The previously silent pier was suddenly alive with gunfire and muffled explosions. A spray of tracers, yellow dashes of light, arced wildly into the sky. Falcon couldn’t see any possible target. Possibly the gunner had been hit, and his dying reflex had squeezed off the burst as he fell. In the chaos, it was impossible to count how many distinct firefights were actually going down, but there certainly seemed to be more shooters than the five Scuzboys and the two razorguys they’d seen arrive with Sly.