The night was clear and chilly - both uncharacteristic for Alabama in December. It was even colder in the city. The steam from the factory chimneys crystallized in the air, creating massive clouds of fog that diffused the electric red glare of the streetlights. Few walked the streets at this hour, especially in this part of town, a depressed industrial zone full of broken windows and abandoned steel mills. The people who were walking about were generally the sort you didn't want to meet on a dark night in a bad neighborhood.

People like Alagon Drago.

He drew some glances as he strode purposefully down the littered sidewalk, but no one moved to challenge him, even when he crossed gang territories. They could see he was out plainly of their league.

So he sensed no threat from them. And no threat from his quarry, either - which meant Kirian didn't know he had been followed from Tuscaloosa.

Stupid kid. No one escaped the Hand. Not even a magician like Scorpion.

Drago paused and laid a hand on the hilt of his vibranium ninjato as he looked up at the faded logo painted on the factory wall above him. Then he made his way down to the nearest street-level entrance. Finding the lock already broken, he silently slipped inside.