Though almost thirty, Michael James Sutherland still enjoyed a reputation as one of the finest freelance deckers on the planet. Diplomatic and discreet, he got paid not just for what he could do, but for how he could do it and how he could keep his mouth shut afterward. A tall, blond, elegant man, he levered himself carefully into the passenger compartment of the limo, but it had more to do with an injury to his back than any show of dignity. Two years before Michael had taken a bullet to the spine that just missed paralyzing him for life, and he now had to wear a special corset for support. He’d briefly considered a silver-topped cane to ease the pain of walking. It would, certainly, have enhanced his carefully fostered image and his perfect Saville Row suit, but he’d eventually decided against it as just a little too over the top somehow.