans, which was one of the reasons why I’d opted for it. Now I felt a tinge of irritation that my careful planning had been partially wasted.

“Gents,” Vasquez said, lingering on the threshold, “this is as far as I go.”

“I thought this place would be right up your street,” Dieterling said, looking around. “What’s wrong? Scared you’d never want to leave again?”