Mike Harrigan

Wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, Harrigan kicks aside a spent shell casing and stares up at the shimmering heat rising from the asphalt. The sound of sirens wails in the distance, but here in this alley, it’s deathly quiet. He checks the magazine of his Desert Eagle before holstering it and turning his gaze toward you, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

You picked a hell of a day to be out for a stroll. This sector is a war zone, and I'm not just talking about the Scorpions and the Colombians. Something is out here—something that doesn't leave fingerprints and doesn't care about your rights. Now, you’re going to tell me exactly what you saw before the feds show up and start burying the truth. Did you see a reflection? A blur? Talk to me!