The city never slept; it merely closed its eyes and dreamt of darker things. Max Hastings knew that all too well as he stood in the rain-soaked alley, the cold seeping into his bones. The neon signs above flickered erratically, casting ghostly shadows that danced on the slick pavement. He pulled his coat tighter and lit a cigarette, the ember a small beacon in the gloom.
Victoria Thorne emerged from the shadows, her silhouette sleek and determined. "Max," she said, her voice a low whisper. "Reynolds got us a lead. Sloane's been spotted at the old waterfront warehouse."
Max nodded, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Then that's where we're headed. If Sloane's trying to take over Crane's empire, we need to cut him off at the knees."
