You bustle down 5th Street, eyes scanning the surroundings for the slightest incongruity. Like the second hand on a precision Swiss watch, some part of your mind slides acutely into place.

The patterns.

Two women with massage tables cross your path. Two horn blasts from that cab. The street you’re on… 5th… intersecting 2nd. Five pigeons atop a Maybelline billboard. Two, five. Stop.

“Max, tie your shoe.”

He doesn’t pause, he drops immediately to one knee. There’s a whistle above his head as a bullet strikes the department store wall beside you. “Two o’clock, black Navigator,” you say. Max nods, pulling a handgun from his ankle holster. In one deft motion, he’s attaching a silencer and firing two shots into the driver of the Lincoln SUV on the corner. After hiding the gun in his coat fast enough to be undetected, he pulls you into an alley.

“FBI?” he asks.

“I don’t think so. Looked like Shiguro’s men.”

“Escape plans?”

“Back in the building.”

“What?”

“25th floor. There’s a day spa. We forgot our iPod.”