A button-transceiver burbles inanities in my ear. Both teams have sent two bike "scouts" ahead to scope out the target, and the team leaders—me and Bart—are in constant contact with our scouts. I don’t know about Bart’s people, but mine seem to figure they’re not doing their jobs if they aren’t keeping me apprised—in exquisite detail—of the whole lot of nothing that’s going down across from Pier 42. It’s real tempting to cut them off—except I’m sure as frag that the moment I do, they’ll babble something I really should know, and I’ll miss it.