Wang Dali hurried to a corner and warned in a low voice, "Let it go."
He knew exactly how crucial this moment was. If they spooked their target because of a few street punks, the consequences would be disastrous.
The atmosphere instantly fell silent.
Though reluctant, the members of the fifth squad, who often bought drinks from that little supermarket, nodded in agreement.
Everyone looked away.
Someone glanced at the bank of monitors. Nine separate feeds, all from drones, provided a comprehensive, blind-spot-free view that covered the street below and the short concrete building across from it.
The four-word neon sign for the Iron Fire Prosthetic Clinic flickered on the second-floor wall.
Though it was broad daylight, the building's first-floor roller door was shut tight. Flanking the entrance in the adjacent alleyway, two figures with cybernetic augmentations stood guard, with glowing patterns visible on their necks and the backs of their hands.
