"I’ve got no reason to lie to you about this, chummer," he goes on as if I hadn’t interrupted. "I’ve brokered maybe half a dozen Lone Star contracts in my time, and I’ve taken on two myself. And I’ve got no reason to believe I’m the only fixer in the plex that the corporation deals with." He hesitates. "There’s a thought," he says after a moment. "If Lone Star has decided to color you dead, the odds are they won’t use their own assets to handle it." He raises a matte-black hand to still my argument, and goes on, "I know they did the first time, but the way I scan it that was probably a rush job. Now they’ve had time to think it through, and if they’re still out for your hide, they’ve probably decided to use unattributable assets." He hooks a metal thumb toward his chest. "Like me and my colleagues. Maybe I’ll put out a couple of feelers," he muses, "and see if they’re hiring."