A gun fires, and you’re sure you’re dead. The sound of the blast alone is enough to make you lose your footing, but you know you’ll be in a better place before you hit the pavement.

You’ve come so far, so very very far. But you’re teetering now, your body already committed to falling into the arms of karma. And there’s quite possibly a bullet in your brain.

Another gunshot. A yelp. The sound of fist against face. You whirl around on one foot, staggering backwards, and find Harris doubled over, blood streaming from his nose, and his band of FBI cronies laid out cold around him. Rushing toward you is Max, eyes like baseballs. In slow motion he grabs your hand and yanks you back to the safety of the rooftop. You collapse and instinctively reach for the back of your head.

It’s intact. You’re alive.

“Cutting it a little close, don’t you think, Max?”

“Closer than the parking lot, anyway.”

“That’s true. How’d you find me?”

“Let’s just say these particular agents ain’t too good at covering their tracks.”