The car smelled of smoke and unwashed bodies. The stakeout had gone on too long, but neither one of the men were willing to lay aside and go home. The driver, Stance, was pulling a drag off of his next to last cigarette. He tapped the wheel in frustration as he turned to look at his partner, Grimes.

Grimes was leaning back, head resting against the seat as he kept his eyes trained on the dilapidated warehouse where they suspected the fugitive had gone into hiding. Well, the embassy suspected it; both Grimes and Stance knew it. They had seen him walk into the building with another man – seemingly unconscious – trailing him. More importantly, the knocked-out man had been floating on air behind the fugitive.

For hours now they had been sitting in their squad car, waiting on another sign that something was going to go down. They had been warned early on not to pursue; they were to just report on the fugitive’s whereabouts.

They had reported… thirteen hours ago.

“I think we’re alone, " muttered Grimes.