Doctor Joseph Daneka had a small office above a Chinese noodle joint on the north side of the city. Mike walked up the narrow staircase, reminding himself to never eat at the Chinese place again.They left their food in large plastic bins to marinate and used them prop open the door to the hallway, causing the entire stairwell to have a sickening smell of meat mixed with sweet and sour sauce. Every time Doc brings it I end up eating it. Not this time Doc. Not this time.

Walking into the . . .

Mike snapped awake, his knuckles almost as white as the sheets he clutched, his whole body covered in a cold sweat. Falling. He’d reached out for the handkerchief, his foot had slipped, and this time, his training hadn’t helped him—he’d plummeted straight toward the concrete. He could swear he’d felt the beginning of the impact just before he woke. His gut felt twisted and gnarled.

The chopper shaped motorcycle alarm clock flashed three-thirty and the morning air was cold enough to form. . .

The pace picked up after Mike rounded the corner, about two blocks away. Mike saw the man flick a cigar and start running into the street after Mike started catching up. That’s gotta be him. Oh shit, Doc was right! He was waiting for me to fall today! Mother fucker. Boots pounded the pavement as he worked to close the distance. It was the only sound he focused on. Running through a red light, a beaten up car came to a screeching halt it’s duct taped bumper just two inches away from Mike’s shin. . .

He didn’t have to wait long. Sitting on a chair in the middle of his apartment with the front door open, Mike watched the two officers from earlier enter with their guns drawn. When they noticed him sitting, Mike gave a two-fingered wave.

“Welcome to my humble abode. You two ready for our second date?” Mike said. “So, since you two are my new drivers around Chicago, I figure we could get to know each other a little better. I, myself, am a huge fan of Project Runway, I hate Ma Po Tofu wi. . .

The adrenaline caused his heart to race faster as sweat endeavored to form on his face, only to be whisked away by the cold winds of the creeping November winter in Chicago. Twenty-one floors high, Mike Auburn stood on a six-inch I-beam looking at the city below him. The sun, blood-red on the horizon, added a grim look to the city when mixed with the swaths of people leaving their daily jobs. Go back home to your reality TV and frozen pizza. Mike thought.

I’m out here for a reas. . .