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Kinbong Vandiver

The train slams through at least six of the rusted car shells before it spark-showers to a stop, and Kinbong Vandiver and his gang of cyclists ramp hooting up onto the roofs of the cars. Most of them tear through passenger berths, snatching strings of pearls and terrified briefcases, but Kinbong himself makes straight for the car disguised as a freighter.

“You can’t do this!” gasps one of the politicos inside. “Don’t you know the Warden will hunt you down?”

“A storm is coming,” says Kinbong Vandiver, grinning and licking his knife blade. “And I mean that the dirty way.”

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