User Guide

When Sampras defaulted, the sur-
viving Claws found themselves entirely
without recourse. They could not collect
their fee by force, since they could no
longer mount a respectable assault. They
didn’t have enough funds to secure legal
representation. Simply speaking, there
was no way out. Their fee was forfeit. That
was the bottom line.
So they decided to turn to the black
market enforcers, the assassins, who to
this day prefer to be called “contractual
dispute consultants.” Knowing they would
never collect their fee, the last Claws
were willing to settle for revenge on the
Chairman of Sampras’ Board of Directors.
For a time, it appeared that even this
avenue of satisfaction was to be denied
them. They didn’t have enough money to
attract a top-rate enforcer. Too little
payoff for too great a risk. Every first-rate
enforcer in Istanbul turned them down,
until finally in desperation they began to
shop for a youngblood, an untried, un-
proven killer that might work for cheap.
That’s where I came in.
The squadron commander had lost a
great deal of weight by the time he
approached me. I hadn’t known him
previously, of course, but I could tell as
much by the way his clothes hung off his
body in wrinkled bags. His was a
melancholy face, sagging under the
burden of a failed command, the leader’s
shame in surviving those given over to his
charge. Dark smudges swept beneath his
eyes as he handed me what he swore
were the last monies he had in the world.
Judging from the haunted look on his
face, I believed him then. And after his
suicide four months later, I knew for a
fact that he had told me the truth.
There’s something horrible about a
sincere concession to hopelessness.
That’s what this was. Instead of using
his funds to rebuild
his life, to purchase
the clothes he obvi-
ously needed, or to
secure simple food
and shelter, this
man was prepared
to spend his last
dollar, surrender his
final energies, in the pursuit of one last
orgy of destruction. I’ve seen it time and
again since. The sight never fails to chill
my blood.
But I’ve never turned away, either.
Because the job was dangerous,
because it was the type of operation that,
if successful, might make my reputation,
because I was young and eager and a bit
foolish, I took that man’s last dollar and
agreed to be his instrument of vengeance.
(I wasn’t about to lecture him on what to
do with his last dollar — I am not, nor
have I ever been, an investment broker. I
work for blood money, and a dollar that
comes stained with the blood of a client
will spend as well as any other.)
I had a job to do. I went about doing it.
I’ll admit I was intimidated. Sampras
Aerospace was a
hell of an oppo-
nent for just one
man to challenge.
My objective was
specific enough:
make an example
of the President
and CEO, Mr.
Dillard McDonald. How to penetrate the
security net he’d cast about himself was
the problem. Quite a thorny problem, for
a young scram off the street. And after
the initial rush of accepting this first
professional assignment, I had no idea
how to proceed.
Several weeks passed, during which I
kicked around Istanbul, formulating a
plan, searching for inspiration, that first
26
July 2011 • SUDDEN DEATH
“…Sampras
hoped to both
trash their
rivals and
avoid paying
the bill…”
“When Sampras
defaulted, the
surviving Claws
found themselves
entirely without
recourse.”
“Executing a brilliant piece of
subterfuge…Sampras had set out
to hire a powerful, though lim-
ited, squadron…strong enough to
wreak terrible destruction on
Clairborne, but not strong enough
to survive the encounter.”