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Last he knew, Maverick had pretty much gone to ground and dropped out of the life. There were any number of such properties around the world where David North might be staying. But if he was in New York, the safehouse on Seventy-third Street was a sure bet. Wolverine guided his rebuilt classic Norton motorcycle north on Amsterdam Avenue, navigating through early evening traffic. Mystique, still wearing the shape of the gorgeous, long-legged redhead, sat behind him on the Norton, her slender hands wrapped around his abdomen, laquered nails digging into his leather jacket.
Ye've made a horrible mistake, boyo," he rasped, his voice a bit hoarse as it often was after using his powers. " "I never expected to," the commander said, rubbing his chin. "But nobody can remember everything. And it's been a long time since you had to do any of the cloak-and-dagger stuff. " Banshee frowned, confused. Then the dart hit him in the back of the neck. He clapped a hand to it as if to swat a mosquito, but already his legs were growing weak. He crumpled to the lawn; the commander walked over to look down at him.
He narrowed his eyes and peered through the door window into the shadowy interior. Like his other senses, his vision was extraordinary. Yet he saw nothing amiss other than the lack of lighting. He buzzed for Maverick again, and again there was no response. Once more, he studied the foyer, the stairwell, and the apartment doors in the first floor corridor, all visible through the glass. The door to apartment 1C was open six or seven inches. The tips of a woman's fingers were barely visible past the doorframe.