They found him sitting in the back of a biker bar called Buster’s. He was at a narrow high table, morosely nursing a gin-and-tonic and pulling at his beard.
Velocity pretended to scratch her collarbone and let her hand drop inside her jacket to the grip of her lefthand pistol. “Felician. What the f**k happened?”
With a start, he looked up, his face paling. “Velocity. Borealis. I–”
From the corner of her eye, she saw the stun grenade sailing toward them, and she barely had time to grab Borealis and dive into an unoccupied booth before it went off. When she popped back up, she saw a whole corporate security goon platoon swarming through the front door. Fortunately, the biker regulars reacted with extreme prejudice to the invasion and were raising a violent ruckus, efficiently blocking the
