The next few minutes are a blur of activity. Judge doesn't spare more than a minute picking the team up before they're back to flying amongst the skyscrapers. The SEALs are checking and rechecking their gear - it may not be the best kind of loadout to use in an all-out firefight with an unknown number of Cleaners, but it'll have to do. To borrow a turn of phrase, they can't tell Faye they don't do windows.

"There's no room for nuance with this," Mother says. "We'll be fastroping down to the deck right in front of them. Parker, take Voodoo, suppress Ferro from the front. Me, Preacher, and Rabbit will circle around, get on his flank and put some enfilading fire on him and his boys."

There's a click as he checks his pistol, then slides it into his chest holster. "Remember, we want Ferro alive. Anyone else is a bonus."

Preacher raises an eyebrow as he taps the forward assist on his carbine. "So much for 'they need help'."

"I'm out of sympathy for them," Mother says. "Everyone's lost a lot, but somehow they're the only ones raiding apartments and burning people alive." He shakes his head, pursing his lips. "All the logic of five-year-olds, I swear to fucking God."

They're over what used to be East Village now. Anything more specific than that is hard to tell - they're going too fast to make out street signs. But as Judge swoops in low over the streets, it's hard not to notice the Cleaner patrol further down the street, led by a true Goliath of a man - easily six foot, likely more, with a bright yellow HAZMAT suit and three massive napalm tanks affixed to an external frame on his back.

There's no time for talk. They're already taking fire from the patrol. The rounds whiz harmlessly by, for the most part - they're janitors and garbagemen, not professional soldiers, but there's no time to dawdle.

The crew chief throws a rope out each door. It's showtime.