Under the massive pillars of the Bruckner Expressway viaduct, the air was dead.
Puddles of oily rainwater sat in the cracks of the ground, reflecting the distant glow of industrial security lamps. Overhead, the steel groaned under the chill of the South Bronx wind.
Parked silently in the pitch black shadows of an abandoned freight dock, the stolen gray car sat with its lights killed and its engine running.
Inside the car, the silence was absolute, no one talked or moved at all.
Ryder sat behind the wheel, his fingers tapping a tense beat against the wheel. In the passenger seat, Arslan pulled a ski mask down over his face, leaving only his cold eyes showing. He reached into his coat, pulled out one of the small [Focus Pills], and swallowed it dry.
