Quick as drek through a rat, I drop into a crouch behind what was once a bar fridge before enterprising souls stole the compressor and the door and other assorted odds and sods. It’s lousy hard cover—anything with a decent propellant charge is going to punch right on through—but as soft-cover concealment it’s the best I’ve got at the moment. I hunker down and wait for the drek to hit the pot.