Gillian stepped behind the screen where she buckled the belt containing the Beryllium slugs around her waist before putting her clothes back on. “So,” Gillian said as she emerged, “what do you think?”

  E’Lan was standing in front of a podium-style terminal eyeing the data that scrolled in front of her. “It looks like you’re equipped with solid Level Four implants complete with virtual intelligence chips. It’s a good setup, better than average actually, but we can improve on it.”

  “By how much?”

  “I think you could expect a ten percent or better increase in power—along with an equivalent improvement where duration is concerned. But I’ll be able to give you a better idea after we receive a technical download from the facility where your amps were installed.”

  Gillian frowned. Would the academy cooperate? And if so, how much time would the process consume? “How long will that take?”

  “Oh, a couple of weeks should do it,” E’Lan said breezily. “Then we’ll put you on the schedule for an upgrade.”

  “You don’t understand,” Gillian said tightly. “I need the amps now. Today.”

  It wasn’t clear how they had been summoned, but suddenly two additional asari entered the room, and they were dressed in matching suits of light armor. And even though nothing had been said Gillian sensed that they were biotics. Powerful biotics. E’Lan smiled gently. “Then I’m afraid we won’t be able to help you. We require a full workup before we can perform an upgrade. The ethical guidelines we adhere to are very clear in that regard.”

  Gillian was down on the street ten minutes later. She was very disappointed. But not about to give up. “Where there’s a will there’s a way.” That’s what Hendel liked to say. And Gillian would find the way.

  Kai Leng was going to kill both Gillian Grayson and Hal McCann—but had chosen to kill the ex-Cerberus employee first. Because McCann could leave the Citadel at any time and Leng figured the teenager would stick around for a while.

  Then, once both sanctions were completed, Leng would go to work on retrieving Grayson’s body. A much more difficult task since it was being held in the biological evidence section of C-Sec’s Forensic Lab. A reality that the Illusive Man wasn’t aware of or didn’t care about. Not that it mattered because Leng took pride in solving such problems.

  So as darkness settled over the Citadel, and most of the population went to their various homes, what Leng thought of as the night people began to take over. Some, like Leng, were predators. And some, like McCann, were prey. And finding them, especially on such a huge space station, would require patience.

  Still, on most planets the wild game could be depended upon to visit a watering hole come sundown, which in this case meant a bar or club. The problem was that there were hundreds if not thousands of such establishments on the Citadel.

  But as Leng left his apartment, and went down to the street, he had a pretty good idea of how to narrow the possibilities. McCann was an inveterate gambler. As such, he was likely to favor those establishments that offered games of chance as well as alcohol.

  The first place on Leng’s list was a club called Flux. It was easy to reach from the upper wards and was located near the markets. A cane was a sign of weakness. So Leng left it at home. Each step produced a twinge of pain. But a limp could attract the wrong sort of attention too—so he forced himself to walk normally.

  Leng knew where he was going but stopped to consult a public terminal so he could check his six. It was silly. He knew that. But the comment about the cane had wormed its way into his head. Just as the Illusive Man had intended.

  What made the situation so ridiculous was the fact that spotting the individual assigned to watch him wouldn’t make any difference. He would still do what he had been assigned to do the way he planned to do it. But the fact that he could be watched without detecting the person carrying out the surveillance was not only an affront to his pride but dangerous, because Cerberus had enemies. Lots of them.

  The effort was to no avail. Either the Illusive Man’s operative was very, very good or had the night off. So Leng followed a steady stream of people toward the markets before taking the turn that led him to the Flux. It was a relatively new nightclub with a bar and dance floor on the main level and a casino on the mezzanine.

  The music was loud, the place was packed with young professionals, and, as Leng entered the bar area, there was no sign of McCann. But that wasn’t too surprising, because if the ex-Cerberus employee was present, he would probably be one level up. Still, it paid to be careful, so Leng checked the men’s room before climbing the stairs to the casino.

  It wasn’t as crowded as the first floor, but was still doing a respectable business, judging from the fact that most of the tables were in use. At this point more stealth was called for because Leng had no way to know how McCann would react to the sudden arrival of a Cerberus operative. Would it be a case of hail-fellow-well-met? Or would the life support tech bolt?

  Leng had left all of the Forbes identity back at the apartment, including the peel-off face that made him look fifteen years older than he actually was. But he couldn’t wander around looking like himself, not if he planned to kill someone, so he was wearing a second disguise. One that had the effect of pushing his hairline back, flattening his nose, and emphasizing his cheekbones. It was a tough-looking face and appropriate for hanging out in bars. It was also attractive, to some women anyway, and it wasn’t long before Leng felt someone touch his arm. “Hi, honey, it’s good to see you again.”

  They had never met, and both of them knew it, but Leng played along. “You too … I like your dress. What there is of it.”

  The woman’s hair was an unlikely shade of green and she was wearing a dress that consisted of two tubes of elastic cloth. One hugged her breasts and the other covered her hips. The fabric sparkled as light hit it. The compliment produced a smile. “Less is more.”

  “How true … Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Yes, please. A Nova would be nice.”

  Leng left her standing next to a waist-high table and went over to the casino’s bar. Then, as the bartender came over to serve him, he activated the omni-tool. The picture of McCann was ready. “Have you seen my buddy? We were supposed to meet up here.”

  The volus shook his head. “I’ve had no contact with that individual.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll have a Nova and a shot of sake. Honzo if you have it.”

  Armed with the drinks Leng returned to the table. The woman’s name was Marcy, and he let her natter on about her job as a hairdresser for a while, before punching up the picture of McCann. “This guy owes me two hundred credits. Have you seen him? He likes to gamble—so he might visit the casino from time to time.”

  Marcy looked at the picture and shook her head. “No, I haven’t.” When she looked up at him Leng realized that her eyes matched her hair. “What will you do to him?”

  “I’ll squeeze him until my credits come out,” Leng responded.

  “Squeezing can be nice.”

  Leng grinned. “We were made for each other. Will you be here tomorrow?”

  Marcy looked disappointed. “Probably.”

  “Good. I’ll have my two hundred credits by then and you can help me spend them.”

  Marcy brightened. “That sounds like fun.”

  “It will be,” Leng promised, as he finished the sake. “Be careful out there.” And with that he left.

  The next place on Leng’s list was the Dark Star Lounge. It was located on the twenty-eighth floor of a high-rise with a spectacular view of the Presidium ring. And as Leng made his way past a fancy restaurant and into a very quiet bar, he realized that the Dark Star was an unlikely habitat for a working stiff like McCann. Still, he was there, so it made sense to stroll between the gaming tables and eyeball the formally clad clientele. As expected, McCann was nowhere to be seen, and that included the casino area, where muted applause signaled a win.

  So having checked the Dark Star Lounge, Leng left for what he hoped would be a more productive hunting ground. And that was the dive called Chora’s Den. The trip took a good twenty minutes but the moment he walked inside Leng knew it was the sort of place McCann would gravitate to. There was a central bar with private booths all around the perimeter of the room. And each booth was equipped with a terminal on which a wide variety of virtual games could be played.

  Slowly, so as to avoid attracting undue attention, Leng circled the room. But much to his disappointment McCann was nowhere to be seen. There were other bars. Lots of them. But rather than leave for the next place on the list Leng decided to rest his leg and hang around for a while. He took a seat that offered an unobstructed view of the main entrance and ordered a sake.

  Some bars were set up to cater to a specific race, but Chora’s Den had a very diverse clientele. And while Leng didn’t like most aliens, there was no denying that the asari dancer who occupied the platform at the very center of the bar was fun to look at, and when she winked at him he winked back.

  But in spite of the entertainment the next hour passed slowly, too slowly, and Leng was about to leave when Hal McCann walked through the door. Leng put his head down as the ex-Cerberus employee paused to look around. Then, having seen Leng but not recognized him, McCann made his way to an empty booth. After shoving a chip into the terminal he began to play. The light from the screen gave his face a bluish cast.

  Now there was a decision to be made. Leng could sit down next to McCann, engage him in conversation, and slash his femoral artery. McCann would lose consciousness in about thirty seconds—and bleed out within three minutes. Plenty of time for an escape. But McCann might make noise and it was impossible to know how the other customers would react.

  The other possibility was to wait for McCann to go to the men’s room and take him out there. That could get complicated if the can was being used by others—but Leng figured he could schmooze McCann long enough to get him alone.

  There should have been a third option, which was to follow McCann out onto the street, but Leng wasn’t sure his leg was up to a brisk walk, never mind the possibility of a chase. So he ordered another shot of sake and settled in to wait. Fifteen minutes later McCann was still sitting in his booth and Leng needed to pee. So he went into the filthy men’s room, and was standing in front of a urinal, when McCann stepped into the slot right next to him. Leng flushed and zipped his fly. “Hey, Hal, how’re you doing?”

  McCann turned to look at the stranger and frowned. “Do I know you?”

  “It’s your old friend, Kai Leng.”

  McCann had stepped away from the urinal by that time. The first expression to appear on his face was one of pleasure. The second reflected concern. “You’re wearing a disguise. Why?”

  “That’s what I do,” Leng replied lightly, as he placed himself between McCann and the exit. “You know that.”

  McCann’s right arm was dangling at his side. There must have been a long narrow pocket on his pants leg, because the telescoping baton seemed to materialize out of nowhere. There was a loud click as four sections of spring steel shot out of the handle and locked themselves in place. “Don’t try to spin me, Kai … The Illusive Man sent you.”

  “Okay, he sent me,” Leng agreed, he eyed the baton. “So let’s get this over with.”

  McCann raised his left hand, and Leng blocked the downward blow, but took a knee in the crotch. Or would have except he turned his hips at the last moment and took the blow on his right thigh. McCann charged him. The weight of the other man’s body slammed Leng against the wall. He saw an opening, brought the heel of a hand up, and hit McCann’s jaw. That sent the other man reeling. He hit the opposite wall and slid to the floor. Eager to finish the fight, Leng went after him.

  Desperate to defend himself, McCann lashed out. The steel shaft made a whirring sound as it cut through the air and struck Leng’s leg. His right leg. Leng heard himself scream as he fell. But even then his mind was working. Did McCann know about his wound? No, the location of the strike was a matter of bad luck.

  Leng rolled onto his back as McCann struggled to stand. A professional would have delivered a blow at Leng’s exposed head—or made good his escape at that point. But McCann was pleased with himself and wanted to savor the moment. “Well, well. So much for the famous Kai Leng. I know how you feel about aliens. How’s it feel to roll around in their piss?”

  “You tell me,” Leng said through gritted teeth, as he pulled the knife out from under his waist-length jacket. The needle-sharp point passed down through the top of McCann’s boot and hit the floor. McCann let go of the baton to grab his foot. A steady stream of swear words could be heard as he took two hops and fell.

  Having recovered the baton, Leng pounced on McCann, pressed the steel rod down on his windpipe, and applied all of his weight. The other man’s eyes bulged, and his back arched, as he tried to push Leng away. Then McCann jerked convulsively and it was over.

  Leng rolled off the body, paused to recover the knife, and came to his feet. It wasn’t easy to drag McCann’s body into a stall, and prop him up on a toilet, but the effort was worth it. Chances were that it would be closing time before anyone discovered the body. And Leng would be long gone by then. So there was plenty of time to wash up, swallow a pain tab, and leave the premises. It was, all things considered, a job well done.

  FIVE

  ON THE CITADEL

  Having failed to obtain an upgrade from the asari Biotics Guild, Gillian was determined to get it somewhere else. And that was why she agreed to follow a man named Horst Acara down into the depths of the red ward. He was a bit overweight, dressed in a shabby business suit, and looked back occasionally as if to make sure that she hadn’t deserted him. Each time he did so a smile appeared on his moonlike face. “Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

  It had grown warmer for some reason, and as Gillian followed Acara down an ancient passageway the steady thump, thump, thump of what might have been a giant heart was at work somewhere nearby. There were no aliens to be seen. Just tired, hollow-eyed humans, lounging in doorways, sitting on stoops watching whatever happened to pass by. They had entered the ghetto known as Hu-Town. A place where humans who had been unable to find success with the Citadel’s alien-dominated society often wound up. Their bitterness was plain to see on the graffiti-covered walls and in the professionally produced ads that crawled the walls. One of them read, “Cerberus will sound the call. Be ready.”

  Ready for what? Gillian wondered. Not that it mattered. Her purpose was to kill the man in charge of the organization. People like Anderson and Kahlee could worry about the politics of it.

  “We’re almost there,” Acara said for the fifth or sixth time. “These quarters are just temporary mind you. We’ll be moving up to one of the higher levels soon.”

  Gillian had met Acara in the markets, where the salesman had a poorly positioned one-man kiosk off in a gloomy corner. A spot so remote Gillian would never have noticed it if she hadn’t been looking for an out-of-the-way place to eat her lunch. But having seen the sign that read CUSTOM AMPS, Gillian went to investigate. That was when Acara launched into his sales pitch. The problem, he claimed, was that all of the major providers were set up to force an entire suite of proprietary amps onto users, and then hold them captive by refusing to create cross-platform applications. A strategy aimed at building market share and limiting competition.

  However, thanks to the virtual intelligence chips devised by Custom Amps, it was possible to mix and match implants from different manufacturers, thereby providing biotics with increased power and duration. That was music to Gillian’s ears as was the company’s willingness to service clients on a demand basis.

  Did that mean they were hard up for customers? Yes, Gillian figured it did. But Acara’s pitch appealed to both her rebellious sensibility and the need for additional offensive and defensive capability. “Here we are,” Acara said, as they turned into a side passageway. A sign that read CUSTOM AMPS winked monotonously as the salesman entered a code into the keypad, and the door hissed out of the way. The air that invaded Gillian’s nostrils was tinged with ozone and the faint odor of curry. Boxes of miscellaneous gear were stacked against both sides of the entryway, leaving very little room to walk.

  The corridor opened into a reception area that didn’t have a receptionist but was furnished with a rumpled bed. A salarian was flaked out on it sound asleep. “Dr. Sani is a workaholic,” Acara explained, “so he sleeps here sometimes. Hey, doc, wake up. We have a visitor. Gillian here wants to buy some amps.”

  Sani turned over, opened his eyes, and said something unintelligible. Then having spotted Gillian he rolled onto his feet. The salarian had the long narrow face typical of his race, a slightly downturned mouth, and a slender body. Big luminous eyes blinked as he spoke. “Welcome. No offense, but you don’t look like a biotic.”

  Gillian felt a sense of annoyance, shaped some of the energy available around her, and gave it purpose. “Whoa! Put me down,” Acara insisted, as Gillian lifted him up off the floor.

  “You are more than you appear to be,” Sani said tactlessly, as Gillian put Acara down. “Please follow me.”

  The lighting grew brighter as the salarian led the way into what was obviously intended to be a lab, but looked nothing like the sleek, well-organized facility that the Biotics Guild ran. Racks of equipment lined the walls, cables ran every which way, and the table at the center of the space looked like salvage from an old med clinic. “We don’t go for the fancy stuff,” Acara said by way of explanation. “That keeps the overhead down.”

  “Take your clothes off,” Sani ordered, “and lay facedown on the table.”

  Gillian frowned. “What? No gown?”

  “Sorry,” Sani said, as he opened a locker. “Here.”

  The gown he gave her had clearly been worn before. Gillian looked from the garment over to Dr. Sani. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  The salarian’s look of perpetual disapproval remained unchanged. “I can double your power—and triple the time available to use it.”