And that was all Angie had gotten me. A few scraps of data that were a matter of public record and an image that haunted my dreams. Nothing on Vargas’ current whereabouts in Aztlan or his future movements. When I’d expressed my disappointment, she’d actually had the guts to try a run against the consulate’s private telecommunications grid—and had immediately run into some black ice that sent the master persona control program in her cyberdeck into meltdown. Later, shaken, she’d admitted that she’d been lucky not to get her brains fried as well. She’d had to jack out—fast—and had suffered a headache for two days as a result of the dump shock.