Special Agent Henderson's bad day.

Everything starts the same as it always does for Special Agent Bryan Henderson. He checks into the listening post, turns on the recorders, and sits in the folding chair by the telephoto camera, ready to take pictures of anyone who comes to the Temple Hill Social Club, major counting house and hangout of the Bonnington crew, one of the most prolific of the O'Neill crews. They've been running this surveillance for six months now, and he's pretty sure the dirty cops in this city have tipped the crooks off that the place is under surveillance. They never say anything worth anything, never do anything illegal on the property, never give even the slightest hint of any Federal crimes. Henderson's also pretty sure he's been assigned to the post because even his supervisors have recognized that, six weeks from retirement, he's just not feeling the need to take any unneeded risks. So, every night, he checks in, sets up the gear, makes sure it's on, and then fucks off to the local coffee shop.

He checks the camera to make sure it's on, then looks out at the street below. It's dark, because the local kids keep smashing the street lamps, and it's wet, because it's drizzling slowly, more of a mist than actual rain storm. There are a few cars parked here and there on the street, and the front windows of the Temple Hill are on; there's a handful of mobsters in there, so Henderson flips the switch for the recorder and voices pop into life here in the room with him.

"-says I gotta bring him those coats, or he's gunna fuckin' break my balls all day."

"You know you gotta pay, Billy, he's the boss."

"I ain't sayin' I don't wanna pay, Tony, I'm just sayin' I got four racks of those coats, real fur, good stuff, and now instead of making a buck on 'em, I gotta kick it up. How'm I gunna make a dime?"

"Shouldn't have borrowed the money if you can't pay the points, Billy-boy."

"Fuck you, yah fuckin' hump. Like I need you breakin' my balls too."

Henderson can already tell it's going to be another slow night. The sound of clinking bottles and clack-clack of poker chips tells him the boys are settled in for a long night. He leaves the recorder running, picks up his coat, and lets himself out, walking down the stairs to the front door. Turning up his collar against the rain and strolling down the street toward the coffee shop, he's soon out of sight. The moment he turns the corner, Aden moves, slipping quietly out of the alleyway where he's been waiting for over an hour. He got here early enough to count in the thugs, six total, including the two he's looking for. Max was as anal as always; in the trunk of Max's SUV, there was a locked guncase with an M4 CQB carbine, six full clips. From Aden's own kit, he brought his own pistol, a black balaclava, the surgical gloves, and two small lumps that could pass for modelling clay if you didn't know what plastic explosives look like. He moves fast, sprinting to the social club's front door. Reaching up, he tests the door, knowing if he has to do an explosive breach entry that will make a lot more noise and bring cops and the FBI agent back faster.

They're dumb and comfortable; the door handle turns easily, and he comes off safe and raises the M4 to his shoulder, low ready, places his foot against the door, which he has slid open just enough to get the edge past the door jamb. He takes one deep breath to steady up, then kicks it open and enters, snapping the rifle up into position as he sweeps in through the open door. There's a small hallway leading back toward a larger room, a table full of cards and money, four men sitting around it, caught totally by surprise. He doesn't wait, starts engaging, three-round bursts, center of mass. The first two guys at the table don't even have a chance to react; they both go down still in their chairs. Guy number three (he has scrape marks on his cheek where Anne fought back) manages to get his chair pushed back and reaches for his own sidearm when the next burst catches him in the throat and face, knocking him off his chair and spraying his blood and bone all over the fourth guy, who freezes, mouth open, terrified. Aden doesn't hesitate; as the thug is raising his hands to try to plead for his life, Aden sends him to Hell with three more rounds to his chest, dropping him also. Aden advances into the room, two targets still unaccounted for. He sweeps left, and sees number five, a thin black dude who is fumbling with a pistol, trying to load it, dropping shells and the magazine; Aden hits him from just a few feet away, close enough the muzzle flash from the suppressed M4 scorches the man's shirt. Aden turns, 360-scan, sees the back room, hears someone moving, rushing out toward the killzone. As the last target comes through the door, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands, Aden fires one last time, and the man dies before he even knew Aden was there. To be sure, Aden sweeps through the rest of the rooms in the place at speed, checking each room to make sure no one is left alive. He counted them in, but he might have missed something. Satisfied that no one else is there, he moves back out toward the front door, pausing only to fire an additional round into the head of one of the wounded men who is still moving. Then he's out the door and back to the alleyway; by the time Henderson comes back from the coffee shop, another Irish coffee in his hand, Aden has already stripped off the clothes he was wearing, changed into street clothes, unloaded and locked up the M4, and is strolling casually down the side street toward the metro station, where he's parked a rental. Tossing the guncase and bag of clothes into the trunk, he's driving away before Henderson has even been able to process the carnage inside the building.