Nobody moved on the street or rooftop, so she ran to the pile of clothing and powered down the drone. She put the machine in her pocket to recharge, swung the riot gun to her back, and picked up the jacket. It was Mike’s: his service number glowed on the collar. Anything of real worth had been taken from its pockets, leaving just the odd assortments of life behind: a pen, his old wedding ring, a dented can of Stun Fun. No blood, no signs of a struggle, nothing.