The details of East 73rd Street passed in a blur as Dempsey pushed himself ever harder, holding nothing back for the final 250 yards.

Even aged thirty-eight, when most physical men were taking their feet off the gas, Dempsey knew no other way. Either he kept himself in the best possible shape, or people died.

Himself included.

He came to a stop at the corner of 73rd and York. He was breathing hard.

Dempsey glanced at his watch as he recovered his breath. Midday exactly. Later than he had intended. With no time to cook before heading to the office, he would need to get his protein hit from elsewhere.

One of his favourite things about living in New York were the bodegas. Small, cheap convenience stores that seemed to inhabit every street corner. Even on the Upper East and Upper West sides, where such places might be surrounded by the kind of gourmet restaurants and high-end clothes designers that were more suited to the richer locations.

He began to walk towards York Avenue itself, breaking into a jog when he saw a break in traffic. It was one of the habits which set him apart from ‘other’ New Yorkers; like almost everyone else from England, he struggled with the whole concept of jaywalking. He could not understand waiting for a ‘walk’ signal when he knew no cars were coming, particularly on an arrow-straight road like York Avenue where he could see for maybe half a mile in either direction.

And so he did what the English always do. He ignored the ‘Don’t Walk’ signal and jogged across to the bodega that sat on the other side of York, directly across from The Stratford.

‘Hello, Mr Joseph.’ The greeting came from Ali, the bodega’s manager. A serious, dedicated man, Ali had been in Manhattan for far longer than Dempsey. ‘More exercise today?’

‘No, that’s it for today,’ Dempsey replied. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

‘Like always,’ Ali observed. ‘Egg and sausage muffin, yes?’

‘Please.’

Dempsey smiled. The idea that someone knew him well enough to know his habits? Sure, it was a small thing – the order was his go-to for the necessary post-workout mix of protein and carbs when he was pushed for time – but it was also a first. Outside of the military, remarkably few people had ever played any kind of part in Dempsey’s life.

Now he had a shopkeeper who knew his diet. And who, he was sure, suspected a whole lot more besides.

‘Two minutes.’

Dempsey watched as Ali moved away from the cash register. His interest in the man was as piqued as ever. The way he walked. His particular physicality. Dempsey could spot the imprint of elite military training anywhere. He had seen it in Ali the first time they’d met, and every time since.

He suspected that Ali saw the same thing in him. Not that either would ever raise the subject. Whatever Ali’s past in Pakistan – and whatever had brought him to the US – that was his business. And so they would go on as they always had. With the fiction of them as just a pair of civilians. Normal men. A shopkeeper and his customer.