Three fingers. Two fingers. One finger.

The battering ram smashed into the door, sending it inside.

The first pair of SWAT troopers burst in, bulletproof shields high. Another two followed, assault carbine butts at their cheeks.

“PPD! Down on the ground!”

Splintered wood and dust. Drugs and medicine, alcohol antiseptics. Gun grease, gunpowder and kevlar fibres. Low-grade fast food, hot dogs and cheap burgers. Blood and disease soaked into gauze. Moist, unwashed clothes, festering with mould.

Most importantly though, that smell. That inhuman metabolism fighting natural and synthetic poisons, pumping unknown secretions through arteries, discharging fatigue in the sweat as though it was a physical substance.

He'd been here.

More SWAT poured inside. I heard another lock break under a heavy blow, heavy boots booming on the wooden floor.

“PPD!” A scream echoed out of the flat. I tightened the grip on my submachine gun. Yet another door smashed open, more threatening screams.

“Clear!” The first shout came out of the flat.

“Clear!” another one joined.

“All clear!” The squad leader announced, relief mixing with frustration in his voice. We cursed under our breathes and went in.

“He was here, Dan. Not long ago,” I said quietly. My partner unleashed a torrent of profanities.

“I told that idiot we needed to stake out.”

I could only nod. Dan had advised a cautious, by-the-book approach from the start. We'd all agreed. All except for Harris, our formal squad leader. He'd demanded that we acted immediately. 'We can't take any chances', he said.

As though charging in wasn't a gamble.

Now we stood in an empty safehouse, completely compromised. Haste made waste, and when there were lives at stake, waste was inexcusable. Try telling that to your boss, though. Especially when he's anxious out of his mind.

“When did he leave?” Dan muttered through clenched teeth.

“I... Don't know. The smell is fresh. I don't think it was more than couple of hours. Four at best.”

“That's one big gap.”

“I'm sorry, Dan. I can't do miracles.”

He let out a loud sigh. “Well, at least you found this place.”

Technically, that wasn't true. I'd just managed to trace Kowalski's car, which let us discover he'd stolen another one. That, in turn, had led us to this squat. A bit of leg-work confirmed that indeed, a menacing guy matching his description had chased out all the homeless tenants. So I guess you could say that I played my part, even if I hardly deserved all the credit.

I wiped sweat off my brow. “We need to search this place fast. Maybe there's something that will tell us where he went.”

“Looks like he didn't expect the raid. He didn't move out.” Dan looked around with a wary gaze. “Rifles, pistols, ammo boxes-”

“We've found a stack of amphetamine next door.” The SWAT leader joined the conversation. “Might be a dozen pounds or more, all stacked in bricks. Also, a morphine supply, all with hospital marks. Looks like he's robbing drug stores now.”

Dan nodded. “Anything else?”

“A reloading workshop. He was filling his own cases.” The squad leader licked his lips. “And... Some six pounds of home-made explosives. He was making them right here.”

“Jesus Christ.”

We looked at each other.

“Looking at the raw materials, I think he made more. We may find them after the extended search, but...”

He didn't sound convinced. Neither were we. If it wasn't here, then he had them on himself.

“I have to warn O'Brien and Carlucci. Keep going, Morgan. If you can find his trail, let me know at once.” Dan went to the staircase, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

I closed my eyes and dug into the odour of the room, trying to concentrate on Kowalski's scent.

“Piper? Yeah, he's not here. Never mind that, listen. He's carrying explosives. Keep extreme caution...”

Carlucci and O'Brien were staking out the other place. The one that might have been his next target.

When Dan arrived to the murder site two days ago, he'd recognised the vic at a glance. He'd dealt with the man in the past, back in his prime, when he was still in narcotics. Andy Banzett, 45, an 'honest businessman' with an impressive record. To those in the know, one of the close associates of Norman Ortolani, a local entrepreneur and philanthropist. Read as: A mob boss.

Mr. Ortolani was stuck in grief upon hearing about the death of his 'friend' and 'business partner'. He'd thanked us for the warning, but refused our protection. To quote the man himself, he was 'confident in his security personnel'. According to Carlucci, he'd hired some extra hands from a legitimate company. It looked like he'd taken the threat seriously.

Of course we couldn't let that lead go. Kowalski had tortured Banzett, even though he was no fan of sadistic violence. It tied to his plans. Cuthbert's warning still ringed in my ears. He was probably aiming for one last big hit.

We had to stop him, whether Ortolani cooperated or not. We'd staked out both his home and all the places his men frequented. It hadn't made Ortolani happy, but that was his problem. We didn't care about the dirt on his hands. Our only concern was to catch the Empowered madman before he started another bloodbath.

I slowly followed the scent. It led me out to the staircase, then down, out of the building. It cut off there, in a spot that smelled of gasoline, oil, rubber tires and paint heated in the sun.

So much for a trail.

Suddenly, the phone played Morricone's harmonica dirge. Great. Just what I needed.

“I'm in Kowalski's hideout, Cuthbert. I'm busy. I'm hanging up,” I growled into the receiver.

“Wait, Morgan, this is important. I did some snooping around on my own-”

“You have ten seconds.”

“I've talked to another of Ortolani's... Associates. The man owes me-”

“You're taking side jobs for a mob?” I barely contained a scream.

“No, I've saved him from Breathless. That fight five days ago, I was defending him.”

“What god-damn fight five days ago?” This time I yelled in full voice. “Jim, you've actually fought him? Why the hell you didn't report that?”

“I did? I called the office immediately. Didn't they tell you?”

I swore like a sailor. Those idiots.

“Jim... Next time something like this happens, you call us first and the office later. Do we understand each other?”

“Never mind that. Apparently, Ortolani was planning some bigger deal with another group. My contact didn't know who, but the whole thing was... Tense. As in, both sides would come armed to the teeth.”

Oh God.

This couldn't be happening. Two mob bosses in one place, with small armies of thugs ready to pull the triggers at a sneeze.

“My contact isn't on the details, but he believes it was about negotiating a cease-fire and mounting a joint manhunt for the Breathless,” Cuthbert continued.

“Was? In the past tense?”

“Yes. When Ortolani heard how Banzett died, he dropped the plan. The thing is, there's a rumour he didn't call off the meeting. He just won't show up. Apparently Banzett was on the deal-”

“- so Ortolani thinks that Kowalski will be there.” I suddenly felt weak in the legs.

“I think we've got it wrong, Morgan. He isn't after Ortolani, he'll hit the meeting spot. Two bosses, one boss, it's still enough to go with a bang.”

“Jim, he's got explosives on him.”

Cuthbert swore, agitation in his voice replaced with genuine fear.

“I'll keep digging. I'll let you know if I find out-”

A distant explosion cut the sentence in half.

“Too late,” I whispered.