"To match your fragging eyes," I mutter under my breath. Her hearing’s better than it has any right to be, because she barks with laughter. Frag her and the hog she rode in on. And frag Argent too for knowing I’d want to hit the streets and for letting Trudel in on it. Serve them both fragging right if I took their car, slipped the border heading north—I’ve always liked north—and sold the pecker for a starting stake in, say, Vancouver. Let Lone Star, Timothy Telestrian, cousin Lynne, the Cutters, and the shadowrunners of Seattle frag each other’s hoops till they bleed, and good riddance say I. Pleasant daydream, but everyone knows I’m not going to put it into practice.