Jack gives him a nod -- shorter and more tired than usual, but not disagreeable -- and heads out. There's the traditional noise of shouts and screams and gunshots, then silence, and then Jack's call of "It's clear!"

Out in the hallway are five splicers in various states of horrible death, one shot, some brained, a couple covered in flames that are just now going out. Jack's balancing a much bloodier wrench in his hand, jiggling it absently.

"I think that's all of them," he says when Sinclair emerges.