Face facts, chumley, you panicked, he told himself. Maybe if god loves dwarfs, that big troll had destroyed the telecom before a trace could be done. But what if a decker someplace was able to follow the connection to the call box before Sister’s brain was fried? What if who-ever-the-frag they were—this so-called IronHell—were even now tracking him down, encircling, this neighborhood, ghosting his crib and known chummers? Going to any of his usual haunts could mean getting geeked big time. And anybody Two Bears knew might already be compromised by IronHell. Pros moved fast. Show up at Dogboy’s doss and his knock on the door could be answered by a shotgun blast in the throat.