On a rusted fire escape three stories up, a figure waited. The loose, dark fabric of the pants and the long, draping hood shifted silently in the wind. The mask covered everything below the eyes.

Below, in the pool of a flickering streetlight, a transaction was going sour. Raised voices. A briefcase snapped open. A glint of a gun.

The two men turned at the soft scuff of a shoe.

A siren wailed in the distance, getting closer. Fast. Too fast for a routine patrol.

From around the corner of the warehouse, a sleek, black quinjet descended silently, its ramp already lowering. A figure in tactical gear stood outlined in the interior light, long hair whipping in the downdraft.