Sergio Diaz had certainly made the New York City mayor's office his own. A mahogany sideboard overshadowed the famed gilt-edged desk of Fiorello Laguardia, the sideboard's columns wrought with ornate mythical animals, smoky liquor bottles spread across its surface like chessmen. A portrait of Don Juan hung over the fireplace—a nod to the slur his opponent had made in the final desperate days of the campaign.

The man himself matched his furnishings' scale, 6'6", barrel-chested. A mane of jet-black hair without a speck of gray was tamed to a bullet atop his head. He charged out of his chair to embrace Quaid.

"Señor Diaz," Quaid said, using the salutation favored by the Sheikh—their longtime host in Ibizi, where they had jaunted often as rising stars in the Democratic party. "I come bearing bonhomie and wishes of opportune demographic trends in the outer boroughs."

"Nonsense." Sergio grinned. "Like everyone who visits me, you come for money."

"On the way, I couldn't help notice the crosstown shuttle running right on time."

The mayor grunted acknowledgment. Last spring, Quaid and Durwood had foiled an extortion plot that had shut down the subway for three days. "True enough. But I cannot pay you. The city is broke. These stoplight pranks are sending NYPD overtime through the roof."

"Slip us in as a discretionary item," Quaid said. "Who'd quibble over a measly $50K made out to Third Chance Enterprises?"

"Nothing is above quibbling when your approval numbers are in single digits." Sergio fished three pills from a thermos-sized bottle of Tylenol and dry-swallowed.

Quaid knew squeezing money out of NYC wouldn't be easy, but he had to try. This American Dynamics job was pay-on-completion, and their last pro-bono gig had nearly exhausted his funds. Guadeloupe. What a nightmare. The cause was just, resort workers whose dwellings had been flattened by hurricanes against a hotel chain that refused to help despite the fact that insurance had rebuilt their white-glove facilities inside four months. Eventually the guys had changed their mind by feigning a militant splinter faction of the island's hospitality union, but the job had been a struggle, over budget, Durwood grumbling the whole time.

"... raised scrubbing motel toilets with a toothbrush, need no unions ..."

He disliked the pro-bono jobs, which generally contradicted his beliefs and paid zilch. Durwood was a grinder, though: he could be stiffed more or less indefinitely. (Durwood refused to take an ownership role in Third Chance Enterprises, preferred "an honest wage" over equity, which left all finances to Quaid.) Molly was demanding her weekly $2K or else the blog went dark.

"This negative press about the Mice—if your PR people knew what they were doing," Quaid said, "they could turn it around. You shift the frame. It's not incompetence; it's a failure of civic infrastructure." He dropped his voice an octave. "Our reliance on technology has grown steadily, but our tech budgets haven't kept pace. We brought it on ourselves by scrimping."

Sergio agreed. "There's millions in pork to be had. Unfortunately, I will be jobless by the time any of it passes Albany."

Quaid pulled two tumblers from the sideboard. "Actually, I may be able to help. Part of why I'm here is those pesky Mice."

"Oh?"

"We're running a mission against them, and I'd like to know where law enforcement stands."

"You're not working in concert?"

"Not this time," Quaid said. They did do occasional public sector work, an old senator buddy of Quaid's serving as a regular conduit to CIA and NSA jobs.

Aided by the free-flowing Patron, the mayor shared liberally. The FBI had told Sergio its traps were set and it was only a matter of time before the Mice were captured, but they'd given similar assurances in March. Meanwhile city engineers had been seeing more and deeper database intrusions. Property deeds, legal writs, DMV files. Somebody was probing for weak points.

Quaid said, "You're certain it's the Mice?"

"We are certain of nothing. I cannot say what time the Yankees play tonight." Over a lusty swallow, Sergio recounted conversations with the Steinbrenners about a hacked Jumbotron. "But I am told these things have identifiable patterns, and the intrusions follow the Mice's."

As they talked, an aide brought knishes from Schimmel's. Quaid bit through golden crust to potato and squishy sauerkraut, groaning with delight. He missed this about politics. Perks. These pleasurable in-between moments. You couldn't ask for a more capable partner than Durwood Oak Jones, but the man was no conversationalist and his gastronomic ambitions topped out at venison jerky.

From time to time, Quaid entertained the idea of running for office again. The name on the ballet would be Gallagher rather than Rafferty, as it had been the first two go-rounds. Realistically, though, after two sex scandals, was there a state in the union that would elect him?

Nevada?

He was just about to reengage on the issue of payment, hoping the Patron might loosen Sergio's purse-strings as effectively as his lips, when the the door burst open. A sharp-faced man plowed inside. All briefcase and thrusting handshakes.

"Todd Finley, Forceworthy Services. Friggin' awesome to meet you."

From the hall, Sergio's assistant Ingrid apologized—the man had ignored her entreaties to return later with an appointment. Sergio assured her it was fine and tried ushering the man out himself on grounds of urgent city business.

Todd Finley persisted. "Let's talk security, man to man. I'm not here selling rent-a-cops. My game is serious border enforcement."

He unfurled brochures like a blackjack dealer, fanning them across Sergio's mahogany sideboard. Quaid marveled at the production value. Go Mean: Forceworthy's New K-series Attack ATVs. Soldiers in riot gear against a backdrop of smoking buildings.

Sergio said, "I have no borders to enforce. Canada is four hundred miles—"

"Sure y'do! Or you will, the further this unrest goes. It's cancer and it's just hitting the lymph nodes." Finley felt around his neck, his expression tepid. "New York City needs to get out in front before the copycats and the opportunists swoop in."

"With respect," Sergio said. "The city has relationships with suppliers of security vehicles. These contracts are negotiated years in advance and require numerous approv—"

"Good 'cause I'm not talking vehicles, I'm talking comprehensive solutions." The man licked his thumb, paging ahead to a chart. "We staff the checkpoints ourselves for three months till your people're up to speed. The premium packages include lifetime fail-over support in case of overruns. We don't dump a bunch of steel on your doormat and cut. We stick right with you, keeping you and your city safe.

"Plus." Todd Finley glanced about darkly. "The Blind Mice, these copycat gangs. Our security professionals may be on ... oh, let's say familiar terms."

The mayor squinted. "How so?"

"They're tough guys. Tough guys tend to run in similar circles, right? Turns out in a lotta these markets, we have a built-in backchannel."

Quaid and the mayor shared a look. The former said, "You can reach the Mice?"

"I shouldn't over-promise," Finley said. "What I will say is this: you buy from me, you're buying more than fine Forceworthy machinery. You're buying relationships."

He punctuated the point with a pregnant look, that wink salesmen are capable of giving without actually winking.

The mayor checked his watch. "That's all well and good, but I have a constituent meeting." He rose, taking another knish. "Again, the city has a process for bringing contractors aboard, and given that Fortr—er, what was the name?"

"Forceworthy."

"Right. Given that Forceworthy has no preexisting relationship, this discussion is premature." Sergio gave a brush-off smile. "Good day, sir."

He strode for the door, but the salesman blocked him.

Now Quaid stood, set down his drink. "Cool it now, Draper. Mayor Diaz has been more than generous with his time."

Todd Finley—broad, former wrestler?—did not move. "Where's your body detail? You're aware kidnappings are up 300%?"

Sergio straightened up to his full 6'6". "I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that was not a threat."

"A threat? Oh no, no no no no no," Finley blubbered like a lawnmower. "Just trying to make sure everybody understands this new world we're living in. Lemme put you down for a dozen fence-line drones. Stop the bleeding at those shipyards?"

Quaid felt a cold tickle at the back of his neck. How did this guy know about the mayor's problem with freighter theft? Also, when had Forceworthy started manufacturing fence-line drones and attack ATVs? Quaid found it disturbing that the unrest had already been product-ized like some fitness craze or new Disney princess.

Sergio said, "Another time."

"Look I'm throwing you a life vest. Take it. Slip your arms through the straps—"

"Ingrid will show you out."

The mayor lowered his head and bulled forward, and finally Todd Finley stood aside. Quaid passed by too smelling aftershave.

Remembering his pamphlets, the Forceworthy rep dashed back inside to scoop them from the sideboard, then shoved one apiece at Sergio's and Quaid's chests. The impact knocked Quaid half off his feet.

"You need to come down outta the red," Quaid said, fixing his sportcoat lapels. "Get yourself a cup of decaf."

Finley raised his palms in apology. A handful of pamphlets had fluttered to the floor. Counter-Chaos Done Right: Forceworthy Infiltration Professionals. Up the hall, a dozen security personnel in dark suits approached.

Sergio said, "Time for you to go, friend."

The salesmen snapped his briefcase shut, leaving the pamphlets behind. Pumped fists again with both men and hustled off.