He nodded. He chewed at his lip. He rubbed those big hands together, making the tattoos on the knuckles ripple.

‘So what’s the plan, then?’ he asked. Zidarov couldn’t tell whether the hesitation in his voice was eagerness or doubt.

‘If what Vermida told me is true, she’s at Lascile’s place tonight. She’ll emerge at some point, probably to head for the gilt-zones or her own mansion. I know what her vehicle looks like. Hells, I know what the inside of it looks like.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll take an unmarked groundcar from the fleet tonight, stake out Lascile’s tower. You’ll take the Bulwark and stay in position – you can track me once I’m moving. We’ll hit the groundcar when we converge. It might well be on the highway, but we can’t help that. We run it off the road, take out any guards she’s got with her, break our way in. I’ll only need a few minutes.’

Draj took it all in. He appeared to be rehearsing the ­manoeuvres in his head. ‘A lot could go wrong with that.’

‘Absolutely. Any other suggestions?’

‘No. No, it’ll be fine. Just so you know.’ He got up. ‘It’s late. I’ll have to move now, to get a Bulwark out of rotation.’

Zidarov almost asked him whether he’d had a drink, then. He almost asked him if he’d consider not having one, over the next few hours, just in case. He decided against it.

He got up, too.

‘I’ll vox you when I’m in position,’ he said. ‘His Hand.’

Draj nodded. ‘You’ll need it.’

After that, Zidarov didn’t sleep. He stocked up with supplies – caffeine, jejen rolls, some carb-bars. He left the Luxer in the depot and took another groundcar from the Bastion pool – a Regena Zalamar, a battered old pursuit model, one that looked nondescript from the outside but had a powerful brace of engines under its scratched hood. It was also solidly built, and might take a few direct hits before expiring. He took a number of spare magazines, and stowed them in the forward compartment. He adjusted his flak jacket, making sure the straps were secure. He checked over the vehicle’s systems, and set up the tracker for Draj to lock on to.

Then he drove out into the night. The storm he’d witnessed up at Mordach’s citadel was gathering force, whistling through the hab-towers and dumping increasing quantities of rain onto the gleaming streets below. Flickers of pale lightning danced across the serrated roofs, and the marker-lights at the summit of the towers blinked uncertainly. He could see a hoarding ripped loose from its moorings, flapping wildly as the winds picked up.