He crouched behind a barricade in a war-torn, pre-dawn courtyard in Hell’s Kitchen while four heavily armed men in black tactical gear patrolled the apartment complex. The wind whistled, blowing a thick snowfall and causing his eyes to water—a near white out reduced his night visibility to a few feet. The brutal cold snuck like a thief into every crack in his clothing, stealing the warmth from beneath his parka. He waited patiently, silently, his pounding heart drowning out the nearing voices. There was going to be a firefight.