The woman in the image steps back and shakes her head. Three of the figures—the biff leader and the two men—reach into their jackets, and out come weapons. My instincts are deafening now, but I don’t need them anymore. My conscious mind knows what’s going down: a hit. Another gang trying to take out a key Cutters member? Who the frag knows, and for the moment it doesn’t matter one good god-damn. Idees can wait.