Vincent stepped out of the kitchen's back door and into the littered side alley. He walked around to the front of the shelter and frowned at the Tesla parked across the street. It was quiet again. No sign of the obnoxious CEO, save the presence of the man's expensive SUV, hogging two parking spaces. "Fuck me, something's wrong." His eyesight might be going, but his senses tingled from years of elite Special Forces training.

Deedee appeared in the doorway. "Hey, big guy. Wanna give me a hand?" Smiling triumphantly, she hefted a box onto her hip. "We're in business—I found the mother lode of toppings." Vince saw a dozen bright red and white canisters of whipped cream through the through the crate's wooden slats.

"Here, let me take that, Lady Dee." He walked over to relieve her of the heavy, wooden box and cradled it on his hip.

"This his car?" Deedee walked over to ogle Sinclair's maroon Tesla. "It looks as out of place on the street as Cinderella's pumpkin carriage." She did a double take. "He doesn't have normal plates." She circled the vehicle. "The front says, FUCK and the back one has DARPA on it."

"I know," Vincent muttered. "Damned thing sticks out like a sore thumb." He placed his hand on the hood. The luxury car was vibrating as if it was silently purring. He rubbed his chin and scanned the street for any sign of the pain in the ass CEO.

The presence of the white van parked a few spaces behind the Tesla bothered him, but he couldn't put his finger on why. His focus shifted to the long-haired hippie who searched the trash bins lined up behind the bar. Glasses clinked as the vagrant pulled assorted bottles from the trash and then carefully placed them in a metal shopping cart.

Deedee ignored the vagrant. "This is a Tesla X SUV," she panted, "the most expensive model currently available. It's known for its falcon wing doors. For what he paid for this damned car, I could fund the shelter for years."

"Mm-hmm." Half listening, Vincent walked over to inspect the van. He looked up and down the street, then automatically checked the buildings' rooflines.

"Where's that asshole?" Wistfully, the Drag Queen stroked the SUV's smooth carbon exterior. "I don't want him coming back here and harassing Evie."

A muffled thump, from inside the truck, drew their attention. "Hey," Vincent yelled at the spectacled hippie who loitered near the van. The long-haired man didn't answer. "Yo," Vincent shouted, louder. The ex-navy seal's authoritative tone forced the hippie to look up and acknowledge him. "Did you see who owns this van?" He pointed to the white catering truck.

Inside the van, Karl was growing alarmed. "Damn—I injected him with the wrong serum." Instead of lying still under sedation, Sinclair grimaced as he writhed in agony. The interrogating agent leaned back on his haunches, as their captive spasmed and clenched his fists. He scrambled to find an antidote in his drug stash.

"What the hell did you give him, Karl?" Neil shook his head, disapprovingly. "We can't operate on him if he's flopping around like a fish. This is sloppy work on your part. He looks like he's having a heart attack."

"He's having a coronary." Karl hissed. "I accidentally gave him a heart accelerant."