The Brooklyn Bridge was still closed, its festering hulk a no-go zone, so Alice headed for the reopened Manhattan Bridge. She flicked the bike left and right, slow at first, then faster as she got a feel for its heavy weight. Joining the access ramp, she mingled with the flow of ancient cars like a shark ghosting prey. Enough. She wound back the throttle; the bike dug for friction, then launched forward on a rising scream of power. Left to avoid the convertible, hard right, back three lanes, and around a blue Jaguar. She hit sixty, and her jacket lit up, embedded lights flashing NYPD in moving text that wrapped her torso; at ninety, the whole jacket blazed white, destroying any shadows that clung to her. The collar inflated, the cold leather giving way to soft plastic ready to deploy and cover her head should she drop the bike.