The whispering sigh of uncoiling rope pricked his ears, and Thumbs turned around just in time to see half a dozen forms in street combat gear descending from the ceiling. A steady flashing came from one of them, and the dusty dirt around him puffed little geysers. Then something hummed past and hit him in the chest, his vest slapping against his right side with triphammer force. Thumbs dropped to one knee, unable to breathe for a moment. Madre mia! A silenced rapid-fire. This close to their HQ, had to be perimeter guards for the Latin Kings. Frag! Nobody let squatters live in their lookout, so he’d naturally assumed that the presence of a gutterpunk meant it was a clear zone. Fragging gleeb had only been a diversion!