I grabbed Hao and pulled her into the alley, expecting her to whack me one. She was too stunned by the move to object. Either that, or I'd won a bit of trust over our last months together.

  The woman was very swift on her feet, for someone her age. We splashed through the puddles, in the orange and blue light from the overhead lights.

  Behind us came the whine of an accelerating trike.

  I slipped on a wet patch, waving my arms for balance, and careened into one of the parked trikes, almost flying over it.

  Good enough, I let myself collapse behind it, and pulled my gun. Standing on one knee behind cover, the solid weight of my M3 in my hand, I felt a lot better. Void running. I hate being hunted.

  Behind me, Hao and the woman kept running, their steps a mixture of thuds and splashes. I licked a drop of water from my lip, a bitter, chemical taste. Condensation, not rain. I kept forgetting I was on a station. Rimont was too huge.

  The trike entered the mouth of the alley, its front light a white glare. I conjured a thread of force and up-tuned one of my sight wards, turning the glare into a mere pinprick.

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  Two of the trike's gunmen were raising their rifles, their light-enhancing scopes reflecting a pale, neon green.

  Stupid. You don't use scopes in an alley or from a moving platform.

  I aimed along the M3, not so much sighting as feeling it as an extension of my arm. Arm, gun, bullet, target.

  This target was the trike's front wheel. I squeezed the trigger. The M3 bucked, the flash illuminating the alley, the bang echoing between the walls.

  One of the trike's slim spokes shattered, ripping the wheel rim apart and digging into the metal floor. The metal didn't budge. The trike did.

  It flipped, sending the gunmen into an arc that ended with hard thuds against a harder floor. Their rifles went flying, a stock shattering upon impact. Cheap.

  None of the gunmen wore helmets and only one managed to tuck and roll. The other two sprawled, sliding to a stop almost by me. The last one did a complete roll, then bashed into the trike I was hiding behind. The trike jolted but didn't shift. The gunman slid down.

  I approached them, gun in low ready position. Shaved heads, grey-white patterned jackets, bulky, civilian armor.

  Crud.

  I could figure out who Masec was, and why he was unhappy with me. I'd taken down four of his men earlier, and now he wanted payback.

  Yet another reason to get the Bucket loaded up and leave Rimont as fast as possible. I didn't want to fight a gang war.

  I wasn't at all certain I could win it on my own.