Two hoodies approached, noticing Marcus only by his cigarette's tourmaline glow.
"Spare a fag, mate?" one asked.
Marcus flicked the butt at the impudent youth's feet. "Don't smoke," he answered, tugging down his Breton cap.
Suitably offended, the hoodies extracted identical penknives.
Marcus' black peacoat fell open revealing his Glock's handle, nearby arc-sodium light winking, threatening.
The youths scarpered; Marcus refocused.
Shortly, the target descended the club's steps. Collar up, blending into shadows, Marcus followed.
Moments later, Anderson bled out, ignorant of his crime.