In the dim pre-dawn light, Burnout stood on the roof of the Howard Johnson's across the street from the Watergate Hotel listening intently to the sound coming from the laser microphone. The roof guard lay dead a short distance away, a trickle of blood leaking from the side of his open mouth. Burnout had shot him from the Aztechnology diplomatic rotorcraft as it descended to land on the helipad. The night flight from Lake Louise had brought them here, and now a reward was soon to come. Burnout could smell it.