Hal plunged the tungsten hard drive into a bath of toluene and dry ice. The metal seethed as toxic ribbons coiled up from the hopper. Mr. F’s goons hadn’t said a word since they pounded on the hatch to Hal’s workshop in the dead of night. Hal knew the tall one – a chip runner from the lower grid. The other was new. He had a flat face, top hat, and a jury-rigged pistol hanging under his coat. The drive was old – pre-SIN, matte black, heat-scored, with fresh blood smeared across the pins. Hal o...