The clock radio flashed one-thirteen in the morning. Marvin slowly pressed the brake as a red light replaced the amber in the traffic light. He stopped his silver Audi just inches before a brightly painted crosswalk. Marvin tapped the wheel with his heavy fingers, whistling to the tune of the song that happened to be on the radio. He looked left, across the empty four-lane street, into a shot-up crime scene. The all-night diner was a favorite stop of his, and it was a shame that there happened to be a murder on its sidewalk. It wasn't their fault, but the stigma of having an event like that usually forced places to close. Marvin looked forward, at the Audi stopped across the intersection. An attractive woman sat behind the wheel. Marvin waved a little, and the woman, obviously observing Marvin, waved back. Marvin smiled. The woman smiled. Marvin looked right, thinking about what could come from this simple red light. She even had the same car. He looked left again.

"Jesus Christ!" Marvin looked straight ahead. He slowly turned back to face the car that had pulled up next to him in the left lane. Fedorov was looking left from the passenger seat. He was speaking to the driver. "Oh, damn, oh damn, oh damn, oh damn…" Marvin said aloud as he thought of something to do. Run? Just hit the gas and run? No, that wouldn't work. Their police cruiser could outrun his puny '89 Audi any day of the week, including Sunday. Turn. Just turn down the street and disappear. Nothing illegal. Oh, crap, the light was still red. The thoughts about the attractive driver across the street were completely gone now. Marvin had to worry about survival. Fedorov began looking around the intersection. Marvin ducked under the steering column.

"Damn! Why did he have to show here, right now?" Marvin thought of the 9mm automatic in the glove compartment.

"No!" he said, sitting up. He wasn't going to start shooting people. He looked left. Fedorov was looking straight back at the driver of the silver Audi.

"What?" Carmelita asked, attempting to free her arm from Fedorov's grip.

"Can you drive?" he asked. Marvin saw the Russian government officer's mouth move. The driver of the squad car leaned forward. Marvin's heart dropped into his feet, where it deflated and stopped. Her. Both of them, here, now. Ten years of good luck gave way to bad, along with all the backed pay to go with it. It was the second time in his life that Marvin had ever regretted getting into organized crime. The warrants in both Russia and France were enough to put him in jail for six life sentences, as well as four trips to the firing squad. He had never known what it was like to be genuinely afraid for his life. All the people he'd killed, is this what they felt like just before he'd choked or blasted the life out of them?

Marvin looked straight ahead. He tilted his brows outward in a face of forced resignation.

"Aww, hell." Marvin hit the gas pedal.

Bentley was so proud of himself. His little microphone, apart from being able to last over two months in the cold, rain, wind and sun without any problems, he had inadvertently found out that the device picked up the police scanner. It could change the entire way in which he and Sly plan heists. It could be an ear to the ground, an early warning, a way of knowing what's headed your way on the-

"Hey, Bentley, who're you talking to?" Sly asked from the next room.

"No-one." Bentley put a pair of headphones on his head and turned up the volume.

"Unit thirteen-four, transporting two male 10-3's to their residence on 10th."

"Understood, thirteen-four."

"What's that?" a voice boomed into Bentley's right ear. Bentley shrieked, throwing several papers into the air.

"Sly!" Sly backed off, one hand up defensively, one hand on his bandaged side. Bentley turned back to his computer, listening intently.

The four-cylinder engine revved to about 6,000rpm before changing into fourth gear. Marvin worked both the brake and the gas at the same time to ease himself around a corner at over one hundred kilometers an hour. While his left hand gripped the wheel, his right hand held a black cellular phone. He checked the mirror as he punched in a number he knew by feel. Those two damn cops were still on him.

A phone rang in the home of Ethan Abercrombie. The multi-million dollar home had a resident maid, who was disturbed from her light sleep to answer the kitchen phone.

"Grisele! Get Mr. Abercrombie on the phone! Hurry!" he removed the phone from his ear to maneuver around traffic. "I don't give a damn he's busy! It's an emergency!"

The mouse was surprised by the call, and rested the phone on a marble countertop. The master of the house was removed from his five-foot-seven, hundred-ten pound brunette distraction and forced to pick up the phone.

"Yes?" the greyhound asked, always levelheaded.

"Shit, Mr. A! I got Fox and that KGB guy on me! I need some help out here!"

"What is it, Bentley?" Sly asked, walking back into the tortoise's room.

"Sly, I recorded this just now from the police radio frequencies, and it will undoubtedly force you to act brashly, but I want to strongly recommend that we-" Sly pushed past Bentley and pulled out the headphones from the speaker system.

"-ing south towards Notre Dame! Requesting backup. Suspect driver may be involved with Tuesday's armed robbery of the National Reserve Bank," said the calm female voice, unmistakably Carmelita Fox.

In a flash, Bentley and Murray were warming the van. Sly came shooting out his bedroom window in his usual costume, toting his trademark cane. The van's engine was started and its wheels began spinning.

"Where are we going?" Murray asked in his usual, slightly confused voice. With Bentley shouting directions from the passenger seat, the van headed off in an intercept course with the ongoing pursuit.

"Oh, where do you think you're going?" Fox said to the windshield as she pressed the gas pedal against the floor. Matkovich gripped the armrests, assured that Carmelita, could, in fact, drive. He observed that her driving skills exceeded his own. The squad car hit a pothole, sending Fedorov's head into the thinly covered roof of the car. A dent in the padding appeared. Without looking to the side, "Put your seatbelt on!" Fox shouted.

"Uhh, I'll be passing the cathedral in a few seconds!" Marvin shouted into his cellphone. On the other end of the line, the greyhound was driving his own vehicle, a slightly higher-powered Mercedes-Benz.

"Understood," Abercrombie said, killing the connection. His plan was fair, considering the suddenness of the necessity to make one. He put both hands on the wheel, executing a tight right turn. He swerved around a white van that was traveling in the same direction, only at a slower speed. It too was speeding, but the van's engine wasn't as powerful as the custom-built eight-cylinder engine under Ethan's jet-black hood.

"Can you shoot?" Carmelita asked Matkovich.

"Yes!" Fedorov said, happy to offer some kind of help in the situation. He brought out his .57 from its holster and rolled down his window. Steadying his aim against the motion of the car, he began blasting holes into the back window of the Audi. The car shuddered from a jerking action against the wheel, but it stayed strong and quick. Using its better handling, the driver flung the car into a narrow, one-way street. The squad car went past the street, taking the next turn to loop around and meet back up with the fleeing vehicle.

Marvin didn't stop the vehicle completely. He let it stop up against a cement pillar as he rolled out of the passenger-side door, onto the wet street. The glove compartment was left open as he sprinted across the street. The train station was laid out with the ticket booth and facilities on the ground floor, the actual railway several stories in the air, suspended on tall pillars to move over the crowded slum of the city and into more pleasant areas. Marvin ran into the main body of the station, discarding his gutter-water stained jacket into a brick wall. Tucked into the back of his belt was a 9mm automatic.

"Locker, locker, locker, locker," Marvin said to himself as he ran into the dimly lit locker room. He dumped the contents of the envelope onto the tile floor. A brass key fell, clanging loudly. Marvin scooped it up and rushed forward.

"Forty-seven, forty-seven, forty-seven," he said, scanning the wall of steel doors.

Fedorov and Fox exited the squad car, readying their pistols. Fedorov left his long trench coat behind. He was wearing only a white dress shirt with a red tie and charcoal-gray suit pants. He dumped the hat in the passenger seat and popped the bones in his neck.

"We go," he said.

"It's about time. It looks like we've got him cornered," Carmelita said, rounding the front of the car and eyeing the dented Audi as she motioned for Matkovich to go through the front door.

Marvin began yanking at the blue duffel bag that had been stuffed into the cramped locker. Choking back tears of frustration and fear, he put a foot up on the locker next to locker forty-seven. With a heave, the bag slid out, sending Marvin sprawling onto the floor. Wasting no time, he flung the sling over his shoulder and raced up the stairs to the platform.

Fedorov entered first, sweeping left to right. He entered the locker room and saw a locker had been left ajar.

"Detective Fox," he said, pointing to the locker. Carmelita came up from behind.

"There's only one other way out- and it's a dead end," she said confidently, motioning to the stairs.

Marvin tripped over the last stair, nearly landing flat on his face. Recovering swiftly, he ran around the bench enclosure at full speed. He skidded on his heels when the flash of a gold-colored object glimmered in the waning moonlight. Marvin looked into the darkness. There was nobody there. He cautiously began moving around the strange manifestation. His hand moved back to the 9mm tucked into his belt. Before his fingers found the cold steel, there was a blur of movement, and he found himself with a cane under his chin. On the other end of the staff was a grinning raccoon.

"Howdy there," Sly said, staring back to the rather surprised dog. "If you don't mind, I'll be taking that," Sly reached for the duffel bag.

"Halt!" Fedorov shouted. Sly grabbed Marvin by the collar and held him in front of himself, like a human shield. Fox came up less than a second later.

"Well, well, well. Talk about two birds with one stone," she said. This was quickly turning out to be her night. The two police officers advanced on Sly and Marvin.

"They're after you, right?" Sly whispered to Marvin. Marvin nodded.

"Yeah."

"Drop your weapon and put your hands up!" Fedorov shouted, taking an aggressive step forward.

"The hell is this?" Sly demanded, holding the 9mm in front of Marvin. He quickly realized it was a very stupid move. Carmelita was surprised at Sly's latest action. He never used firearms. Killing wasn't his forte. Matkovich, however, wasn't as hesitant and thoughtful. He immediately rushed Sly, having a more imminent reason to end the short standoff. Sly let go of the pistol and Marvin, taking up his cane. As the pistol fell, Marvin felt the hand leave his shirt collar. He ducked and grabbed the pistol, and in the same move, lunged off to the left, and the edge of the station platform. Sly deftly twirled his cane around, and shot it forward, catching the advancing police officer in the side of the head. The officer fell hard, his weapon sliding a few feet on the weathered concrete. Sly sprinted after Marvin as Fox watched the biggest break in her career turn into the biggest blunder of the precinct's history.

Marvin planted a foot on the edge of the platform and lunged over a gap, dropping a complete story before landing on the roof of an apartment building with a rotten crunch. He staggered to his feet, then rushed to a rooftop stairwell that led into the building. Sly came down gracefully next to the large dent in the roof, rolling to prevent a harsh landing. Marvin shouldered the rotting door, knocking it inward. The ringtail began to run towards the door when a bullet splintered the roof just in front of his foot.

"Not so fast," Fox said. She stepped around Marvin's impact depression and stood in the Weaver stance, weapon aimed at Sly.

"Aw, I was going to get the bad guy," Sly said, shrugging and motioning to the door.

"I can catch him later. This, however, is a once-in-a-lifetime chance," Carmelita said, advancing on Cooper, pistol aimed at his chest.

"Weren't we in a situation like this before?" Sly asked, putting a hand on his hip.

"I don't recall anything remotely like this," Carmelita pulled back the hammer on her sidearm. Fedorov had recovered from his stunning blow and had since dropped onto the roof. "And I don't recall having a little backup. Matt- go downstairs, follow the other purp'. I've got this one." Fedorov rubbed his head and hustled into the doorway. Carmelita and Sly were the only ones on the roof.

"Okay, let's do this. You try to cuff me, I get away, you make a witty remark and-" Fox pulled back the hammer on her pistol and gripped the trigger.

"Oh, crap!" Sly said, taking a step back. Fox's aim dropped to Cooper's knees. She fired off a single round, square between Sly's legs. Sly leaped upward to avoid the bullet, then started running as soon as he hit the ground. Another bullet shattered the aging wood just inches away from the raccoon's foot.

"Who said anything about 'cuffing' you?" Fox shouted as she chased Sly across the roof. "Three damn years!"

Sly reached the end of the roof. The only way down was a rusted old storm drain, screwed onto the brick wall. As another bullet chipped off a portion of wood from the rooftop, Sly grabbed the top of the metal and ripped it outward, using it as a brace between the two buildings. When the metal crashed into the other building, he was significantly closer to the ground. He let go of the metal. Sly didn't realize that a screw had snagged the shoulder of his blue shirt. The garment was held up as the ringtail fell, leaving Cooper without a top. He landed safely on the ground. Carmelita rushed to the edge of the roof and looked down. She saw a raccoon bandaged up with long white tape. Bandaged on his side. Her memory flashed back to the all-night diner. It couldn't be, could it? Could have Sly Cooper been the one at the bank? How else would this be explained? She watched in stunned silence as Cooper dashed off into an alley.