The noise muffled by distance, I calmed myself. I’d heard a story, once, about Cainnic Orel, who’d been a legendary Gunner (he’d founded the Dъnmharъ, his own personal Murder Incorporated), with more than fifty confirmed contract kills and not one arrest. I’d heard that he’d once hired a Techie to disconnect a target’s security system, slipped in and hidden in a closet, and then had the Techie reconnect the security, complete with motion detectors, just so the subject wouldn’t notice anything strange when he came home. So Orel had stood stock-still for forty-eight hours, waiting. And when the subject came home and deactivated the security system, Orel had stepped out, shot him in the head, and walked away like nothing had happened.

From what I heard, Orel had retired rich. Standing in the shadows, I knew I’d never be rich, because five minutes into my vigil I was aching all over and going batshit.

There was a small explosion somewhere nearby; the hardcases were putting up a good show, and it sounded like a few of them had some serious firepower, too. That would slow down the Pigs, but not for long. The Pigs were funded by the System, and had everything. I’d had to work long and hard to get a Roon, the best handgun in the world. The SSF issued them like candy.

I froze, stopping myself from leaning forward in the nick of time. Casually, as if nothing were happening, the three Monks emerged from the bar and walked past the Stormers. They didn’t hurry. Bullets flying everywhere, and they didn’t seem to care. I watched them in fascination as they moved blithely away from the chaos, and the cops didn’t pay them any attention. They were a protected religion, of course, and from what I’d heard the Electric Church had a lot of pull these days, maybe enough to cause even the SSF trouble. So the Pigs were playing it safe.

I was about to look back across the way to see if the perimeter cops had shifted, when someone broke from the bar and made a mad dash behind the hardcases into the night. By sheer dumb luck, he made it-no one shot him, and as he sped out of the light, his path intersecting the Monks’, it looked like none of the Stormers had picked him up. I thought he was just going to make it, an amazing escape, but as he ran near the Monks, I could have sworn the Monk nearest him moved-twitched, shrugged, something-and the runner suddenly crumpled to the ground. The Monks just kept walking, and were swallowed up by the night. He stayed where he was.

I shook my head. It was far away, and the glare of the floods hurt my vision. He’d probably been nailed by a random bullet, or a sniper. I scanned the black rooftops of the empty buildings. Snipers, too. Whoever they were here for was in for a world of trouble.

I thought of Canny Orel, and my feet ached even more.

“Got any flatfoots I can have?”

The voice was flat and monotone, and too loud; not someone hiding. I moved my eyes, imagining the noise they made, and there just a few feet away was SSF, a tall, blond officer, cigarette dangling from a thin-lipped, small mouth. He was dressed expensively, dark suit and heavy overcoat. A linkup bud shone in one ear.

I stared. Moving my eyes seemed like a bad idea. I had little doubt that if this cocksucker saw me, he’d shoot first and think about it much, much later, with a mild sort of curiosity about who he’d killed.

Moments later, two Crushers jogged over to him. They were older than him, and breathless, two beat cops with sidearms, in uniform, one tall and bald and unshaven, the other shorter and stockier, his white hair standing up in a shock on his head. They both looked sweaty and tired. I could see the officer’s eyes as he stared at them. They danced, moving this way and that, unsteady, like fluttering wings. It was creepy as hell.

“Jones and Terrell, Captain,” the tall one said as crisply as he could.

“Great,” the System Pig drawled, cigarette wagging up and down. “You two look like fucking geniuses. Okay, geniuses, here’s the deal: We got a fucking cop-killer in here somewhere. Earlier today Colonel Janet Hense, working undercover, was popped over in Harlem. Working Sec on a VIP.” He paused to remove his cigarette. “We don’t think the shithead knew he was popping a cop, but who gives a fuck? We’re going to pull his arms off and beat him with them, okay?”

The two Crushers shifted their weight uneasily. “Absolutely, sir,” the shorter one said.

“Don’t talk, numbnuts,” the captain said, his voice betraying no emotion at all. “We don’t actually know who we’re looking for. We don’t have an ID, okay? We have a good tip that the shithead was in this bar. We have a description. Listen carefully, geniuses, because I will not repeat it.”

The good captain went on to describe me. Pretty accurately, too. The woman flashed through my mind: Hanging upside down from the ancient fire escape, guns still clutched in her hands. I wanted to move so badly I thought about just shooting the three of them where they stood and rushing out into the night, screaming. It wouldn’t make my situation any worse; if I got IDed as a cop-killer, I might as well shoot myself, because it would be less painful than what the SSF would have ready for me.

“Got that?” the captain said. “Now, the only reason we’re using you assholes is because we got a crowd in there, and some of them are obviously unhappy that their liberty is being curtailed. Fuck ’em. But we need bodies to manage them, and I’ve got a temporary manpower shortage-every day there are more of these rats breeding in the streets. I know you guys who walk a beat have trouble with complex thoughts, so I’ll make it simple for you: Get your ass into that space and practice some crowd control. Think you idiots can handle that?”

The Crushers looked glum, because this raid was costing them at least three or four more days of steady bribery. Plus it was always fun when the System Pigs showed up in their fancy clothes and their fucking hovers and kicked you in the balls for a few hours. They saluted and headed off, the night filled with noise, light, and the constant thick pressure of displacement. A second later there was a loud crash and a sudden flare of light as something exploded inside the still-crowded bar. The SSF officer just stood there, smoking, hands in pockets. There were a hundred people not far away who wouldn’t mind putting one in his ear, but he didn’t look worried. And why should he? The System Pigs were very good at what they did, carefully recruited and trained to an amazing level of skill. Everyone was afraid of the System Pigs-because it was damned hard to beat them, and if you did, you had the whole SSF on your ass. I glanced up at the hover, blurry and roaring, and then back at the captain. This was the hammer, coming down.

I was straining so hard to remain still my muscles were twitching. I was no Canny Orel; I wasn’t going to retire rich and live to a ripe old age. I was twenty-six and I’d already lived too long and I couldn’t stand still for half an hour much less two fucking days. When the SSF officer finally turned away, flicking his cigarette into the air in a glowing arc, I almost sagged with relief. I had to get moving. I couldn’t hide forever, and soon enough they’d have the Crushers doing sweeps of the area on foot, and the hover’s heat sweeps scanning the ground. I could handle a couple of Crushers; I didn’t think I could handle an entire brigade of them, and I didn’t know if I could handle an officer, much less the ten or twelve of them I counted in the area. I’d seen the System Pigs in action. They were smart, and they were fast, and they were armed to the goddamn teeth-and no one was going to come after them if they killed me.

I eyed the darkness around me. The System Pigs had an eye on the perimeter, obviously, and I didn’t know of any Safe Rooms or friends in the area. To my right, there was the bright glow of the hover, which had shifted position to illuminate the patch of ruined street outside the bar, where an intensifying firefight between cops-Stormers in their ObFu and the poor Crushers in their ill-fitting uniforms, clearly thinking they didn’t get paid enough for this shit-and the shrinking number of hardcases continued, the hardcases ensconced behind two ancient, rusting vehicles on their sides, internal combustion tech, useless except for emergency shelter. The Crushers might as well have been throwing stones at the steel barricades, but the Stormers had high-powered rifles, and were having more success.