Four silhouettes blocked his way. A hint of chrome gleamed among night-dark leathers. Razorguys. Two were hulking brutes in long coats with upturned collars and slouch hats that concealed all pertinent information about them. Bulges under their clothing suggested armor, enhancements, and weapons. They were too big to be orks and not broad enough to be trolls. The third was slender as a whip and wore his leathers tight to emphasize his build. His eyes sparkled with chrome reflections as he took three steps to Sam’s left. The group was spread out enough now that he couldn’t watch them all closely without turning his head. The fourth moved from behind the brute on the right, and the glow from newly wakening street lamps revealed that he was not an enhanced bullyboy like the others. What Sam had at first taken for a synthleather duster like the big boys wore was really a fine woolen topcoat of stylish cut. His slouch hat was festooned with magical symbols. Eyes and teeth shone in an entirely natural way from his brown face.