Jason Stone was short, but he didn’t need the heavy-barreled Sandler TMP submachine gun in his hands to give him a dangerous presence. The Indian’s rebuilt muscles and quick, nervous motions told their own tale. He was what was known in the alleys as a street samurai, muscle for hire, chromed with cyberware to set him beyond the frailty of the flesh. Like many of his kind, the trade of meat for machine meant that some of his spirit had been tossed out with the undesired body parts. The cold chrome eye shields shuttered the windows to what was left of his soul, but his leering smile exposed what was left of his emotions, leaving no doubt that he would be happy to use his weapon.