"I will never get the smell out," Kiu grimaced, gesturing Vicious forward into the small hidden office. "The gods only know how long he was in here."

Vicious said absently, "Less than two months." He glanced around, but there was little to see. The clean-up had been thorough. Either that, or Richie Carpetti had been a very neat man. He kept his hands relaxed, driving out the frustration, focusing, trying to find something that might help him. Whatever clues he found would have to be here, in this bare little room. Kiu wasn't in the same line of work as Richie, so he knew none of Richie's contacts and was useless. If Vicious started poking around looking for those contacts, Kito was bound to want to know why, and that was something Vicious didn't want to explain. Even this questioning of Kiu would be hard enough to justify, once it got back to Kito. "What killed him?"

"Who knows? Perhaps a heart attack."

"No bullets? No knife wounds?"

"No, nothing like that. Why? Do you think he had an enemy?"

"Just wondering."

Kiu shifted. "Look, I must get ready to open the shop."

"Go ahead. I'll close up here."

"I do not know what you are looking for, but you have no more than ten minutes to find it. After that, I must shut the door and hide this room, and you must remain until a time it is safe to open it again. I have to maintain appearances."

Vicious nodded, relieved when Kiu left. If he couldn't find anything in ten minutes, then he never would, but he couldn't concentrate, not with the mixed distractions of Kiu's chatter and his own knowledge that he was probably at another dead end. Crys' calls to the spaceports had been coming up empty, and the truancy lists she'd managed to obtain were so extensive, it would take both of them weeks to sift through them, and more weeks to follow up on only the most likely leads. Two months had passed, and that wasn't a long time, but he felt a sense of urgency he couldn't explain. He had to find Spike while his influence was still strong over the boy, before Spike found someone else to befriend and mentor him. And before their mother found a way to separate them emotionally as well as physically. He didn't know why he believed she was trying to do so, but he was certain of it. He couldn't allow that.

There was an old-fashioned pen on the desk, on a slate blotter. Richie's apartment had been a mixture of advanced technical equipment and antiques, and apparently his office was the same. The pen definitely didn't belong to Kiu, who was practically illiterate.

Vicious sat at the desk and began opening drawers. They were empty, and he cursed under his breath. Kiu said he'd handed everything over to the clean-up men, but Vicious had hoped something might have survived. The computer terminal, the blotter, the pen, and an antique lamp were the only remnants, and the computer had been wiped after being downloaded by the clean-up team.

He picked up the pen and tried to imagine himself as Richie. He pictured Barbara standing there, telling him what she needed. Pictured Richie writing it down. Not typing it into the computer, but writing it.

He glanced down at the blotter. Richie was a smaller man than he was, and he slid his hand back a little. There, under the point of the pen, was faint scoring. Vicious smiled. "Thank you, Richie," he said, and took the blotter with him when he left.

In the sunlight, when he turned the slate a certain direction, he could make out words. Two, total ids. Son. Alva City.

He called Crys. "About the lists, Crys — forget most of them. Look in Alva City."

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

This has got to be him. Staring at the boy's face on the screen, Crys was sure of it. The registration time was right, and the description fit perfectly. The boy had a sweet smile — a charmer, for sure — and the wild black hair Vicious had described to her. He had a mischievous, go-to-hell look in his eyes. Yes, that would appeal to Vicious.

She rose and called to the next room. "Harry, I think I have it!"

Harry appeared in the doorway, a can of beer in each hand. He gave her one and glanced at the screen. "Cute kid. What's that bastard boyfriend of yours want with him, anyway?"

All her friends referred to Vicious in similar terms. She never let herself be bothered by it. Hell, she understood. "Do you really want to know?" she smiled.

"Uh-uh. I don't care, and I don't want to mess with that guy's business anyway." He rubbed his jaw with the cold beer. "I still can't figure you and him, Crys. What's wrong with you? Can't you pick one of the good guys to settle on, if you have to settle? Like me?"

She laughed. "You're too young for me."

"I'm older than he is!"

"Only in years, sweetheart. And I already paid you a case of beer for this job, so don't go getting any ideas." She gestured at the monitor. "This kid — can you get me the complete file on him?"

"In a heartbeat. A two-year-old can hack school records." Distracted by his first love, Harry absently handed her his beer to hold, sat at the terminal, and let his fingers do their magic. In a few seconds, the file appeared. Father: Deceased. Mother: Barbara. "Got you," she murmured. "That's got to be the one, Harry. Print it for me, will you? And send it to my private box, too."

"Done. Anything else?"

She handed him his beer. "I'll let you know if I'm wrong and we have to start over. But I don't think so. I think this is it."

"Well, that sure didn't take long. Sure you don't want to party a little?"

She pulled the sheets off the printer. "Positive. I have to make a delivery."

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

Vicious was at Rico's, practicing the katana with Master Sam. Crys found a chair, leaned it back against the wall, propped her feet up, and watched. He might be pissed when he found out she'd delayed telling him the news, but she didn't give a shit. She liked watching him work.

He'd improved even since the last time she'd been here, a week or so ago. He and Sam moved in a ballet so graceful that, if not for the sound of clashing steel, it would be easy to forget that they danced with death. She hated it and loved it, too. When she'd first seen him work this way, she'd been frightened, and she'd stupidly suggested that he use a blunted blade. His disdainful sneer still made her wince in memory. Now she was accustomed to it and had more faith in Master Sam, so she took pleasure in watching Vicious. He was powerful, fluid, and amazingly fast. So was Sam, of course, but Sam wasn't the man she loved. In a few hours, those broad strong shoulders and all that muscle would be under her hands, and anticipation as well as pride made her smile.

The end of the lesson came suddenly. Vicious swung at the end of his reach, and Sam's countermove sent the katana flying to embed itself in the floor. Off-balance, Vicious fell forward, but rolled and came up with his sword once more in his hand. Too late, however, for Sam's blade was already at his throat. "You did that well," Sam said. "But since I taught it to you, I expected it." He stepped back and sheathed his weapon.

Vicious rose, sheathed his own weapon, and bowed. "Where did I go wrong, Master?" he asked.

"Reach," Sam ordered, and Vicious drew his sword and took the stance he'd last held. "Do you feel this?" Sam said, poking him in the side. "Here is the place from which your energy springs. Too far back. You have no balance."

Crys blinked. Vicious was holding a stretched pose, arm extended, with a sword at the end of it, and he was doing so without apparent effort. That wasn't balanced?

But Vicious nodded. "Where, then, should it be?"

"Here, and here," Sam said, touching Vicious' forward thigh and his chest. "These are all wrong, as well. They must align. Even then, you must have strength. Strength in your back. Greater than you have now."

"How do I get it?"

"Work," Sam said, and laughed when Vicious glared at him. "Do you really think you will need such a stance? Your reach is already quite long."

"I might. I do with you, and my reach is several inches greater than yours."

"It is doubtful you will ever fight anyone with my skill, young one. But learning this balance will be good for you. You will be less vulnerable, and I know you desire that. Next time, we will work on beginning to achieve the proper stance. You may relax. We are done for this day."

Vicious drew himself up, sheathed the sword with an easy flick of his wrist, and bowed to Sam again. Sam pointed Crys out to him — even when working hard, Sam missed nothing — and snatching up a towel, Vicious came to where she sat. As he drew close, she saw the effort his work had been costing him. He was sweating heavily, his clothes and hair soaked with it, and his limbs were shaking when he took the chair next to her and toweled off his face. "Let me shower, and we can go get something to eat. I'm starved."

She knew he hated being dirty, but she was too excited to wait any longer. "I've got something for you that you'll want to see first," she said. "At least I hope so."

His face emerged from the towel, pale strands of hair stuck to his cheeks and jaw. His eyes had gone hard and keen. "You found something?"

"You're so damned quick. Yes, I think so." She took the sheet with the picture from her bag and handed it to him. "Is that him?"

He took the print-out and stared down at it. His mouth curved. "Yes. That's Spike." He looked at her, his eyes bright now. "Do you have more? An address?"

"Alva City, just like you said." She handed him the rest of the sheets. "I have it all."

He grinned, staring down at the address. She rarely saw him so eager. "So, I did good?" she asked.

Taking her chin in his hand, he kissed her, hard and long. "Very good."

"I suppose we're going for a drive tomorrow?"

"I'm going. Not you."

"How are you going to explain that to your boss?"

"I'm not. I'm taking your car."

"You are not! You don't even have a license!"

He laughed and kissed her again. "I don't have to worry about tickets. And I'll bring it back safe, I promise."

"Why won't you just let me drive? I don't mind. I can call in sick."

"Because...." Absently, he stared down at the sheets, and his finger tapped once on the name of Spike's mother. "Because I might run into someone I don't want you to meet. Ever."

"Her? Why?"

After a moment, he said, "I just might tell you someday. But not now." He handed the sheets back to her. "Go home, put on something pretty. We're going out to someplace fancy tonight and celebrate."

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

Champagne, even a lot of it, didn't dull Vicious' senses. He'd also had plenty to eat and an hour or so of luxurious exercise with Crys, who was still elated over having found Spike for him, so he was keenly alert as he headed for the rendezvous with Roper. He was also suspicious. Roper wasn't the kind of man to set up a job on his own and then call it in at the last minute. Knowing his men's characters was part of his skill as a leader, and this didn't fit. Because it didn't, he approached from another direction than he'd told Roper he would come, and his senses were fully open, probing the darkness.

At this hour, every place the weak streetlights didn't touch was opaquely black. Vicious used his eyes only to keep on the walkway, while his ears and his instincts were tuned to those spots of blackness: the mouths of alleys, the alcoves, the hidden places behind dumpsters and under stairways. He didn't know who wanted to lead him into a trap — possibly Kito, as a test, since Roper had been used. His ignorance put him at a disadvantage, but that didn't stop him. He wasn't one to hide from a fight.

Even with his wariness at full stretch, he never saw his enemy until the first blow had been struck. Had it been a killing blow, he would have been dead, but instead, his feet were swept out from under him at the same time that something struck the side of his head, hard. He went down, rolled, and came back to his feet facing his enemy, reaching for his sword.

The man was masked, hooded, and dressed all in black, like shadow, and moved just as quietly. He was small, about the size of Master Sam, and equally fast. Before the katana was fully out of its sheath, in a blur of action the man struck at him, and Vicious was forced instead to use his hands to defend himself against a merciless series of blows. He gave way, gauging, seeing a weakness to his assailant's left. Pretending to stumble, he went to one knee, then swung the sheath of his sword up as the man closed in, striking the hip hard. Instead of going down, however, the man rolled with it and at the same time aimed a kick for Vicious' face. Vicious used the sheath to block it, then his forearm to stop another kick, but not so effectively. Tasting blood, he flipped backward, out of reach, rising with his hand already reaching again for his sword. He was up against a trained killer, he knew. No one else could move so fast, and in such silence. No one else could have caught him off-guard like this.

For a moment they faced each other, the streetlight giving his blade, poised between them, a golden patina. The assassin, slight and short, stood before him in a perfectly balanced stance. Vicious grinned. "Come on, then."

He saw the movement of the right hand and lunged forward. But the movement had been a blind. The assassin turned away from the blade, and the side of his left hand struck Vicious' temple as he swept by. Stunned, Vicious went down to one knee, but willed himself to hold onto the sword and not lose consciousness. Then a knee went into his back, a hand grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, and the cool steel barrel of a gun came up hard under his jaw.

For a moment, there was nothing but the feel of the gun under his jaw and the sound of their harsh breathing. Then, as his senses came back, he realized something. The body pressed to his back was not a man's, it was a woman's.

He smiled. "Hello, Mother."

She released his hair, but the gun remained where it was. Pulling off the mask, she put her cheek next to his. "If you weren't my son," she said softly, "I'd have killed you."

"I know. I'm impressed," he said coolly. He'd be damned if he'd admit anything more to her. "I heard you'd retired, gone to seed. I guess that was wrong."

"I'm not what I was, but I'm still good enough to handle you."

"Is that your point? Or is this a social visit?"

She wasn't amused. "I hear you went into a liquor store yesterday."

"That's not a sin. Are you worried about my health?" he sneered.

He clearly heard the soft click as she eased the trigger back from the guard. "I'm not in a humorous mood, son," she said softly. "I know you found nothing there, but I want you to stop looking. Now."

He could easily give his word on that, since he no longer needed to look. But he knew that if she suspected he already knew, his brains could well be decorating the street in an instant. "If I don't?"

"You don't have the skill to beat me. The next time I come to 'visit', I won't hold my fire."

"You'd kill your own son?"

"I'd rather not."

"So you want me to promise not to look for you anymore," he said, managing to sound surly. The effort cost him, because much of his attention was on the sweat trailing down his face and the gun barrel still jammed under his jaw.

"I don't expect you to keep a promise," she said. "I'll make you one, instead. I won't kill you if I can help it. You're still my son. But if you keep looking for us, I'll take away so many pieces of you that you'll get a nice long hospital stay with the prosthetic experts. Long enough to really contemplate how good it would be for your health to forget about your mother. And your brother. Understood?"

"Yes. Understood."

"It was nice seeing you again," she drawled, and he blacked out.

When he woke, he was still on the street, still sweating, and just beginning to catch his breath. Whatever she'd hit him with, it hadn't lasted more than a minute. Cursing softly, he got to his feet and put up his sword. A few minutes of limbering proved he was still in good shape. Not good enough to take on the She-Wolf, perhaps, but good enough to take on Roper. Whether tricked or threatened, Roper had led him into this. If the bitch hadn't already killed him, Vicious would.

Kito lit a cigarette and stared up at the ceiling through the smoke. This situation stunk. Fighting within the ranks was common, but it rarely came to killing. Of all of his men, Vicious was the last he expected to do this. "Did you have to kill him?" he sighed.

Even in the grip of Kito's bodyguards, with a gun to his temple, Vicious was icily calm. "Yes, I did."

"Why?"

For a moment, he thought Vicious wouldn't answer him. Then the boy said, "It was personal."

"Personal?" The snap in his tone made the bodyguards tense. They were likely to kill the kid by accident. Vicious made them nervous, he always had. Kito gestured them to back off. "What kind of personal? Don't tell me it was a woman problem." That would be typical of Roper, but unbelievable with Vicious.

"No. He betrayed me, led me into a trap."

"Is that how you got the bruises?"

"Yes."

"And here I assumed Roper gave them to you."

Vicious looked faintly contemptuous, but didn't reply.

Kito considered for a few minutes, unhurriedly. Silence worked well with nervous, frightened men. Especially liars. Vicious' expression, however, didn't change. "Why would he do that to you?" he asked finally.

"I told you. It was personal."

"And that's all you're going to tell me?"

"Yes."

Damn it. "Don't you think you owe me more than that?"

"Yes, I do," Vicious agreed. "But this has nothing to do with the organization. Nothing to do with you, or any of our operations. It was between Roper and me."

"This is the second time you've killed someone without permission."

"If he betrayed me, he would have betrayed the Red Dragons eventually. He was weak and vain. When you placed him under my leadership, you placed discipline in my hands."

"Discipline does not mean a bullet between the eyes, kid."

"For some, that's the only answer."

Kito smoked the rest of the cigarette, pondering, not looking at the kid. For three full minutes he was silent. His decision, however, was made in the first ten seconds. He really had only three choices. One, he could turn the boy over to people whose business it was to get the truth out of men. Two, he could simply allow his men to kill the boy. Either way, he lost a good man, a far better man than Roper would ever have been. Three, he could trust the boy, but if he did that, he was taking an enormous chance.

He hadn't risen to his current position by being afraid of risk, however. He'd never had a man work for him with more sheer courage and more intelligence than this one, and this one was still a kid. To shatter his brain with drugs or a bullet would be a waste.

He gestured the bodyguards out, telling them he wanted a few private words with Vicious. When the door closed, he said quietly, "You understand the concept of saving face, Vicious, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You aren't going to tell me what was between you and Roper?"

"Not if I can help it. But I give you my word, it has nothing to do with you or the Red Dragons."

"Roper was a good man."

Vicious said nothing, but Kito could almost feel him restrain himself. He stifled a smile. The boy knew men. "I'm going to let you off easy, Vicious. I hope this doesn't have to happen again, because if it does, I'll kill you with my own hands. I'll have to. Do you understand that?"

"Yes sir."

The term of respect was well-timed. Kito had to hide another smile. He wished his own sons were half as good as this kid. "All right, then. I'm going to let it be believed that, here in private, you explained yourself to me and only to me. I assume you won't contradict that. The boys will take you home, and I'm afraid they'll have to make an example of you. But you'll come out all right. This time. There'd better not be a next time, or I won't leave enough of you to wipe my shoes on."

Vicious didn't even look relieved. He simply said yes, he understood, and bowed in that almost military fashion of his. Then he left, as coolly and calmly as if this had been a social visit, and put himself into the hands of the bodyguards. Kito called a man in, issued his instructions, and shut the door on them all. He sat at his desk, put his feet up, lit another cigarette, and stared at the ceiling. "I must be nuts," he muttered to the air. He knew this wasn't over. Yet whatever trouble was coming, the kid was going to handle it. He was solid, Kito was sure of it. Sure enough to bet his reputation.

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

Crys, of course, was horrified. Vicious felt bad about that. He'd gotten up in the middle of the night and left her sleeping, without explanation, and hadn't returned for almost twelve hours. Then he'd reappeared looking as if he'd been dragged behind a truck, sporting a dislocated shoulder and a broken wrist in addition to a lot of blood and bruises. Her panic manifested itself not in tears, for which he was grateful, but in cursing at him and fussing over him. All the way to the hospital, for two hours in the emergency room, then all the way home again, she gave him a long and profane categorization of his sins, his predilection for bad company, his stupidity, and his stubbornness. She didn't ask once what had happened or why, however, so he didn't have to lie to her. And when she brought him home again, she gave him brandy and a hot bath, still cursing and railing at him, but with gentle hands nevertheless. She didn't cry until he apologized for scaring her, and then she threw a pillow at him and stormed out of the apartment.

Putting the pillow behind his head with his good hand, he couldn't help smiling. Overall, everything had gone well. Tomorrow he would do Kito a favor and go about his normal routine while looking like a poster boy for syndicate discipline. But he would also contact someone who could help him deal with his mother. And he would take the time to shop for a gift for Crys, too. By then she might be civil again.

Continue with part fourteen.

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