Free Honey Moon by Arlene Webb Page A

guy—Roger Moore, who resided at 1515th St, 76-18—he’d mentally drawn a red circle around, after scanning his wrist phone to take a large chunk out of his primary bank account.
    It cost ten grand for the name and address. Twenty more purchased the informant’s silence if that name happened to appear in the obituary column. It didn’t seem right a man’s life could be worth so little. He’d expected triple—thirty thou, at the very least.
    Sam shook his head, tossed the vodka back in the fridge and grabbed the champagne. He’d intended it for Laree. Had plans of making sure she was pleasantly drunk so she’d sleep soundly on this night that should have been the last he shared her bed. Now it’d make a decent weapon to bash a guy over the head.
    Once the deed was done, the licensed gun and wrist phone of a pilot in hand, should he destroy the computer here? Is that what an honest criminal did to protect the source? Most likely it’d be pointless. No matter how beaten and broken the computer, a good tech could salvage data unless Sam torched the com-desk using a highly combustible accelerant, and no way would he risk harm to the hundreds in this building who’d stampede for elevators and stairs when smoke alarms blared and sprinklers burst on.
    His mouth gritty with alcohol, he spit into the bathroom sink and stalked to the single mattress pushed in the corner. He grabbed the duffel bag sitting on it and exited the apartment.
    Two thirty-five a.m. on what should have been his last night with his fiancée as a single man, although a con artist. His brain hissed in protest, heartbeat slowed, dick shrank and toes curled inside his heavy boots. It seemed all parts of him agreed. He didn’t ever want to see a blonde twirling in a white gown, diamond sparkling on her finger, yammering her friends will be so jealous, again. He’d rot in hell for using Laree so callously, but damn. If the woman hadn’t been that self-absorbed, it stood to reason she’d have outed him for the manipulative prick he was.
    On the ground floor, Sam pushed open the door and left the building. The full moon competed with compressed buildings to blot out the skyline glowing with neon lights. High in the sky, the lunar satellite cast silvery shadows and beckoned lovers to their fate.
    The bullet train took him to 1000th street, and a somewhat crowded bus on a planet that never slept carried him deeper, past the heart of the city. Street lights became spaced farther and farther apart, and the scruffs of grass spiking up between cracks of concrete harder to see.
    He darted his gaze, checking out but not lingering on the two dozen or so faces surrounding him. Only a few women were sitting close to their guy, no children, but any of these men on their way home after work or a night out celebrating could have a tiny black box tucked in their pocket. The man would either be gathering courage to propose, or he’d have said yes to the guy or girl who’d popped the question to him and had high hopes of getting in on next month’s full moon action. He’d be preparing to ride a rocket to a happy life that, in a promised six months, would include functional and free Net to all the planets, including Earth. Then he could earn a living connected beyond the stars, his territory marked by that white picket fence round a five-bedroom abode and desert landscaped lawn on Mars.
    Far, far away from that reality, on a lonely and overcrowded blue planet, no one returned Sam’s furtive glances and he huddled into himself.
    He got off five blocks before his destination and ran. The cool air felt wonderful on his face and he pushed himself, but as the address grew closer, he understood he could have skipped the exertion. No worries about someone eyeballing him, taking in his features and reporting his presence to authorities after his picture sprawled all over the Net. The few other joggers he passed kept their gaze averted. So much for Neighborhood Watches and