Blood on the Asphalt biker
It was coming from the garage level.
"They're here," I said, my hand instinctively reaching for the heavy wrench I’d kept since the beginning.
"No," Dax said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "That’s not a Hound."
We headed down the narrow, rusted staircase to the garage. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and burnt silicon. In the center of the bay, sitting on a lift made of glowing data-cables, was a machine that shouldn't have existed.