It was perhaps 3.00 in the morning. Van rubbed his eyes with his good hand. His right arm was beginning to throb again. Van wasn't convinced the painkillers were doing much. Ford looked worriedly at him. Van turned to her, her big eyes full of concern, and half-smiled. She seemed to take that as an 'all's well', and turned around, her flashlight lighting up the corners of the long alley they stood in. Van coughed in the cold night air, and walked forward. He peered into the gloom, then turned back to Ford, a few paces behind.
'Over here'. She shone the torch, and Van saw what he had suspected, a red trail leading into one of the half-open garages. Van walked forward, pulling out a compact Colt M1917 revolver, heavily modified for his use, and following the trail. He didn't have to look far.
