I put a hand out and brace myself against a Dumpster and get myself to my feet, trying to figure what hurts me most. —Got me. The health of your portfolio?

He points at the sky. —Satellites. Antennae. Wireless signals.

He looks at the ground, points at the concrete. —Fiber optics.

He looks at me.

—The wealth of data and information around us, that is what concerns me. The ease with which it is collected and transmitted. But most of all, Pitt, I am thinking about cellphones. And their little cameras.

He takes a step toward me, oblivious to a bottle underfoot and the glass that scatters about when it explodes.

—I am thinking of war between the Clans. Now. In an age when children scamper about with digital cameras in hand to snap pictures of their nannies sneaking drinks from the liquor cabinet. I am thinking about how long it will take before there is a visible confrontation between opposing Clan members. I am thinking of photographs and video of such an encounter, of men and women fatally shot, but still fighting, uploaded to the Internet. Aired on cable news. Analyzed by law enforcement and the military.

He takes another step, the shards of glass ground to powder. —I am thinking of the brink. The final precipice I have used my influence and

resources to steer us away from time and again for decades. I am thinking of the abyss we can all now clearly see between our feet as we stand at that brink with only our heels on the final edge of land.

He stops taking steps.

—Yes. I do have more to keep me busy. I have thousands of people, a way of life that goes back centuries, a culture threatened with extinction by self-immolation, I have all that to tend to and attempt to preserve. But none of it, I assure you, is so pressing that I cannot spare the moment it will take to kill the childish mercenary covered in years of blood who has pushed us all here because he caught sight of where his food comes from and he doesn't like the way the ranchers treat the cattle.

His fingers flex.

Keeper of secrets. Master of spies and murder.

Fed on infants blood.

If he gets his hands on me, my bones will shatter like rotted wood. My flesh will tear. And my blood will wash across the alley like dirty water.

He's old and strong and fast and I cannot beat him.

But I don't care to die easily at his hands.

My hand flicks beneath the tail of my jacket and the gun appears in it like a

magic trick. I raise my arm, inhaling, and in the space between inhaling and exhaling, everyone and everything in the alley frozen in that instant, I pull the trigger, the gun aimed at his face.

A drop of blood hanging from my eyebrow falls into my eye.

I blink.

And when I open my eye he is in front of me, the bullet meant for him has put a hole in the brick of the alley wall. His hand slaps mine down and away, the gun flying.

But I'm OK with that. That's OK by me. Because I may not have the gun anymore, but I do have the straight razor in my other hand. And he's close enough now for me to use it.

I cut, the blade cleaving the space between us, flaring in the shifting light cast by a TV in one of the windows overhead, arcing at his throat.

And then the razor isn't in my hand.

I flinch, looking for it between Predo's fingers, expecting to feel it across my own neck.

Down the alley, the brief flash of light on the straight razor's blade is echoed in twin blurs of white passing in front of the enforcers, leaving behind matched headless corpses, wavering before the final fall.

—You're in the wrong place to be settling your disputes.

The skeleton wrapped in its white shroud is next to us.

It places the blade of the razor under my chin. —You should know that, Simon.

I don't move, not even to lodge my usual objection to being called by my real name.

Keeping the razor as close to the end of my life as possible, it turns its sunken eyes on Predo.

—You. Your Clan observes treaties and laws. Rules of behavior modeled on the ones those sheep out there follow. To humor you once, we looked at a line you drew on a map. We agreed it would be a very bad idea for any of you to cross that line. And here you are. On the wrong side of your line.

Predo licks his lips. —I am a representative of the Coalition.

The skeleton shakes its head. —You're a policeman outside his jurisdiction. You're where you don't belong.

The skeleton pushes his face close to Predo s. —You're not Enclave.

He lifts the blade, forcing my chin higher. —This one, what he is can be disputed.

The razor folds away from my skin.

The skeleton shows it to Predo. —But you are meat. Ignorant and unclean and in need of purging.

Predo sweats. —Killing me will be considered an act of utmost aggression.

The skeleton coughs laughter. —Yes. And then? Will your Coalition send more of those to threaten us?

It waves a hand at the two headless corpses being loaded into the trunk of the car by another skeleton.

It shakes its head. —Killing you would be a mercy. But there will be none of that for you tonight.

It points at the car. —Go on.

Predo backs away, watching my eye. —A final word, Pitt.

He smooths the length of his tie. —Do you know you've tipped your hand?

I don't move.

Predo stops, hand on the open door of his car. —I still don't know what it is you're after.

He waves an arm, taking in the neighborhood. —But I know where it is.

He drops the arm. —You'll be dead soon.

He gets into the car. —But I'll be certain to find what it is you value so much. Before you die.

The door closes, the engine hums to life, and the car rolls away onto Eighth, not at all burdened by the dead it carries.

I look at the skeleton. —Do I know you?

He offers me the razor. —We've met, Simon.

I take the blade from his desiccated hand. —Yeah, I wasn't sure, you guys all look alike to me.

I drop the razor in my pocket and take out a smoke. —But seeing as you've met me, you maybe know my name's Joe.

The other skeleton joins us. This one, he's less of a skeleton than his boss, but he's on his way. All of them, all Enclave, they're all a bunch of withered tendon and bone held together by bleached skin. No surprise, that's what happens when you spend all your time starving yourself.

The first one shakes his head, looking like the gesture might snap his twig neck. —Your name is what Daniel said your name is. Simon.

I walk a few steps, kick some garbage aside and find my gun. —Daniels dead.

He coughs that laugh of his. —So you say, Simon. So you say.

He points at the mouth of the alley. —You're wanted.

He starts to walk, I follow.

What's the point of running? If they want to, these guys can just pull my legs off and carry me.

Besides, they'll be taking me where I was headed in the first place.

It's not easy, but if you close your eyes, you can remember a time before the Meatpacking District became a vomitorium for clubbers and people with too much fucking money to spend on dinner for two anyplace that doesn't have a six-month waiting list for a reservation. A time when the cobbles here weren't quaint, when they were walked by tranny hookers and teenage hustlers, and cruised by limos looking for rough trade. Course the Enclave settled in their warehouse over here even before that scene. They settled here when those cobbles drained the blood of livestock, and white coats and meat hooks were the only fashion statements being made.

Still, the crowds waiting in line to get into the after-hours joints that are just now opening their doors are full of enough clowned posers that the all-white look the Enclave sport doesn't raise an eyebrow as we cut down Little West Twelfth to the final block before the water. Maybe a few club kids watch as we climb the steps to the loading dock and the door slides open to let us in, but none of them scurry over to find out what the scene inside is like. They know it's not for them. They can read it. The total lack of graffiti on the place, the

silence, that chill that rises from it, the scraps of street rumor that adhere to it.

Bad shit goes down in there.

They know it. They feel it. So they stay in line like good little robots and wait their turn to flash a fake ID at the doorman so they can go inside some carefully padded pleasure dome and pretend they're living on the edge for a few hours.