The army decker hesitated for a tick, trying to guess which was the real icon and which the image. Guessed wrong, and sprayed a long burst into the mirror construct. Giving Sly time to pop up and blast another crossbow bolt into him at point-blank range. Jurgensen howled, his icon pixelating like the frame ronin. Then he vanished—jacked out or dumped, Sly neither knew nor cared. She caught her breath, tried to slow her racing heart.