The air outside the Mandarin Oriental Salon was thick with the scent of rain-slicked asphalt and the ozone of an impending storm. Preston Montgomery stood on the marble steps, his face contorted in a mask of agonizing pain and venomous triumph. He clutched his shattered arm, but his eyes were fixed on the street where ten silver-grey vans had effectively created a blockade, cutting off the exit to the Manhattan night.
"Victor Yates! Finally!" Preston screamed, his voice cracking with desperation. He ignored the throbbing in his limb as he scrambled toward the lead vehicle.
A man stepped out of the second van. He was lean, dressed in a sharp black tactical jacket, and carried a serrated combat blade in his hand with the casual indifference of a man who used it daily. This was Victor Yates
