An anxious Camille sat on a stoop waiting for Eric. As she did, she glanced from time to time down the darkened street to the building Cecil had entered some minutes before.

She hadn't expected to hear from the big old man so quickly, or even at all. A mere eight hours had passed since she'd first made his acquaintance, but it appeared he wasn't the type to let the grass grow beneath his feet. He had called her out of the blue two hours earlier and informed her, "I think I got your boy."

Cecil even now was doing a secondary look-about to make sure their target was still present at the scuzzy little no-name club they were watching in the upper 90s. Mueller would be arriving any minute, and they would formulate a plan when he did.

Without Camille noticing, Cecil strolled up on her again and flopped down on the stairs next to her.

"Our guy is still there, up on the third floor ... entertaining some, um ... sporting ladies."

"I'm still not clear," she said, "how do you know it's him?"

"I dunno ... it's just a feeling." He seemed to ponder. "Tommy's really good at that. He can peg one of us every time. This fella' inside goes by the right name, fits the description you gave, and is spending money hand over fist. And he ain't alone. He's with two other guys, and they all got that military look."

"How did you find him so soon?" she asked, looking at him sideways.

"Oh, I know all the dumps and dives. No idea why, but I've always been drawn to the uglier side of life. Some might say I've found my level in the shitty bars and greasy titty-clubs of the world." He gave a great laugh. "Anyway ... a certain kind frequent such places. I just asked around."

Camille simply didn't know how to respond. Tommy could be cryptic, but Cecil's overabundance of candor would take some getting used to.

"Did you bring anything else to wear?" There was a faint hesitation in the man's voice.

She instantly was aware of her attire, which screamed "cop." She glanced at Cecil, who looked like a common street thug, and then to the club. There was nothing in her vehicle into which she could change, and they'd decided they wanted to make their encounter with Summerall as discreet as possible.

"I could maybe go in and see if I could convince the guy to come outside for a chat," he suggested.

It was the type of thing Tommy might propose, but she didn't want to make any decisions until Eric arrived, which should be any minute. She looked up to see his sedan come around the corner.

"Hold on, here's Eric," she said.

It was just a few minutes for the two men to exchange introductions and pleasantries, and before long Eric was pulling some raggedy clothes from the trunk of his car. All the while, he and Camille continued to discuss their way forward. The truth was that they were in a bind. They knew nothing of Summerall's Gifts save he was freakishly strong, and they had no idea how cooperative he might be.

"I got an idea," Mueller said at last. "If unobtrusive is the goal, I know a couple of guys in narcotics who work this area. They're trustworthy and will blend in perfect. And they won't ask too many questions. If I can get them down here in, say ... the next 20 or 30 minutes, the two of them, me, and Cecil can get eyes on this guy and check out the situation without him being aware. If you don't mind waiting down here, I could text you if I think we need more backup."

The complexity and danger of what they were about to do struck home with Camille. "Ugh. Or do we need ESU?" she asked.

Eric seemed to think for a moment. "How would we sell that? Supervillain alert?"

Cecil began to chuckle violently on the stoop to which he had retreated.

"Smart ass," she replied with a broad smile. "Cecil says Summerall has a couple of military types with him. When you get eyes-on, look for any sign of weapons."

"Good thought," said Eric soberly. "Look, I tell you what, this is all new territory. Let's not call in a load of people on what is just a simple questioning. That's not going to fly with anybody. We don't even have reasonable suspicion to detain the guy ... at least not yet."

Camille could see Eric's gears turning.

"Cecil," Eric called over, "you were inside. Did you see any underage drinking going on?"

"Yeah, like half the people in the place," the oldster replied.

"Oh, sweet," whispered Eric. "Let's do this. Cecil and I'll get eyes-on now. I'll call Rand and Lewis before we head up. You send them up when they get here. I'll question this Summerall guy while they watch my back. In the meantime, you can call in some uniforms for an ID card check. That'll give us more boots on the ground if we have to arrest any of these knuckleheads, without it looking like more than it is."

Camille thought for a moment. It sounded like a good plan.

Ten minutes later, Eric and Cecil disappeared into the bar, one after the other. There was a minor hiccup when Camille called for uniform backup. A grocery store holdup minutes before had diverted most units in the area, and the shift commander had called the bar-carding a low priority. Camille informed Eric, via text, that the uniforms wouldn't be there for at least 45 minutes. Fifteen minutes later, she met the two narcotics officers, directed them to Eric's location, and waited.

What came next, came all of a sudden, not five minutes later, with an enormous boom, followed by a shattering of glass, as two figures came flying through a window on the third floor of the bar and landed smack on a car parked on the street.

No silence followed. The figures flew from the crushed automobile with a whirl of activity, grappling, kicking, and punching. It was hard to follow their movement back and forth across the street. In the poor light, it was a twisted jumble of motion.

Out of the welter, one of the figures grabbed and pitched the other toward where Camille stood by her car. She ducked but was certain the figure who flew overhead was Cecil Dykstra. There was no time to react, as the other combatant, who she took to be Summerall, came running toward her screaming an incoherent battle cry. Somehow, her pistol already was in her hand. She raised the weapon and called once for him to stop before triggering round after round.

The man continued to charge.

From behind her, a figure hurdled past, throwing itself into the advancing Summerall—Cecil, back in the fight so quick she couldn't believe it. Camille dropped an empty magazine and fed another into her sidearm as she tried to follow the melee that raged between the two men up and down and back and forth along the otherwise abandoned street.

Nearby, it wasn't clear from where, gunfire rattled. The racket soon was joined by the sound of racing engines up the block. Moments later, two black SUVs rounded the corner and screeched to a halt, and armed men, perhaps four or five, spilled out and quickly took up standing and kneeling positions.

She heard herself scream Cecil's name and dived behind the nearest car, trying to get the vehicle's engine block between herself and the newcomers.

As she did, a rumble of automatic weapons fire erupted, resonating off the surrounding buildings like thunder. Camille hunched her shoulders and rolled back and forth where she lay on the ground, trying to find a good shooting position. When she did, she squeezed off rounds from her 9mm Sig Sauer until her weapon was empty. No sooner than she shot her last, the fire from the automatic weapons ceased, and she could hear two vehicles screaming away.

Camille stumbled to her feet, fumbled for her cell, and called Eric.

Her partner was unhurt, but Rand had taken a gunshot through the thigh from one of Summerall's companions in the upper level of the bar. Both assailants were dead. Eric told Camille to call a bus. It took her a few tries to get her shaking hands on the radio in the vehicle. She made an emergency call, officer down, described the fleeing vehicles as best she was able, and dropped the mic to await the shitstorm that was certain to follow.

The entire episode had been a blur, one lasting scant seconds.

A movement caught her eye, and she saw Cecil hobbling toward her car.

"Damnit, are you okay?" she called, feeling guilty for not having checked on him straightaway.

She heard him chuckle.

"Oh, I'm fine ... I think that young fucker broke something, though." He gave a mock twinge as he leaned against her car. "Sorry, I didn't get a look at either of the license plates."

"That's fine," she rasped. A sudden sense of thirst hit her. "What the hell happened up there?"

"The second your partner opened his mouth, that young cuss took a swing at him. I stepped in the way. Punch damn-near took my head off." He chuckled again, wincing. "I figured we best take it outside. So, I tackled him, and we went out the window."

"Jesus, Cecil!"

"Better he and I slug it out in a bar full of people?" The man spoke calmly.

"Oh, shit, no. I'm sorry," she apologized. "You did right ... hey! Everyone stay inside," she bellowed toward the club door. The first intrepid patrons had begun to poke their heads into the street.

To her surprise, Cecil merely winked at her. He was as jovial as when she'd first met him.

"Either way, we know a lot about him now." The oldster began to half-stroll, half-hobble across the street, making the occasional old-man noise as he did.

"Like what? We still don't even know is full name."

"Well, he's stronger than me ... a lot stronger." Another chuckling groan escaped as he bent and retrieved something from the street. "But on the good side, he's quicker than me, too."

She could tell the old man was having a good laugh, grimacing occasionally as he did.

"How many times did you shoot him?" he asked her.

"I emptied the magazine. I don't know how many hit."

"Use a rifle next time," he suggested as he moved back in her direction. "Preferably, with an armor piercing round ... because as fast and strong as he is, I'm pretty certain I broke his nose ... he bled like a stuck pig. So, he can be hurt."

"It's just a matter of finding him," she corrected her companion. Camille could hear sirens approaching in the distance.

"Well, Camille, I got my hooks into him just the way I wanted. And I have some universal advice. If you want to stay anonymous in this world," he said, raising the men's wallet he'd retrieved from the street, "don't ever carry one of these."

***

Wayne Allen Summerall's wallet was the proverbial goldmine. It carried more than just a few bucks and an I.D. card. It held the man's entire life. There were a number of bank cards, debit cards, and credit cards. Several slips of carefully folded paper had institution names, routing and account numbers, and usernames and passwords for bank accounts and investment and brokerage accounts in eight different financial institutions on three continents. There were several laminated cards with information on deposit boxes in New York, London, and Madrid.

The bonehead even had copies of his social security card and draft registration notice, as well as an out-of-date military CAC.

"What would make someone carry so much sensitive information around in their hip pocket?" Eric asked with a sad headshake.

"Cockiness." Camille was still counting and logging the numerous names, telephone numbers, and e-mail addresses squirreled away on various slips of paper. "But I'll tell you, whatever Summerall's faults, he has lovely and precise penmanship."

Their banter was lighthearted, but the previous evening, and most of the morning, had been as Camille foretold, an absolute Category 5 fecal-hurricane. It had started and ended with the lieutenant—there had been various other officials and investigators in between. Their supervisor was understandably livid. Just an hour before, they'd gotten their most recent grilling from the man in his office. But that wasn't the end of it.

"Get ready for round three," Eric whispered. Two minutes later, they were again in Silva's office.

"You got in a fucking firefight in the streets of New York City," he scolded them for the third time. "And it wasn't even in our precinct ...."

"LT," Eric responded, perhaps too harshly—neither he nor Camille had slept—"you know we were working a city-wide."

Both Eric and Camille recognized the lieutenant's main gripe was that they hadn't apprised him of what they had been doing. Eric was proactive.

"We got a tip on a name from the human trafficking case," Mueller continued, "and a second source said he had information on where this Summerall guy was hanging." It was all true. Eric's rule: don't ever lie to the boss—but be creative. "We didn't even know if he was the guy that we were looking for ... but it was a miserable little dive with a bad rep, so we had Rand and Lewis there to watch my back while I checked this fuckwad's ID and asked him a few questions." He cut the lieutenant off when the latter tried to speak. "And Camille stayed downstairs to organize an ID check, just so we would have a few more officers on site. We thought we were being cautious ... hell, overly cautious."

Camille couldn't help but think how fortunate it had been, in hindsight, that the officers she'd called for the carding had been delayed. There would have been no whitewashing any of this had there been an additional half-dozen officers in the street to bear witness to Cecil's brawl with the now fugitive Summerall. She shivered at the thought.

By that point in Eric's narrative, the lieutenant had sat back in his chair.

"Look, LT, I know you feel like we kept you out of the loop, but we don't notify you of every ID check or question we ask. We wouldn't get anything done if we did. And nobody ... I mean nobody, would have expected these assholes to react the way they did."

"Lieutenant," Camille added, "this guy was on nobody's radar, and we didn't even see the bodyguards downstairs ... they must have been waiting a few blocks over. Even if we did, who the hell pulls out an automatic rifle and fires up the street because the boss got carded?"

"Sir," Eric finished, "we got lucky. Rand will be back on duty in six weeks, and there were no other serious injuries. Most important, these trigger-happy assholes are on our radar now, where they should be ... and we are going to run them into the ground. This could have gone much, much worse."

The lieutenant got up and poured three cups of coffee and shared them with the detectives. It was a rare gesture.

"How did these two guys go out the window?" he asked shortly. The lieutenant had already read their reports, and it was the third time they'd told him their story.

"I didn't get three words out after identifying myself before Summerall took a swing at me. Somehow, this big old guy got in the way and took it on the chin. I guess the geezer didn't take to getting punched. The two started tussling and next thing you know they went out the window. After that, his bodyguards upstairs opened up. I didn't know Camille had taken fire downstairs until later." Mueller again had been creatively honest.

"Fucking New Yorkers," the lieutenant muttered. "What happened to the old guy?"

"He walked off under his own steam," Camille replied honestly. "I was busy with Summerall and his security det."

The lieutenant ranted for some minutes more, but despite some grumblings about sticking Eric and Camille on desks, the man finally relented with a calm, "Get these people off my streets."

The shooting wasn't their case, but the human trafficking angle still was, and they decided to continue with Summerall's wallet while their adrenalin was still pumping. By lunch, both detectives had begun to flag, and they discussed one or both of them getting some rest. As Eric was putting his paperwork away to grab a few hours shuteye in the breakroom, Camille's phone rang.

It was Cecil. "Hey, I got a lead on where your boy is holed up."