Author's Note: All properties are the rights of their respective owners, Marvel, Respawn Entertainment, etc.

As a coincidence, the band who did the tile for this chapter released a new single last week, titled 'We'll Be Back' off their upcoming album, The Sick, The Dying, and The Dead. Give it a listen.

That band is Megadeth, and while I did feature one of their newer songs for the first chapter, I'm too much of a fan to not get one classic Megadeth track in. This one is from their phenomonal second album, Peace Sells... But Who's Buying? A grim, dark tune, it is just dripping in atmosphere, and that's why this tale of a serial killer makes its way into the story.

Justice Without Compromise – Chapter 5: Good Mourning / Black Friday

I lurk in the alleys, wait for the kill

I have no remorse for the blood that I spill.

A merciless butcher who lives underground.

I'm out to destroy and I will cut you down.

I see you and I'm waiting for Black Friday

Killer, intruder, homicidal man

If you see me coming run as fast as you can.

A bloodthirsty demon who's stalking the street.

I hack up my victims like pieces of meat.

I lurk in the alleys, wait for the kill.

I have no remorse for the blood that I spill.

"Of all the days this had to happen…" grumbled Tobias Walsh as he surveyed the damages to his business. Rubbing tired green eyes and rubbing a hand through his greying hair, the suited Walsh checked to make sure the phone call he was on hadn't been disconnected. His tailored Armani suit and Omega watch had been paid for by the shop in which he stood. A high-end fashion store in Midtown Manhattan that catered to the wealthy clientele of the area, McKay's had been one of Walsh's many business ventures over the years, and his most successful.

Now that success had seemingly invited trouble, trouble Walsh was not prepared to deal with since he was supposed to be at his divorce proceedings. To his mind, his soon to be ex-wife would have to wait, because it was easer to look at the shattered windows, smashed display cases, and empty space that once held thousands of dollars of merchandise. Purses, jewelry, cosmetic products, and more had all been stolen in broad daylight.

Tobias was still on hold when the first police officer arrived on his motorcycle, the suited businessman coming out from his store, Bluetooth earpiece still in, to speak with the lawman. "About time you finally showed up, my alarms went off fifteen minutes ago!" barked Walsh. He had gotten warning when the alarm was triggered and had been at the store in eight minutes, wondering what was taking 'New York's Finest' so damn long to show up. "Too busy eating donuts to do your damn job?"

But the cop's face, with eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses, remained impassive. "Could I have your name sir?" asked the cop.

"Tobias Walsh, owner of this business," replied the indignant capitalist as he gestured towards the shattered windows. The suited man glared at the cop, but the officer didn't seem to react to Walsh's displeasure.

The cop withdrew a small notepad and flipped it open, "Could you tell me what happened here?"

Grimacing, Tobias straightened his tie and recounted what he had been told. "My employees said they were hit by a big group, thirty or forty probably. They rushed in and took everything they could before running, they were in and out in three or four minutes," sneered the owner as he kicked a small piece of glass. "We have the security footage, but they were all wearing masks by the looks of things."

The cop didn't speak, merely jotting down notes before finally looking up, "Could I see this footage sir?"

"Yeah, yeah, come with me," grunted Walsh as he turned and led the LEO through his store, past the empty shelves and empty cases, making sure to avoid the toppled racks left behind. To his mind, the inside of the store looked like a twister had blown through, though the New York native had never seen a tornado in his life.

Walsh led the cop upstairs to his office on the second floor, his computer already displaying the footage from the security cameras. Taking a seat behind his desk, Tobias spun the monitor around so the cop could get a good view, "Look at this shit, would ya?" remarked the owner as he rolled the footage. A wave of bodies rushed through the door, all wearing generic, cheap clothes with no identifying marks, as well as a wide variety of masks to conceal their faces. The half dozen cameras dotted around the store captured the next few minutes in terrific clarity as the swarm of locusts picked the store clean, the sheer weight of numbers overwhelming the one security guard on duty. When the last of the criminals had fled, Walsh leaned back in his plush leather chair and looked at the stoic cop. "Unbelievable, isn't it?"

"Unacceptable," agreed the motorcycle cop, face still eerily placid. "Can you rewind and focus on that camera feed there," asked the police officer, gloved finger pointing to a specific box on the screen. Shrugging, Walsh did as the cop said, wondering why the lawman was focused on an exterior camera when he pressed 'play.' After a few seconds, the thieves appeared on screen, rushing out of his store with their ill-gotten gains. From there, the group split up and, critically, four of the number jumped into a waiting Chrysler sedan, which sped off out of frame, but not before Tobias slammed his finger on the pause button.

"Ha! Got you bastards!" whooped the suited entrepreneur before looking up at the cop, who remained as stoic as ever.

"Indeed," replied the lawman before extending a gloved hand, "I'll need that footage sir. Rest assured that the car used will be found, and those who did this will never do this to your store again."

Without a second thought, Walsh produced one of the thumb dives rattling around his desk drawer and struggled to remember which slot it went into. The older man then did as instructed by the Law Enforcement Officer, not really understanding what he was being told to do, but seeing the progress bar fill up convinced him he was on the correct track. Lacking understanding and hearing the automated message to continue, Walsh removed the USB and passed the thumb drive to the police officer.

Pocketing the memory device, the cop then spoke again, "I need to go back to the station and file a report, more officers should be arriving shortly to process the scene."

"I hear ya' officer," replied Tobias as he looked down at his watch and realized he needed to get back to his divorce proceedings, or there would be hell, and a substantial additional legal fee, to pay. "I'll show you out," he stood and led the cop back downstairs and into the ruined store. By the time they reached the smashed front door, Tobias could see more police cars had arrived, and uniformed officers were speaking to his employees and forming a perimeter around his store. As the cop Walsh had been speaking to mounted his motorbike, the store owner called out to him, "Hey man, you really think you can find these guys?"

"Every effort will be made," replied the cop before kicking the starter lever of his Harley Davidson, the bike rumbling to life before the officer pulled away from the curb. Confident that the cop would do as he said, Walsh then turned his attention to the oncoming traffic, looking for a cab he could hail as his mind shifted back to his divorce case, forgetting most of the encounter he had just had.

With a fresh mug of coffee in-hand, a recently awakened Yuri Watanabe padded back across the loft's second floor towards her office, continuing the last night's work. Flicking the light switch on, she was greeted with the work done while burning the midnight oil, mind automatically recalling its details. The wall's poster board holding information on the mole within NYPD had been pushed aside for the first time since it had been started.

Before she left the Force, Watanabe had ensured that she would maintain access to the Crime Surveillance System the city had installed under Mayor Norman Osborn. The system was one of the most controversial at the time of its adoption, and several limitations were placed on it to placate critics, but it still took in and processed vast amounts of information. City cameras and sensors, privately installed alarm systems, and vehicle monitoring systems like OnStar all shared information with the Crime Surveillance System, allowing for faster response times an increase in data processing for preventative police action. Similarly, data from NYPD units, such as car locations and radio calls, were also compiled by the system. Inside the department, it had picked up the moniker of 'Electric Eye,' a name always imbued with a bit of sarcasm.

Yuri had combined what records the Electric Eye had gathered during Ricca's shooting and The Last Call bombing. In its depths she hoped to find a pattern, coincidence, anything lending credence to Lola's claim. Yuri didn't want to believe it, after a decade as a cop, she'd met good and bad people on the force. But never had she encountered such a cold killer like this.

Sitting down at her desk, she looked at her notes, and one stood out to her, the one she had left on top, the last thing written before she called it a night. It was a single word, circled several times and adorned with a half dozen question marks. The one thing that she simply could not get past when looking at this angle, but as she looked down at that note this morning, with some sleep and coffee in her, Yuri couldn't believe how stupid she had been in her stubbornness. The paper next her Colt Python simply asked the question, 'Why?'

What motive would a police officer have to commit murder? Yuri knew herself well enough to make a guess, with the help of a night's sleep and morning coffee; the system had limits. Those limits cost good people their lives, a fact she'd tried to change. She hadn't lost any sleep over the people she'd killed, which suggested a terrible truth.

This renegade cop, if it existed, had killed fewer people than she had. But most of the names didn't bother her.

Shaking her head, Yuri reached for her coffee and took a draught, letting the heat from the beverage drive off those thoughts. Because she had made a promise that she would see this through, even if she felt a renewed hope that it would turn out that Lola had been wrong in her assessment, if only so that her suppositions would be totally disproven.

With that gnawing feeling in her gut, Watanabe set to work, because only by seeing this through would her hopes have any chance of being proven. It was a fairly simple task to find patrolling units in the area at the time the killings occurred, and soon Watanabe had lists printed out an pinned the board. The first thing she looked for was a cop that had been nearby both incidents, but there was no such luck.

"God this is ridiculous," remarked a frustrated Yuri, "How the hell would somebody capable of this make it past the psych evals?" Those hadn't been simple things when she joined, as they had been designed with the explicit intent of screening out people who might abuse their position. More than once in her career had she been subjected to further screening, usually following certain incidents, and it was pending a psych eval that she had been put on administrative leave, which she still technically was.

"Unless the eval's changed …?" she resisted the urge to smack herself for not realizing it sooner. The department was desperate for new officers, possibly so desperate that it would relax its standards. Yuri went back to her computer, making a note to ask Jean about that before restricting the suspect list to recent graduates - unhelpful, given sixty percent of the list had graduated in the past six months.

It was progress at least, enough that Yuri pinned a note to the board about it before going to the next question she had on her mental list: with two cops in every cruiser, was it possible that there was more than one cop that had gone rogue?

Feeling his backside go numb in the worn out seat he'd chosen half an hour earlier, Detective Smith shifted, encouraging his drowsy leg to wake up. Meanwhile Captain Carter droned on about what paperwork each of them needed, and the required procedures for a dozen separate situations. On the armrest next to Smith was a notebook that the young detective had used to write down what was being said, but that habit only lasted for about 15 minutes before he joined the other two dozen gathered detectives in focusing solely on staying awake.

Carter, looking up from the podium at the front of the room, noticed the state of his audience and flashed an annoyed look before loudly clearing his throat, "Now, assignments," he announced, and everyone straightened at once. The projector changed to the next slide in a seemingly unending powerpoint, showing a mugshot of a somewhat terrified looking man with Asian features, the collar of his suit clearly visible. "Detective McCoy, here's your mark. This is Liu Yang, 26, a securities broker on the street. He was arrested last year for being a part of the Inner Demons but was released following psychological evaluation which determined he was free of the residual effects of mind control by Martin Li. Now as far as we know…."

Smith tuned out his superior and turned to Connors, the older detective seated beside the California native, and whispered to him. "Anything I should know about this stuff old man?"

"Just because I'm older than you kid, doesn't mean I'm old" grumbled the Detective Sergeant good naturedly. "But if you're asking me, I'd say to bring a book, preferably a big one, and probably several big ones to be honest. These kinda jobs involve a lot of sitting on your ass and waiting for the bad guys to do something. If you're lucky, or not, your guy will be busy, which means you get to drive around following them while pretending you're Sean Connery."

"Who?" asked Smith.

"Ya' know, the guy who plays James Bond," replied Connors.

"Oh, you mean Daniel Craig," corrected the younger Detective.

"Jesus tap dancing Christ, maybe I am getting old," muttered Connors as he shook his head, "Anyway, the point is that you have to tail the guys through Manhattan traffic, usually at rush hour, though I guess the Electric Eye helps with that now."

Smith hummed agreement, looking back to the front of the room to see Carter still cycling through mugshots and assignments. Reassured, he leaned closer to Connors, "Is there anything about this that isn't terrible?"

"The overtime," Connors deadpanned. The older man gave a shrug at Early's blank look.

"Connors, you're next," called out Captain Carter as the next slide flashed up and Early turned to look. "You got Lou Guzman, who was a contractor for the old Kingpin, Wilson Fisk. He was always suspected of handling Fisk's blackmail and connections, judges, politicians, police, and the like. Since Fisk was put away, he seemed to go into retirement but hired men was always a favorite tactic for Fisk, so if he's planning some sort of return or proxy then Guzman is a likely candidate to carry it out." Early scrutinized the picture, this time not a mugshot but a photo from the Fisk Industries website that proclaimed him the 'Vice President of Corporate Relations.' Rolling his eyes at that, Smith listened to Carter drone on, "He still has big friends everywhere, so to put him behind bars on this we're going to need an iron clad case. Next."

A picture of a half dozen men on a golf course replaced the corporate photo. Of the men, the biggest was circled, and Smith guessed he was more than capable of using the driver he held as a deadly weapon if needed. "This one is yours Detective Smith, Frank Palancio. Six foot, two hundred twelve pounds, indicted for murder 23 times back in the oughts, no convictions. He complains about his health now, suffers from ulcers, migraines, headaches, you name it. His reputation suggests that he's dangerously violent, so much so he used to be Ricca's principal hitter back when both just started. Once he gets it in his mind he wants something then he won't back off. That includes a fight so watch your ass Smith."

Early bristled slightly as he jotted down a few notes, "With all due respect sir…."

But Carter cut him off in a split second. "I want you on him, Smith."

"I'll get on him," conceded Early, "But this is a waste of time, this guy didn't escape 23 indictments because he was as direct as sending a guy to shoot his enemies at point blank range. It doesn't fit."

"Maybe not, but you don't worry about that. You just keep your nose pressed to Palancio's ass till I get a warrant from the DA's office to bring him in. I'll make sure he doesn't get off for a 24th time," promised Carter. "I want him off the streets this time."

"Off the streets? Yeah, probably because he's liable to be our next victim," shot back Early. "What are you asking, Captain?"

"I'm not asking, I'm telling you," Emphasized Carter, "For the last goddamn time, observe and report. You see him jaywalking, I'll have a warrant for his arrest ready to be served."

Sighing, Early went back to his notebook, wondering just who might hire someone to impersonate a cop as Carter called out, "Next."

Coaxing the last bits of fuel out of the pump and into the thirsty Plymouth Barracuda, Yuri Watanabe replaced the nozzle and shut the fuel door of the purple muscle car. After spending most of the day sifting through mounds of information, it was a relief to the vigilante to receive a call from one of her suppliers up in Harlem with some new items she might want. Eager to take the opportunity to get out of the loft for even a brief time, Watanabe had set off, stopping for gas along the way.

Settling back into the driver's seat, Yuri fired up the 426 Hemi and pulled the car out of the gas station and back onto the road. Putting her foot down ever so slightly, the thousand horsepower muscle car spun its rear wheels for a moment as Yuri wheeled it around the corner and into traffic before depressing the clutch and yanking the gearshift down in to second. Spying a gap in the horde of yellow taxis, Watanabe pinned the throttle down and heard the shrill screech of the 3.0 liter supercharger as the car rocketed forwards.

Picking up speed, Yuri's hands gripped the wheel with white knuckles, taking out her frustrations from the case on the throttle, the car roaring and screaming while it's driver remined silent. After a short but furious charge down 131st, Watanabe's grip on the wheel and pressure on the pedal both let up as the car slowed. Letting out a breath she had been holding behind clenched teeth, the vigilante spied the warehouse she was meeting her contact at and pulled her car into the open doors. Pushing the clutch in and putting the car into neutral, the Hemi 'Cuda came coasting to a stop alongside the waiting white van.

Yuri stuffed the Python on the passenger seat into her shoulder holster before throwing open the door and stepping out of the Plymouth. Leaning against the van was a man Yuri had quite a past with, Horace King had a long rap sheet of mostly petty crimes that Yuri had put him away for early in her career. Learning that he had been released a few months ago, she checked in to find that he had returned to his criminal ways, and convinced him to sell to her in exchange for keeping him out of trouble with his parole officer, who was an old friend of hers.

"Yo Yuri, you see this shit going down?" questioned the jittery con, "It's not something I need to worry about, right?"

"Shouldn't be, it's probably the bosses trying to off each other again, just keep your head down and you'll be fine," replied Watanabe, moving around the back of her car and popping open the trunk.

"Tell that to the kid who just got iced up the street," muttered King under his breath. Yuri raised an eyebrow and made to ask for more information but was waved off by the jittery arms dealer. "Let's just get this over with, since I figure you're on this it makes sense why you wanted what you did." Horace opened the back of the van and pulled out a small duffel bag, "Four pounds of Western Ramshot Magnum powder, 150 rifle primers and matching number of 300 grain .338 low drag, armor piercing slugs."

Hefting the bag to the back of her car, Yuri opened it to check that the contents were all in order before closing the trunk. Turning to leave, Horace spoke again, "Wait, I got something else for you." Intrigued, Watanabe turned to see the con reach back into the van and produce a weapon from the vehicle. It was a bulky black thing, with an odd profile featuring a contoured handguard, perforated stamp steel heatshield over the barrel and tubular magazine, and folding wire stock with an unusual hook attachment grafted onto the end. "You like?" asked Horace as he offered her the weapon.

Taking the hefty scattergun in hand, Yuri turned the gun over to catch sight of the 'Franchi' and 'Made in Italy' markings proudly stamped on the receiver. "Do I want to know where you got this?" asked Yuri, getting an emphatic headshake in reply. "This is a SPAS-12, isn't it?"

"That's what I always liked about you Yuri, knew your guns pretty well, for a cop that is," complemented Horace with a forced chuckle. Rubbing the back of his head when he saw Yuri's unmoving expression, the con fell silent and nodded, "Yeah, you right. That gun's a proper movie star, been in more films than Will Smith. Usual clientele hasn't been interested, I've been trying to sell that thing for two weeks, but people don't see the point of it."

"The point?" echoed Yuri as she extended a hand, and Horace passed a small sack of shells to the cop. "The point is that it's gas operated or," began Watanabe before flicking a switch and pulling the contoured handgrip back, "Pump action. It means you can fire anything through it without a problem. Full power shells you can use the self-loading function, and the lighter stuff can work with the pump." Closing the breech, Yuri began stuffing shells through the feed ramp on the bottom of the gun, "So yeah, I like it."

"Then keep it, it's all yours," replied Horace, closing the doors of his van, "Think of it as a little gift from your old pal, Horace."

"Did you violate parole again?" deadpanned Watanabe, noting the telling silence that answered her. "I'll call her tonight. Drop in tomorrow, I'm serious, don't forget."

"I won't," assured King, "You really weren't so bad for a cop, too bad you stopped doing it." With that, the man got back into his van.

Yuri followed suit, setting the gun down in the footwell of the back seat and covering it with a blanket before returning to the driver's seat of the still running 'Cuda. Watching Horace's van pull away, Watanabe pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the Electric Eye for NYPD deployments nearby. There was one, in fact, a few blocks away, stamped that the site was an active crime scene. Putting the location into her navigation app and snapping the phone into place on her dashboard, Yuri put the Plymouth in gear and began working the wheel. Yuri coaxed the big car through a U-turn, guiding it through the concrete pillars and back out the way she came.

Following her GPS, Yuri pulled the car up to the curb about a block away from the location marked on the Electric Eye, able to see the flashing lights up ahead. Donning a pair of sunglasses and pulling a Yankees cap down low over her eyes, Yuri got out of the Hemi 'Cuda and approached the police line. Striding up to the crowd of onlookers, Yuri peeked through the gaps to see the alley that was sealed off, the Chrysler sedan left sitting there that had the CSI people gathered around it as a body was extricated from the vehicle.

In watching the macabre sight, Yuri didn't notice one of the cops emerge from a huddle while staring directly at her. "Been a while Captain," said the cop, prompting Yuri to almost jump out of her shoes. Gathering her wits, Watanabe faced the speaker, a young woman she struggled to place. Seeing Yuri's confusion, the woman offered a small smile, "I'm Kate Moore, I used to be at your precinct, just for a few months before I got married and transferred."

"I remember, you married the… attorney, wasn't it?" replied Watanabe, the pieces falling into place.

It appeared she didn't keep her thoughts on that profession off her face, because Moore laughed, "Don't worry, he's a patent attorney," allayed the cop. "Listen, I know your situation but… could you take a look at this scene? Nobody here has seen anything like it."

Yuri tried to protest, "I'm not even supposed to…."

"It's fine, I got a promotion, made Detective. I'm in charge here, and I say you can come take a look," returned Moore, arms crossed. Relenting with a nod, Yuri slipped under the yellow perimeter tape and strode through the crime scene. "I'm in the Anti-Crime unit now, looking into gang activity up here mostly. That's what we think this is. One of the victims was a major player in an outfit called 'The Knuckles,' usual small-time stuff. Drugs, petty crime, maybe a few protection rackets."

At that point the two arrived next to the car, with Yuri able to look into the open window at the blood-stained interior. Ignoring the weight in her gut, Watanabe turned back to the younger detective, "How'd he die?"

"Two vics actually, both 17 years old and shot at close range, probably something pretty big considering the mess. There were some stolen goods in the car, jewelry from a flash mob robbery last night over in midtown, some real upscale place called 'McKay's,' and it was nice stuff too, my husband got me something from there for Valentine's day. Funny thing is that neither seemed to do anything about it. We found two weapons in the car, both untouched. The window was rolled down, not shot through," rattled off Moore, each word only increasing Yuri's unease. "The only thing I can guess is that they were shot by someone from a rival gang that neither of them recognized."

Watanabe frowned at her differing conclusion, "Or someone they'd never suspect."

A ringing in his pocket caused Detective Early Smith set his large coca-cola down into the cup holder and retrieve the phone, answering it when he saw who was calling. "Smith here," he greeted, "What's up Connors?" asked the younger detective before taking a bite of his burger.

"Oh, not a whole lot, just checking in on ya' kid," replied Detective Sergeant Connors, undoubtedly in a similar position to Smith from his stakeout up in Clinton. "First stakeouts are always rough. Want to make sure you haven't gone mad yet."

Smith let out a wry chuckle, "No, not yet old man," assured the younger detective before chomping down on his dinner. "Just… just been watching the most studious psychopath ever tend to his books down here for the last oh… four hours," explained Early after checking his watch and finishing his cheeseburger.

"Have the patrol guys started a pool yet?" asked the Detective Sergeant.

"Yup," answered Early, tossing a few French fries into his mouth. Each detective had been assigned a handful of beat cops to help cover other angles. The idea was that Smith was in charge, but since half of the patrol officers were older than him, Smith had effectively just been made part of the group. "They're trying to guess why our man is staying at his office so late. Everyone else left about an hour ago."

"Ah, a classic," replied Connors wistfully, "What's your money on? Mistress?"

Rolling his eyes, Early took a sip of his coke and answered, "Nope, I got twenty on him doing something business related." He was the only one who had money on that option though, but he had spread out his bets. "I got another ten on Palancio being another victim at some point, next 36 hours is what I said."

He had told his group to keep an eye out for any NYPD units approaching, both on the Crime Surveillance System or visually, just in case. His request had been met with a mix of raised eyebrows and shrugs, but had been complied with thus far. The offered explanation of not wanting their observation compromised by some unwitting traffic cop had been accepted, but Early had resolved to not admit his actual reasoning.

"Still hung up on that are ya' kid?" asked Connors, and Early heard the skepticism dripping off every syllable. "Listen, I know you're trying to break this case wide open, but I'll tell you something. The guys we're dealing with? They may be psychopaths, but they ain't stupid. Even if they don't have inside sources, they probably know we'll be coming down on them after the shitstorm in the press. They'll be calling off their attack dogs and laying low for a little while, probably just long enough for the department to decide to reassign us to another case."

An unbidden frown tugged the corners of Smith's mouth downward, "You sound awfully sure of that," mused Early as he chewed on another fry, "How many times have you had that happen to you over the years?"

"More than you want to know kid, trust me on that one," answered Connors, his age coming through loud and clear in his voice. "I tell you what, if you're right, and your guy… no, hell, anyone being observed gets hit while we're watching them, and I'll buy you dinner at that nice steakhouse down in Stuytown."

"I like the sound of that," admitted Early, "Though part of me hopes it never happens."

There was a grunt on the other side of the phone, "That's good to hear kid, I'd hate if a good guy like you already turned into a cynical bastard like me." The two cops shared a hearty laugh, Smith didn't argue it, but he had come to like Connors, cynical bastard or not. "Your setup good? Everything covered?"

"Think so, staking out Palancio's office down at the docks in Brooklyn, we got a spotter up in a crane overlooking the area, and three unmarked cars watching the perimeter," Early rattled off. "We've got the place covered pretty good I'd say, managed to keep eyes on our principal the whole time. What's your set up look like?"

"A bit different than yours, kid," answered Connors while Smith stuffed his trash into the bag the food had come in and tossed it into the passenger seat, grabbing the next novel in the series he was reading to replace it. "Guzman has a swanky apartment in midtown, so we're set up in a hotel room across the street. From what we can tell, he's preparing to entertain a special someone."

"Let me guess, that's what your pool is on?" deadpanned Early.

"Bingo kid, you're catching on quick." The compliment had Early shaking his head while Connors continued. "Should be telling that, despite the guy being married, none of us are betting on him seeing his wife tonight."

"That a fact? Who's your money on Connors?" inquired Smith as he watched the traffic pass by the dockyard.

"Well I'm old fashioned, I'm saying a blonde, 38 double Ds," replied Smith, "I can tell the times are a changing because I'm the only one who said that, all these young bucks I'm with… two of them said it'd be a man who shows up."

Early shook his head, "Like you said old man, the times are a changing."

"Hey Rico, quiet night?" asked Jim Kelso as he ambled into the small security office about 15 minutes before his shift was due to start. The man sitting at the desk before the bank of screens showing the various security feeds was dressed the same way he was, with a purple uniform shirt and black vest.

"Yup, same as always," replied the guard Kelso was there to relieve, his eyes fixed on the TV showing the Knicks game and not the security cameras. "Who the hell would want to break into a records building anyways? There's nothing here but paper. We don't even have any computer hardware!"

"Hey, I'm getting paid good money to watch over these papers on a Friday night," retorted the newly arrived guard. "Is the game good at least?" Rico held up a hand and shook it while pulling himself out of the chair. "Alright, well have a good weekend man."

"Yeah, you too Jim," bid Rico with a wave as he left the office.

Kelso settled down into the recently vacated chair and kicked his feet up on the desk. Eyes perusing over the security cameras, he saw a bunch of empty hallways, barren records rooms, and closed external doors. For a minute, he was distracted as he followed Rico's walk out of the building, but when the Knicks game returned from its commercial break his eyes became fixated on the game with Philly.

He was so enraptured by the game that he didn't notice the arrival of a pair of motorcycles to the parking lot on the backside of the building. A man clad in dark clothes, but wearing a white helmet, dismounted each bike and moved towards the back door of the small records building. As luck would have it, they arrived at the door just as Rico exited it, the cameras showing what happened next.

Rico tried to address the two men, but the system didn't record sound, so his shouts were silent before he was struck by a flurry of blows before he was thrown back against the brick wall of the building. The two men then relieved Rico of his security card and used that to open the door to let themselves in, dragging the limp form of the Fisk Security Guard inside with them.

Blissfully unaware that he was no longer alone in the building, Kelso remained transfixed by the basketball game. "Come you guys, this is the playoffs! Playoffs!" he shouted uselessly, "I know 'The Process' finally worked and Philly is the two seed, but at least try!" His shouts covered the sound of approaching footfalls as one of the intruders approached, while the game distracted him from the other screens that showed the second intruder making his way to one of the file rooms and began opening the cabinets inside.

There were no cameras in the security office, and when the door opened, Kelso asked, "What'd you forget this time Rico?" without turning to look at the door. The Fisk Security Guard never saw the man in a police officer's uniform standing there and holding a revolver before the .44 Magnum was fired. Struck in the head by the slug, Kelso was killed nearly instantaneously, slumping out of the chair and onto the floor. Unbothered by the blood or body, the shooter deftly worked the security feed, removing the memory card recording the feeds before leaving the office to join his fellow.

Despite the lack of a way to record, the cameras were still rolling, their feeds displayed on the screens in the security office. They watched the two intruders search the file room until they found one particular file and took it with them as they left. Retracing their steps through the building, the two men arrived at the back door, where the bloody and beaten but still birthing Rico lay sprawled out on the floor. Without remorse, the other intruder drew and fired his own .44 Magnum, killing the security guard as he lay unconscious.

The security cameras, still unable to record, saw the pair return to their motorcycles and ride off the premises, with nobody giving them so much as a second glance.

Closing Notes: With this, we're across the halfway point of the story, roughly speaking, so from here on out, pieces will start coming together. There are a few twists and turns yet to get through, so buckle up, it's going to be an interesting ride.

Except for the one guy who guessed the movie I used as the basis for the plot.

In two weeks, we're taking a trip to Purgatory

Stay Frosty, Misfit Delta out.