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sights on the large, blue F-150, and moves
around closer to the driver side window.  The vehicle is creeping through
traffic slowly, which will make it an easy target.  His right hand darts out and
grabs underneath the driver-side door handle.  As soon as he touches the
handle, a tiny head pops up next to the driver.  Devlin’s eyes widen as he
realizes the man has his daughter with him.  He releases the handle and starts
to jog faster, moving expediently away to avoid any backlash.
     
                “What the fuck do you want!?” The man screams
toward Devlin as he rolls down his window a bit.  “Were you trying to steal my
truck, asshole!?”
     
                 Devlin pretends that nothing happened and
quickens his pace.  He enjoys getting his heart rate up to ease his anxiety. 
His eyes begin to seek out other vehicles to potentially carjack, looking for
men who are traveling alone; old enough to avoid a fight, but young enough not
to have a heart attack if things become violent.  There are a few good
prospects, but each of them is wearing a seatbelt; not ideal for a carjacking. 
He looks back to see Gloria trotting faithfully behind him.  Devlin laughs to
himself when he sees her cheerful expression; the dog would chalk this up as an
adventure regardless of his crimes. 
     
                After another fifty yards, he approaches a
silver sports car that is driven by a small man in his early thirties. 
Although this man is a bit young, Devlin has no choice but to get off the
street before sundown.  He quickens his pace, catching up with the Hyundai
Genesis, still pretending to jog and mind his own business.  The cars are
moving a bit faster through traffic now, which forces him to jog harder, almost
sprinting to keep up.         
     
                When he is finally in position next to the
silver sports car, Devlin rapidly grabs the door handle and yanks upward,
opening the door while the car is still rolling.  As expected, the driver hits
his brakes, coming to a complete stop.  Devlin reaches over the man’s chest to
grab him by the shoulder and roll him out of the vehicle.  When his hand
touches the soft fabric of the man’s white dress shirt, Devlin feels a sharp
pain in his throat as the driver delivers a swift jab to his windpipe.
     
                The jab is fierce and precise, leaving Devlin
choking and a bit disoriented.  He begins to back away, protecting his face out
of instinct, looking down in bewilderment at the driver, a man with short,
brown hair and pale, blue eyes.  The man has a firm body and veins poking out
of his neck from hours of intensive exercise.  As Devlin catches his breath,
the driver rises up out of the car, his face bearing the stare of a fighter. 
He is dressed in business formal attire with a starched white shirt, black
slacks, and a black snakeskin belt.  
     
                The man moves toward Devlin with the fierceness
of a scorned warrior.  Devlin raises his hands in a protective boxing stance,
using his military training.  The small man turns sideways as he approaches
closer and kicks with his left leg toward Devlin’s abdomen.  When Devlin moves
his hands to protect his abdomen, the man stops short with his kick, snaps his
leg against the back of his thigh, and uses the momentum to kick Devlin hard in
the face.  The instant pain from the side of a foot impacting his face catches
Devlin unaware.  He spins slightly with the momentum of the kick, and then
drops to the sidewalk on his chest.  As he falls to the hard cement, his right
thumb gets twisted backward too far under his weight.  Devlin rolls onto his
side to avoid dislocating his thumb.  The man continues to advance, approaching
with anger and a cool confidence; the look of someone who trains to fight on a
daily basis. 
     
                Devlin peers up in disbelief, wondering if this
man works for the agency, but