Meira Rani slouched low in the driver's seat of the nondescript sedan and peered intently at the boxy, expensive-looking sport utility vehicle that pulled in from the quiet street. She checked her watch, and noted with some consternation that her hunch had been accurate -- these terrorists or criminals or whoever they were would meet here, at this particular warehouse, at midnight on this particular night. If there was any good reason why she seemed to guess correctly what the criminals were doing, she couldn't say what it was. She only knew that she would be going about her day one moment, and then, just as if someone flipped on a switch in her head, she would know that a certain group of criminals would be up to no good in a very specific location of the city. Occasionally, she would also know that the police or other government agents were on their way to stop them -- she would know it with the same certainty that she knew her name.

            Gravel popped beneath the tires as the vehicle glided to a halt in a pool of harsh yellow light cast by a sodium lamp. The vehicle's four doors opened up simultaneously, and four figures emerged, as if in a choreographed dance. The driver and passenger, both male, wore bulky parkas emblazoned with sports team logos, absurdly loose jeans, ball caps, and expensive looking sunglasses. Despite their attempt at looking like young ruffians, their demeanor and bearing gave them away as alert professionals. Their large coats could easily conceal all manner of weapons, and very likely covered armored vests as well. The two men pivoted smoothly and took up positions on either side of the warehouse door marked "OFFICE," just outside of the sodium lamp's glare.

            One of the rear passengers, a burly fellow in a fashionable buff-colored suede jacket, tight blue jeans, cowboy boots, and trendy translucent sunglasses said something into a cell phone, and exchanged a look with the other rear passenger. The latter, wearing combat boots, low-slung urban pattern camouflage trousers, and a black turtleneck, nodded slung a slim leather pouch over her shoulder and across her body. The two fell into step as they walked towards the door. Meira couldn't quite see what transpired at the office door, but after a moment, the two disappeared inside.

            She marveled at how professional and diverse the criminals were, these four and all the ones before. There was no doubt that these people all had some common goal, but she couldn't say exactly what it was. That they had the resources for so many people from so many backgrounds and so much equipment was readily apparent. Even before this last year of observing the criminals, she knew it wasn't the ordinary gang who would be able to come up with some of the gear she'd seen -- guns, cars, explosives, helicopters, and even machine guns of a variety she was sure only the military were allowed to have. Some of them had performed physical feats she thought highly improbable, even from world-class athletes. And somehow they were able to employ members from a broad range of racial, ethnic, and social backgrounds. Yet, for all the fuss and commotion they seemed to stir up, very little of substance would appear in the news.

            As intriguing as the criminals were, Meira's true focus was elsewhere. She followed the criminals because it was then that she would see the Suits. She was not usually one to chase after nonsense and dreams, but after an inexplicable hallucination during that bizarre riot one summer day a year ago and a broken leg the doctors said came from being hit by a car, she had been haunted by the men in brown suits. They belonged to some government agency, she knew, but she could not tell which one, not even after a year of watching them. Not that she would ever walk up to one and ask -- ever since her accident, she always seemed to know when they were around, and she knew they were likely the most dangerous men on the planet. She often questioned her sanity, thought perhaps something got knocked loose in her head when the car hit her. Meira noted with dismay that recently, not only had her uncanny awareness of the Suits become more acute, but she thought she could hear snatches of conversation between them, even if she couldn't see them or be within earshot. It was insane to think she could actually hear them -- they rarely spoke aloud, and seemed to receive their instructions solely by way of the earpieces they wore.

            As if thinking about it was enough to summon them, a brief flurry of thought swept through her consciousness, too quiet to be called sound, but authoritative nonetheless: target location acquired; transmitting coordinates; be advised: anomaly in vicinity; advance, observe, and report; acknowledge. A burst of thought followed, which Meira could not have articulated in words but knew with a grim certainty the thought-burst signified the warehouse she watched. Equally whisper quiet and alien to her mind was a reply, a different tone: acknowledged. Fear swelled in her chest -- she knew what would happen next.