“Well?” asks the flat voice.
His empty revolver clatters on the floor.
“The prisoner brings five bodies,” says one of the Ad Hocs ringing the room. “In the van’s cargo compartment.”
“Scan indicates no heartbeat or biothermals,” says another.
“You fools! You fools!” The voice isn’t flat anymore.
The five dead men are up and out, guns cold, unblinking. He peels off his jacket and its pocket heat pads; he pulls off his sunglasses.
“G-got g-g-gotcha,” smiles the Cold Man.
Then the Ad Hocs are tumbling away, pulse and crack as the Numismata loose their iron bullets.