Falcon had driven the Callaway, with Mary following along behind on her borrowed bike. Then again, maybe the bike was hers now. Its previous owner—the bartender—was dead. Falcon had insisted on taking along the massive sniper rifle—he hadn’t told her how he’d come to acquire it, and she hadn’t asked. They’d soon enough have plenty of time for stories. Sly had worried about the kid carrying such an obvious piece of ordnance openly to the motel room, but Mary had promised to handle it. Sly didn’t know exactly how Mary had done it, but even though the ganger had brushed past a cleaning woman with the rifle slung over his shoulder, there’d been no outcry, not even the slightest hint of recognition that he carried a gun. I should find out more about this magic drek. Sly thought dryly. Now Falcon was lying on the bed, the weapon beside him as though he didn’t want it too far out of reach. Once they were settled down—each with a glass of synthetic scotch from the bottle Mary had provided as her contribution to the celebration—Sly told them about her run through the Matrix. Was surprised to find herself shaking when she described the fight with the golem-class black ice. There were a lot of nightmares there, she realized, waiting to come and get her. She knew it would be a while before she’d be able to sleep without the memories returning to frighten her awake in a sweat-soaked bed.