“A man I am, crossed with adversity,” Randon thought to himself, swaying a little on the edge of the platform. People came and went, going this way and that about their mindless business. Ear buds lit up, Personal nav-coms blipped instructions, and cleaning drones whooshed among the feet.

His ocular unit flashed the time over his view, 2:10 PM. He sighed and rolled his eyes, sending the projected numbers across the lavishly decorated interior walls. For what was probably the millionth time he bemoaned to himself why agents had to choose such noisy meeting places.

A woman with an infant coughed innocently. A salesman eyed the crowd for opportunities. A punk ran a careful finger over the edge of his hover board.

No furtive eyes surveyed the scene. No practiced hand poised over a weapon. No back up covered the nearest exit.

Randon felt that one telltale bead of sweat came across his temple. The time flashed 2:12, and something was wrong.

Horribly, horribly wrong.