Sinclair craned her neck as she leaned against the bar.

She called out to Chicco.

"Son Delice Sauvage?"

He snorted in response to her unbridled enthusiasm.

"That is for del Alma-Gris; I lost a bet to her earlier."

"Surely . . ."

"Not a chance, love. She is way crazier than you, I'm not crossing her. Besides, I am paid up in full, even according to you."

Sinclair shook her head as she chortled.

Gigolo.

That thought she kept to herself. It was true enough that Chicco was the favorite pass-around toy of lady power brokers in the Vida Escondida, but she and he happened to be friends before Sinclair was anybody on the scene. She would not do anything to hurt his pride.

She turned back around to survey the bar, and stopped in her tracks with a sudden nauseous feeling. It was a familiar scent that caught her attention. A scent of ozone and sizzled meats more common in the forests where ascospores hunted small animals than in urban buildings where over-sized ventilation systems kept spores from growing inside interior spaces.

What were those damn things doing here?

She listened intently, and realized that the backup generator was losing power. The lights were mostly fine, but the fans started to skip asynchronously. That meant that the HVAC system was offline, or nearly so.

She fumbled with the spherical drone in her palm. Sinclair would be the first to admit that she could not shoot worth a lick, but her expertise with the Victorinox Series IV Hover Multi-Tool gave her plenty of defensive capability, and operated with a similar instruction set as the MicroTacts she used inside Egliona's discotheque.

"When you look worried, I get worried," Chicco said.

She smiled back. Sinclair did not want to give him any more to be anxious about then necessary until she had a proper evaluation of what they faced.

Chicco kneeled behind the bar. With one hand he packed the high-end French vodka into a red leather shoulder bag, and with the other hand he brought out a carbine length shotgun with an impressive barrel.

When she first saw him pack the shotgun, Sinclair wondered if he told her everything about why he skedaddled from the premises. She was certain there were factors he left out.

Acknowledging her curiosity with a nod. "I may be a city boy but If that smell means what I think it means then we need this bad boy here. A bit of old Soviet tech, a KS-23M Drozd. Four guage shotgun with a modded auto-load feeder. Sixteen shells, and I can switch from buckshot that bursts into UV disinfectant to a slug made of meta-material mesh the Russians call a barrikada. It will implode an engine block then use the target's mach displacement to further decimate it's structural integrity."

Sinclair shrugged. All she knew about mach was how it applied to jet speeds and spacecraft engine design. This was the first time she heard of its impact on ballistic implosions.

"I don't know what half of what you just said means, but I'm pretty sure that thing would not be street legal in Canada."

Chicco gave her his most devilish smile as he pulled the console control for the Victorinox out of the shoulder bag, and flashed it like a badge before he taunted her.

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"Neither would that little ball you have in your hand there given how you have it configured."

"Touche," Sinclair acknowledged, then with a tilt of her head she pointed to the door leading into the operations sector. "You ready to find out what's going on?"

Chicco nodded, "I'll give a three count, and open up the door, you throw your toy in there, and I'll slam it back in place."

Sinclair found her spot just to the side of the door and three meters back. She felt for her Magellani Viaggio .22 LR revolver and freed the strap hold on the holster.

"Okay."

The door and walls were sonic proofed, she had no idea what to expect on the other side.

"One. . . Two . . . Three."

When Chicco swung the door open it sounded as if several huge bladder bags were emptying slow but loudly. As Sinclair pitched the Victorinox she caught sight of a floating feathered ball dropping into the doorway. Before she could stop herself, the spherical multi-tool landed inside a beak that quickly gulped it down.

Chicco squealed, but he retained enough composure to slam the door back shut before the creature could get in. On the floor however, two chitinous worms found their way in to the barroom.

Sinclair grabbed her revolver and started to shoot at one worm that attacked Chico's boot. It had twelve sabered teeth that clamped into the steel-rimmed heal.

Her shots were more effective than she felt they had any right to be. Four bullets with contact grippers shredded into the sides of the worm. Only two went wide.

She was about to unload the remaining six rounds but the second worm was making its way to her. Sinclair took the time to aim at its mouth, and she unloaded the remaining rounds into it's maw.

She backed up as it attempted to thrust itself on her. Sinclair kicked on the side of its head nub thrice until it fell to her left. She reached in her satchel and grabbed a moon clip, popped it into the chamber, slapped the chamber back into position, and emptied the rounds into the worm.

Clumps of gray ooze fell from its shredded sides as it writhed, helplessly. Two blast came out of the shotgun. Chicco had managed to free himself of the worm, but his right boot was a shredded mess.

He squealed once more, but still kept his composure. It wasn't the most manly sound she had ever heard, especially from a machismo laden Argentine Italian, but she chalked it up to a verbal tick rather than a rap on his character.

"Help me out of this boot, Sinclair. There's something acidic about it I can feel seeping in my socks."

She grabbed the top rim and slid it down.

"Chicco, be straight with me. Was that thing with the beak that gulped down my multi-tool the reason you split out of here? How many people did you leave behind?"

"Sinclair . . ."

She threw the ruined boot to the side, as he removed the left boot. She caught a glance at a 9 mm snub holstered inside it.

"Be straight with me."

He motioned for patience with two up turned fingers. Chicco removed the tattered sock, revealing his skin beneath had turned a scalded red. He gently patted the skin with the remaining sock.

"I use to have the cutest hairy toes."

"Chicco, you're deflecting."

"Alright, then . . ."

As he spoke, Chicco put her console controller back together with its projector and its power pack so it could emit a hologram display.

"It is not like that, not like that at all. I stuck around to fight, but those bounty hunters on the creep team were wearing cameotic bodysuits. I tried to make my way to the top floor, expecting them to drop down from the hanging service platforms.

"But before I got there, I heard a pair of boots coming up from an opposite hallway. I peeked down it, and one of those bastards came out of invisibility right in front of me, he shot the gun out of my hand, and then he smacked me on the jaw with the butt of his rifle.

"I hit the floor. Big fucker switch-selects his gun to tranq, and pops me. I'm out for, I don't know an hour, maybe? I wake up to the sound of flechette sparrows breaking shit on the top floor just above me. That's when I found my way back down.

"I looked for others but I did not see anybody, and figured everybody cleared out. Got back to the parking lot, the one connected outside, I mean. My cousin VJ was out there, waiting for backup before going back in. He suggested I find you cause, like I said, the bounty hunters came and got Kip."

Sinclair nodded in approval. She needed to know that Chicco was not a coward. If he had cut loose before the attack occurred he would be on the outs inside Family Sala, as would anyone associated with him.

She needed their support for the next stage in the Encapsulation Project. She needed Kip too.

That was Green-eyed Elise's crew, why would they come for Kip? They specialize in war criminals.

Chicco stood and placed the assembly on a table.

"All right, let's see if your little friend is still alive inside Big Bird's gut."

It was apparent that Chicco wanted to control the multi-tool hover drone. She flipped her hands in a waving motion, "be my guest."