The sea fog hung low over Harbor Gate at five in the morning, thick, cold, and heavy with salt mist.
At the central clearing plaza, two hundred mercenaries of the Continental Enforcement Agency stood in disciplined, double-ranked lines across the granite cobblestones. They wore dark gray coats, brass-buttoned waistcoats, and low-brimmed felt hats. Each man carried a repeating carbine with an iron bayonet fixed to the barrel.
At the front of their lines stood Arthur Vance-Cross, his tweed coat buttoned against the sea chill, holding a heavy brass pocket chronometer in his left hand.
Beside him, two junior clerks were busy mounting a broad, paper-printed poster onto the front iron doors of the Central Clearing House. The heavy red ink at the top read: NOTICE OF FORECLOSURE AND IMMEDIATE CORPORATE RECEIVERSHIP.
