In Di City at dawn, the wind blowing in from inland carried the chill of late autumn, but under the heat-island effect, it had lost all its force by the time it penetrated the inner city.
Barty's fat, massive body sprawled brazenly across nearly a third of the partitionless luxury business car. He had undone his suit buttons, allowing his chest and belly to shake freely, producing a rich, resonant rumble.
The drive from the estate near the city's edge to the urban core took an hour, and the calls had barely stopped. Even though Barty deliberately kept every conversation under five minutes, he had little time to spare. And in nearly every one of those calls, the key points revolved around two things:
Ronan, and "that little thing Ronan had released."
As Di City's most authoritative source of information, the word Barty had put out successfully stirred up a chain of reactions.
That was the proof of his value.
Of course, on a deeper level, it showed that Ronan was still a hot topic throughout the entire circle. Every faction reacted with considerable sensitivity, even excessive intensity, to the attitudes and messages he expressed.
"He's rolling around in a frying pan. Better be careful he doesn't spatter oil all over you."
The tone on the other end of the most recent call was like freshly squeezed lemon juice—or one of those ancient Eastern condiments.
"Unfortunately, I'm not used to Chinese cuisine, much less qualified to be a chef."
"True, but you're a supplier of ingredients—the kind that hoards goods and drives up prices."
"I'll take that as praise... We're almost there. Wait a moment."
As he spoke, the car stopped outside the gates of an industrial compound formed by a cluster of low-rise buildings. After a simple identity check,