"It's 10 PM. Do you know where your loved ones are?"

Celeste checked herself in the employee bathroom mirror one last time. She'd cut her hair short, but the edges were a bit uneven. It would have to do.

Once back behind the counter, turned the lights on, plugged her phone up to the small computer hidden beneath the bar, and chose a playlist full of synthetic jazz with an emphasis on long, howling saxophones.

"Welcome to the Black Cat!"

Her favorite customers went to the back first this time, which suited her just fine. The small fries, it turned out, were much more eager to complain about their woes. Punching up the alcohol content in their drinks made them even more loose-lipped.

"I can't believe he's marking up the prices on your black market prosthetics. Who did you say it was, again? I just manage the café, but that doesn't seem fair to me. What do you intend to do about it?"

"Why, you said she double-crossed you? Are you sure? The other guy probably wouldn't have made her a better offer — what's his name again? The one who deals prosthetics arms, only?"

"I don't know about you, but if the police started creepin' around my neighborhood, I'd assume someone sold me out. I mean, do you suspect anybody? Certainly nobody here!"

Raj Jagur was one of the many loose-lipped patrons. Owned an antiques shop on the other side of town. Most of the customers purchased items they could then use to smuggle things in and out of the city, since most scanners in Radiant City were attuned to pick up electronic signals, metal, and copper. He'd raised prices recently after realizing his clientèle were using his precious antiques for their own illicit business, to get himself a large piece of the pie.

But had made a powerful enemy in doing so. That client's name and address were up for grabs, as well as whatever he owned, so long as the offer was right.

Sara Berryman was a solo violinist, but had once been in charge of doing taxes for certain shady businessmen. Now that they were being audited, she needed protection — both legal, and lethal. Fortunately for her, there were more than a few people willing to accommodate her needs. In fact, the same individual who showed interest in handling Raj's troublesome client also seemed keen on handling Sara's business ordeal.

Celeste stored this information on her phone in-between customers, and kept her phone in airplane mode so that it was virtually offline. She also reviewed what she'd learned of Morgan, in preparation for tonight's plan.

Angelo exited the meeting room first, but was the only one to come out. He had the same order as last time. She was a little disappointed that he hadn't noticed her haircut, but that was okay.

"Business goin' smoothly?" Celeste asked while she fixed the drink. "Don't gotta answer if it's sensitive. Not lookin' to make trouble for myself."

He grumbled, "Then you shouldn't have agreed to work here, little lady. And I'm afraid the goings on in the back room are classified."

"I figured as much. Like I said, ain't looking to make trouble for myself. Am lookin' to stay out of it, though." Celeste gave Angelo a long, meaningful stare. Held it for a few moments for extra effect. "How much for a gun? Nothin' big. Just enough to get the job done."

The slightest flicker of emotion, the tiniest muscle spasm in Angelo's face. She'd piqued his interest.

"Made enemies already?"

"Never hurts to be cautious."

"Are you expecting trouble of the organic variety? Or do they come with electronic parts?"

"Either, or. How much?" she asked again.

Angelo slid his glass back to her. "Give me a refill on the house, and then we can talk business."

Celeste slid his refill back to him and waited. Angelo took a nice, long sip and smacked his lips before meeting her intense gaze.

And then, finally, he asked, "Who do you have dirt on?"

Celeste turned the knob beneath the counter, turning the music up. Deep, synthetic beats rose from the floor and lifted from the walls as a lone saxophone cried out in agony.

"Everyone. Whose details are worth a pistol?"

Angelo's smile widened. "Well! You've become very shrewd, suddenly. What happened? Did you go home and have a come to Jesus moment?" He thrummed his fingers against the counter top and closed his eyes. Began to nod his head to the music.

"I know this piece.," he said, dipping his head as the pitch of the sax rose. "Marilyn Gao. Went her whole career without getting 'borg lungs. Most artists these days augment themselves to get that little bit of edge, you know what I mean? But damn, her sax always gets me."

"Uh-huh."

As the sax lifted, so did his head. The song came to a middling finale, and Angelo's expression turned dark, his eyes small and sharp. "You know what else gets me? People who disrupt my business. Getting weapons inside the city is no easy feat. But there's an antiques dealer who's making things difficult. Dismantling weapons and breaking them down into pieces so they won't be detected."

"Raj Jagur," Celeste answered before he could ask. "Owns Raj's Rarities. Most of his customers only purchase antiques so they can smuggle stuff. He made an enemy in Rosalinda Heaton, though, when he tried to raise prices. He'd probably be willing to..." She trailed off.

"Go on," Angelo urged.

"Is the offer on the table? Or am I castin' my pearls before swine?"

"Oh, the offer is well on the table, my dear. Now it's just a matter of sealing the deal. Give me a solution, and I'll give you a solution."

Bingo.

"Well, Raj doesn't seem keen on takin' Rosalinda on. He's not the criminal type, and he's not the one actually breaking the weapons down. His customers just took notice of an opportunity, and ceased it. Store's his livelihood though, so I bet he'd be willin' to sell it off. I imagine your job would be easier if you controlled that leg of the weapons trade."

Angelo finished his drink and let out a relieved sigh. Then he reached into a fold within a zipper within a fold in his tech suit. Celeste marveled at the puzzling clothing, and wondered if he ever lost anything in there.

"And your job would be easier if you controlled a .38 Sapphire." He slid her a small black case with a crocodile pattern, the size of both her hands. "Six shots. The bullets give off small, electromagnetic pulses in a one foot radius on impact. Not enough to fry an implant, but enough to disrupt most for a second or two. The bullets are expensive. Make every shot count."

Celeste slid the small black box underneath the counter, nearly knocking a glass over in her rush.

"A pleasure doing business with you," Angelo said, then stood and went back to the room.

"Oh," Celeste said as she pulled her eyes away from the case, "the pleasure was all mine."

Guns, friends, implants. Two down. One to go.