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time.”
    “You think there will be a next time?”
    “I’d bet money on it, boss. A disruption on that scale took a lot of time and money and talent. It wasn’t something a couple of high school hackers dreamed up just for the hell of it over chocolate shakes at the malt shop. We’ll see these guys again. They have something in mind, and that first time could have been a test run. Next go ’round, it could be worse.”
    “Find them before that happens, Jay.”
    “I’m working on it, believe me.”

    San Francisco, California

    The thing with professional bodyguards was that they were so predictable.
    Santos watched the pair escorting his target to a limo, and smiled. This computer guy was a low-priority item. With only two guards he was not seriously protected—somebody who was in real danger of being snatched or killed would have six or eight armed bodies working him, at a minimum, and if they were any good, you would only see the ones they wanted you to see, the others would either be out of sight or somebody you wouldn’t consider a guard or a threat: a woman pushing a baby carriage, an old man leaning on a cane, somebody who appeared to be something he or she was not.
    Mr. Ethan Dowling, of Silicon Valley, had only the two show guards, and these would be enough to keep honest people from bothering him. They might be tough and well-trained, but they were limited because they were right out there in plain sight. If all he wanted to do was kill Mr. Dowling, that would be easy: set up a hiding spot four or five hundred meters away, line up with a rifle, wait for the right moment, then spike him, end of mission.
    Santos had undergone the sniper training program from the rebel paramilitary organization Blue Star, which was almost exactly the same as the one used by the U.S. Navy SEALs. With a good bolt-action rifle, he could get off three aimed shots in less than two seconds. These days, you didn’t even have to worry about methods of estimating range. A good sniper scope would have a built-in range finder. Line it up, look at the readout, adjust your sights for elevation and windage, blam ! the man was dead before the sound of the bullet reached his ears. By the time the guards pulled their heads out of their asses, you could spike both of them, too, if you felt like it.
    But this was an information-gathering mission, not a simple assassination. He had to put the bodyguards out of commission, capture the target, get what he needed, then kill them all so their deaths would appear to have been an accident, which—despite what he had told Missy—was not so easy.
    Still, as he watched the limo pull away from the curb, with both guards in it—one driving, the other in the front seat—he was confident he could do the job. It would require a little preparation, but he had the resources of CyberNation at his disposal, including large amounts of electronic cash, and he would have all that he needed in a few hours. Throw enough money at some problems, they got buried. Just like Mr. Dowling and his two bodyguards were going to get buried—after he had what he needed.

    On the  Bon Chance

    Keller lay naked on his back on the bed, exhausted.
    Next to him, Jasmine Chance, as naked as he was, rolled over onto her belly and smiled at him.
    Keller said, “If Santos knew you were with me, what would he do?”
    She shrugged. “Probably nothing. He doesn’t own me.”
    “He strikes me as a man who might be prone to jealousy.”
    “Are you worried?”
    “Damned right. He could kill me with one hand.”
    “I bet he could do it without using his hands at all,” she said.
    “Great. I really need to hear this.”
    “Are you unhappy with the sex, Jackson?”
    “No. No, the sex is terrific. Very, uh, relaxing.”
    “That’s good. I don’t want you tense. How is the next attack shaping up?”
    “Almost done. A few more tweaks, some more security, we’re ready to launch.”
    “Excellent.”
    “That is, if Santos