Steel Rain by Nyx Smith Page B

But if he sleazed the SANs like he scammed us I doubt we'll find anything."
    Gordon doubts it, too. Doubts that someone with the talent to breach the Fuchi private telecommunications grid would stumble over the telltales that would record the intrusion. Not if that person had help. Not if, like Freese, that person was up to date on the latest access codes and security protocols. The hostile might have jacked in through the Matrix or even a Fuchi mainframe—no way to know just yet—but it's almost a certainty that whoever scammed Freese had help from the inside. That's how it works.
    There's no denying that the walls of the Fuchi grid are tallest where they meet the Matrix, but it's also a fact that Fuchi mainframes maintain defenses in depth. It's just as easy to get burned by Red-12 security somewhere on the inside as at the outer walls. And getting out alive is no less a feat than getting in. The rare few who've managed it, in so far as Gordon is aware, all had help from the inside.
    "Who knew you were making the intercept?"
    "Just my team."
    And maybe a spouse or live-in, or a friend or friends of friends. But never mind that for now. Gordon can see he's got plenty of work ahead without carrying out every calculation to the final decimal point. Obviously, he's going to have to launch a special op merely to find out precisely who had advance knowledge of the intercept and how that knowledge was used. Obviously, whoever sleazed Freese is a threat and that threat must be terminated. Gordon must also decide whether or not to roll up the special operations group under Freese's control before it becomes an embarrassment of cataclysmic proportions.
    Deckheads are no less expendable than banking VPs. It's really just a question of whether or not the expenditure is warranted. Fortunately, Freese and his group work off-premises, under the auspices of a Fuchi subsidiary, so Gordon at least has the option of making some plausible denial of responsibility.
    "I want you scanning for any indication that the intercept was noticed and traced back to us."
    Freese nods. "Okay. Sure."
    "Start now."
    Freese takes the hint and departs.

12
    The building lies on the far side of New York City, beyond the Hudson River, in part of Newark's Sector 6 known as Little Asia. As buildings go it is rather small and unassuming, four stories tall, made of brick, small windows of reinforced transparex, and more than a century old. It is easy to miss, situated between the bright, colorful façades of the Willow Club and the Holy Savior Buddhist Temple, overshadowed by the brilliant neon and sizzling laser displays lighting the rest of the street, turning night into day and directing the eye to the many restaurants and bars and nightclubs and pachinko parlors and small casinos and stores and other businesses pervading the district.
    This one small, unassuming brick building might be considered wholly unremarkable, unworthy of notice, except for the transparex panes of the revolving door leading into the ground-floor lobby, each marked with the mon of the Honjowara-gumi.
    It has been the traditional headquarters of the Honjowara- gumi for more than four decades, located on Bergen Street.
    Machiko arrives at four a.m. when a Hughes Stallion security chopper of the Nagato Security Defense Force alights briefly on the roof. Mere hours have passed since the attacks on the GSG, and Machiko has had no rest. Nagato forces remain on alert. The threat that faces them remains a mystery. New attacks could conceivably arise from any quarter. Despite this, in just a few hours' time, Chairman Honjowara will travel here to the Bergen Street headquarters, to the very heart of the Newark plex, to conduct his monthly "Open House."
    The very idea of exposing the Chairman to any unnecessary risks seems like madness, given the situation. Yet Machiko is sworn to obey as well as defend, and the Chairman will not be dissuaded.
    "He who enters with a gun in hand reveals his fear,"