Seattle Community College, across Broadway from Sly’s destination, looked like a war zone. The entire building had not a single intact window. The neon sign that had stood on the corner of Pine and Broadway, advertising the College, was nothing but a twisted and scorched wreck. Grenade? Sly wondered, seeing other scorch marks here and there. Security personnel were about—private guards hired from Hard Corps Inc. But there weren’t many, maybe a half-dozen or so. They didn't look as though they liked their duty, shifting nervously from foot to foot and scrutinizing everyone who came within twenty meters.