"Here they go," I said to myself. Teenagers carrying basketballs were coming out through the archway of an apartment building. Their eyes had been gouged out, so they lurched from side to side, shoving and snapping at one another.

"Where they're going, they don't need eyes to see," I overheard myself, quoting a movie in a half-voice. The night was deep, its calmness posing a risk of detection if one was too loud. The old BMW was my hideout; its tires were flat, the windows were foggy with raindrops over the solid layer of dust. I watched the scene through peepholes in the mud, making out what I could. Which was little.

I didn't know if my target was in the crowd, nor could I sense it from that old crutch of a car. My nostrils were stabbed with cigarette odor powerful enough to disorient a wolf, let alone a human, even one with heightened senses. The effect would wear off in the next minute or so. I had to act before that, but how could I? Getting out of the car would make too much noise. Staying inside wouldn't do any good either. Hit or run, Mave, hit or run now. And so I pulled out a Magnum, held my breath, and focused my sight on the teens as sharply as my doping allowed. Visual contact didn't help; the target might not even have been there.