Yellow flare smoke curled against the heavy bulletproof windshield of Unit 04.
Fifty yards ahead across the wet cobblestones, the Old Ferry Road drawbridge rose like a black iron ribcage against the river mist. The canal water below churned with cold brackish foam, sluggish under the autumn tide.
In the center of the bridge approach, Bailiff Nail stepped forward into the headlight glare. His long oilskin duster dragged against the damp pavement, heavy with the stench of coal tar and old machine oil.
In his gloved right hand, the pneumatic staple-gun hissed with fifty pounds of compressed nitrogen pressure. The high-capacity feed magazine was loaded with rows of three-inch, chisel-pointed red-brass staples. Behind his shoulders, two reinforced high-pressure hoses ran to twin steel nitrogen cylinders strapped to his back harness.
Behind him, four syndicate enforcers in tactical vests flanked the two black sedans, their arms crossed over their plate carriers. Their pneumatic staple-lances were angled down at the cobblestones, keeping within the strict non-discharge limits of the transit covenant.
Inside Julian Vance’s right ear, the high-frequency tone dropped four hertz.
The steady four-thousand-two-hundred-hertz baseline dropped to four thousand one hundred and ninety-six hertz. That sharp, discordant drop buzzed against his skull like a trapped wasp.
