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the iron hanging, heavy with bullets, in his jacket. Waiting for its turn to speak.
    “Who said you could leave?” The girl took a step closer, and the boys, swapping glances, reached into their jacket pockets and pulled out a pair of plasteen-handled flick-knives, cheap mail-order crap from the back of a Citi-Def magazine. Strader felt his mind numb, as it had in the jewellery store when things had gone bad. Rationally, he knew there was still a way to escape the situation without violence, to keep hiding out peacefully in this quiet, near-derelict block while he considered his next move. But at the same time, he felt his hand slide closer to the concealed holster in his jacket.
    Once he made the move—once he drew—it would all happen very quickly. He had no doubt he was faster than the girl, although she was close enough that she might be able to leap on top of him before he could aim—at which point those file teeth would probably bite into his neck. He had a feeling she’d done that before. But assuming she didn’t think of that, he had enough in the magazine to put two into her and then deal with both of the boys before they could—
    “Hey!”
    Strader turned towards the sound of the voice—a deep, rough growl, like gravel passing through an industrial hopper—and he felt ice shoot up his spine, freezing him in place.
    It was a Judge. More—it was the Judge, the one from the jewellery store, the kid.
    Dredd.
    He’d been scary—scarier than a kid with a badge should have been—when Strader had glimpsed him through the closing doorway in the jeweller’s. There, he’d been all lean, violent muscle and black leather, all purpose—but there was something even more terrifying about him now, as he strode across the livid fake grass to meet them, fists swinging almost jauntily at his sides.
    Strader didn’t know how he knew.
    But he knew that face wasn’t meant to be smiling.
    “Well, well, well,” Dredd grinned, and there was a cruel joy in that deep gravel voice that made Strader shudder. Dredd smiled with his teeth, pearly white and incongruous against the black of the uniform. He flashed his grin at Strader, and for a moment Strader wondered why his hand was back at his side, why he hadn’t gone for his piece and fired a bullet through that visor already. But there was another part of him that knew with a cold, hard certainty that Dredd could drop to a firing position and put a hole right through his heart without even breaking his stride. Without losing that smile.
    “Take a step back, Paul,” Dredd said in that deep, dark voice, and Strader felt his blood ice over in his veins.
    “What?”
    But Dredd wasn’t listening—he’d already turned his attention to the three juves. “You know, you three are a long way away from the hundred and sixtieth floor. That’s home turf for you Morphs, right? Down here belongs to the Mister Bennett Boys.”
    The three of them had backed up a little—the boys were shooting nervous glances at their leader, visibly sweating, the hands holding the knives rammed deep in the pockets and out of sight—it was pretty clear they hadn’t signed up for this. Up until now, they’d been playing pretend, making believe that they were grown-ups, that they knew what they’d do when things got serious—and now it was real, now they were a heartbeat away from years of cube-time, they’d remembered they were just kids after all.
    The girl didn’t say a word.
    “So I guess this is an initiation. You three go back with a scalp, and you get to keep those jackets. Am I right?” Dredd was still smiling, the deep voice genial, amused. He jerked a thumb in Strader’s direction. “Grandpa over there, maybe? Let me see if I understand—you weren’t going to hurt him. You were just going to get his tie. Or his wallet. Or maybe his thumb.”
    “It ain’t l-like that—” the taller of the boys stammered, looking helplessly at the girl—she shot him a look back with her