"These aren't standard syndicate weapons, Meira, and you know it," Bisma said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register as he slammed a stripped receiver onto the cold steel workbench.
The heavy metallic thud echoed off the damp, unpainted concrete walls of the subterranean surveillance post in North Zurich. Dust particles drifted lazily through the harsh, cold glare of a single overhead halogen bulb, casting elongated, jagged shadows across the room. Outside, three meters above their heads, the frozen ground of North Zurich was quiet, buried beneath a fresh layer of winter slush that muffled the distant rumble of city traffic. Inside, the air smelled of ozone, burnt cordite, damp wool, and the bitter copper tang of dried blood.
Bisma stood over the workbench, his dark eyes shad
