Daemon

of the noise in his surrounding environment. It was a useful tool for managing a for-profit rave. The radio crackled again. ‘Unit 19 to Unit 3, do you copy?’
    Gragg touched his receiver. ‘Unit 3. Talk to me.’
    ‘The Other White Meat headed south on Farmington. Range two-point-three miles.’
    Unit 3 was a lookout placed on the east perimeter with night vision goggles. Gragg saw headlights turning into the main airport entrance. ‘Unit 20, Zone One is a blackout area.’
    ‘10-4, Unit 3.’
    The headlights soon went out.
    Signature control was a never-ending battle for a prairie rave. Lines of car headlights were the enemy.
    Gragg followed the thick generator cables running from the machine shop, past the parking lot, and up to the main hangardoors, where a subsonic bass beat rumbled, threatening to detach his retinas. A long roll of black Duvateen hung down at the entrance, blocking the light and some of the noise within.
    A line of a hundred or so teens hooted and hollered at the entrance, while a dozen heavyset thugs in security wind-breakers flanked the opening. The bouncers collected twenty dollars from everybody at the door and then slipped an RFID-equipped neck badge around each teen’s neck. Once tagged like cows, the patrons then proceeded through the metal detectors and into the main hangar. Each guard was equipped with a Taser and pepper spray to quickly subdue and remove those inclined to disrupt the party. Dozens more patrolled the party inside.
    Gragg ran a tight operation, and for this reason he was always in demand by rave promoters. Tonight’s promoter, a young Albanian drug dealer named Cheko, stalked the tarmac nervously. But then again, he did everything nervously.
    Gragg sniffed the night air, then walked past the bouncers into the head-pounding madness that was the rave. He pushed through the crowd of youths. Although he was several years older than most of them, Gragg was of slimmer build and shorter stature. His lip piercing and arm tats gave him a menacing blue-collar appearance – but if anyone looked closely, the tattoos depicted entwined CAT-5 cable.
    Gragg looked up at the DJ tower, flickering in the strobing laser light. Mix Master Jamal was laying a trance groove. The topless go-go dancers on ten-foot pedestals danced rhythmically. Gragg smirked. The strippers weren’t so much for the teen guys as the teen girls. Suburban girls acted scandalized, but they’d tell friends who’d have to see it for themselves. Where else would girls from good families see nude dancers? In the seedy strip club on the state highway? Hardly.
    Gragg came inside specifically to find one of these girls from a good family. He moved through the crowd to the back of the hangar, where the real money was made – at the ‘pharmacy,’where Cheko’s people sold ecstasy, meth, DMT, keta-mine, and a dozen other recreation-grade pharmaceuticals, in addition to soft drinks and bottled water.
    Gragg could usually spot his quarry easily – the sexy girl with a guy she didn’t look particularly intimate with. A first date, or perhaps just dancing together. He avoided girls with a group of female friends and girls who weren’t having fun.
    He soon found his target; the girl was gorgeous, perhaps seventeen, thin-waisted, but with a good rack shadowing her exposed midsection. Strands of glo-stick circled her belly and neck. It reminded Gragg of Mardi Gras, and that was a good sign. He motioned to a couple of security guards and moved toward her.
    He timed it so he and the guards converged on the dancing couple. Gragg tapped the guy on the shoulder – which sent him twirling around defensively. Gragg held up two neck badges clearly marked All Area Access. Smiling, he looped one around the guy’s neck.
    Few symbols have more power over the Western teenage mind than the All Area Access badge. The guy glanced at the uniformed security guards and evidently felt reassured.
    Gragg, meanwhile, draped the badge over the laughing girl’s neck. Her cleavage glistened with sweat. Gragg leaned over and yelled into the guy’s ear. ‘Your girl is fabulous, man! She should be dancing on the top floor – not down here!’ With that, Gragg slid a couple of pills into the guy’s hand and nodded his head toward the girl. He motioned for them both to follow and led them through the crowd as the burly security guards made a path.
    They soon reached the base of a steel staircase leading up to the DJ tower. It was roped