The warehouse is straight ahead of me, about twenty meters away. The two windows I can see are dark, the only light coming from above the door that must lead to the office. Parked out in front is a flash new targa-top Westwind 2000. (Looks like members of the Eighty-Eights make more money than the Cutters.) The Westwind severely depreciates in value as Sydney pumps a grenade into it—crack-WHUMP—a friendly invitation for whoever’s in the warehouse to come out and play, I guess. I turn away from the flames, and wave Team A around the left side of the warehouse. Paco takes point, with the others following close behind him, and I trail along at the rear.