By the time Damien got to the ground floor of his modest apartment building, a black Lincoln was out front waiting for him. As he approached, a suited man rushed out of the driver side and opened the right-rear door for him.
“Courtesy of Stromb, I presume,” Damien huffed.
“Yes,” the driver nodded and showed him in.
The driver touched Damien’s shoulder easing him into the car, so that he didn’t hit his head before closing the door. A flood of images struck him.
The driver’s name was Roland. He lived in the lower-east side, and struggled to pay his bills, working 4 jobs. He was a reformed drug-addict, constantly battling his need for cocaine. He had a wife and two kids; both have disowned him. He was an altogether sad man.
“I’ll have you at the Labs in 10 minutes, Mr. Roloson,”
“Thank you, Roland!” Damien replied.
“How did you.? Forget it, I don’t wanna know!” the driver drove off, easing into the traffic.
Damien took to staring out the window as the city-scape passed him by.
Kendra was in danger. He felt it.