Serious Feedback For Writing Only Please.?

Recently a friend of mine and I started a novel together, and I was wondering if anyone could give me an opinion on the quality of the prologue of said novel. Please keep in mind that it has only been briefly edited and it not represented in it’s entirety due to yahoo answers limitations.
The Articles of allegiance
Prologue
It was a bleary day, the steel gray clouds that had settled over Downtown the previous night throwing the bustling metropolis into a depressing shadow. Inconsistent rain kept the sidewalks marginally less congested than usual as Kristin Nero guided her small Cadillac L32 coupe across the smoothly paved streets of New Chicago.
She was twenty-seven, carefully curled brown hair falling down to the neck of her thin sweater, her dark eyes scanning the storefronts as she passed. One small pale hand remained on the wheel while the other absentmindedly flicked off the radio, the hit from the 2010s that had been filling the slate gray car dropping off into silence.
She wasn’t a talker, but if you ever got to know her, she would be the first to tell you that she was very lucky. She had a car, a nice apartment, and a selection of rather pricey clothing in her wardrobe, all of it made from the scattered career that most people wouldn’t call a “real job”.
Young Ms. Nero was a writer. However, unlike most career writers, she didn’t constrain herself to one thing for too long. She wasn’t just a writer, she was a journalist, a news writer, a fiction author, and a historian.
Being the type of person she was, when she had been offered a job to work with the critically acclaimed Jeffrey Alkani, she had been thrilled. Not only was she going to be working on writing one of the most exciting events in recent history with one of her favorite authors, but it would let her pay next month’s bills also.
As she made her way through the busy streets of the downtown, the atmosphere changed noticeably, the buildings gloomier and fewer pedestrians. Not that she had expected anything different with where she was headed, but the overcast weather had done enough damage to her mood already.
She tried humming to herself, tapping out the rhythm of one of her favorite tunes on the steering wheel, but she was distracted, and eventually gave up, staring moodily out the windshield as she drove.
The buildings were now lower, more factory-like somehow, so she knew she was getting close. She had scouted out her destination on a 3D internet map beforehand just to make sure she wasn’t late, which she usually was whenever it mattered.
This time though, she wasn’t taking any chances.
After ten agonizing minutes, she spotted where she needed to be: a low, drab building, surrounded by a high fence, topped with a rather intimidating amount of razor wire. All the other buildings nearby were industrial plants and the like, pillars of smoke continually rising from their depths and blending in with the identically colored sky.
She rummaged through her purse as she drove up the path to the one and only front entrance to the godforsaken place, looking for the I.D. card she had received in the mail only days before, finding it as she drew up to the security checkpoint.
Kristin rolled down her window rather reluctantly, a cold gust of air washing into the car as she reached out and ran the card through the automatic reader, quickly recoiling and shutting out the blustery day behind the tinted glass.
After a moment, the gate slid open, and she drove up to the next one, waiting impatiently as the one she had just passed through closed behind her. As standard security went, she knew that the gate ahead would only open when the one behind was fully closed, and sure enough, as soon as it clanged back into place, she was driving again, up a small road to the visitor’s parking area in front of the building.
She parked next to a few beat up cars, and got ready to dash for the entrance, as rain once again began to fall lightly. Cursing to herself, she pulled on her jacket, which had been tossed carelessly into the passenger seat, threw the hood up over her head, and closed the door.
The entrance to the New Chicago Correctional Facility thankfully had an overhang to protect her from the icy drizzle as she again used her Identification card to let herself into the personnel operated security check, which had been explained to her over the phone by the security chief.
As the door slid open and she stepped into the next checkpoint, she was greeted blandly by the man at the security booth. The place smelled very sterile, which made her feel a bit tipsy, but it was blissfully warm, so she didn’t much care.