The sun was finally starting to dip behind the skyrises of downtown Miami, the sparkling colored vista spread out below her windows like a miniature dynarama at World Park. Sheathed in only the sheerest gossamer silk, Erika Johnson stood before the Armorlite windows sipping a perfect iced gin and tonic, the limes fresh and cut with a silver blade. Ordinary steel ruined the flavor. How many bartenders had she fired over this obvious and important point? Too many. How ironic that she could find competent help on the street to do a run, but for inside her penthouse? Ichi .