The concrete space echoed with engine noise. The bikes were moving, no doubt splitting up to flank or surround us. I let go of Jocasta and drew my pistol, thumbing off the safety. The two-and-a-quarter kilos of heavy metal were reassuring in my hand. I clutched the weapon like a talisman and rose to a crouch, ready to sneak a quick peek over the hood of the car beside me. The bikes were moving, and the noise gave me some clue as to their disposition. But the echoes were deceptive enough that I had to check by eye. I gripped my pistol tighter and psyched myself up.