A half-hour later it’s dark out, the light from the old brass street lamps leaking through the windows. Andrea and I are dressed and checking our sidearms, making sure they are locked, loaded, and ready for use should any one of our enemies—known or unknown—rear their ugly heads. While she’s once more dressed in her black tactical gear, minus the radio, I’m wearing dark jeans, boots, dark blue work shirt, and an old Tough Traveler satchel over my black leather coat. We’re not invisible against the darkness, but we’re not sticking out like sore thumbs either.
We leave the apartment, head into the dark of night, taking a more circuitous route through narrow back alleys. The happiness of our time in the bedroom is now replaced with a sense of urgency. A sense that, if we
