11-07-2018, 03:27 AM
Pervaya liniya turned down the job. Unsurprising, really, considering how honest Jaxen was about who was likely footing the bill for the hit. But on the other hand, despite some bad blood between the company and Jaxen's father, he did come from a well connected family. So they did forward the request.
Hood was still on the subway when the message came in. Anonymously, of course. Pervaya liniya didn't want any direct connection after all, although there was some doubt that the CCD government would make any direct moves against them anyway. Shadow wars were meant to be exactly that. Personal grudges had no place there. Usually. But while they did hold some concern of possible repercussions from the government, they were equally sure there would be ones from Mr White if he learned they had held back the information of the job from him.
A few moments of thought, considering the next stop of the metro system line, the location of the client's address, his nearest safe-house, which was too far away to be of any use on such short notice. The CCD wouldn't send a full team. It would be both a waste of effort for one old man, and they wouldn't make the message as clear. So he'd probably be able to make due with what he had on hand.
Hood did not like Jaxen. The man was a self-obsessed playboy thief. A rich kid that hadn't known a real day of strife or challenge in his life. Oh, he'd been through some hard times, sure, but nothing real. He seemed to figure himself some big thing. Probably prided himself on giving the Atharim the slip. Probably didn't know how close they had been to him on more then one occasion, thanks to Hood.
But the kid wasn't a total shit-stain, unlike his idiot of a father. And he had the money to foot the bill, probably. And probably wasn't stupid enough to try and slight Hood for it, either. Again, unlike his father. Not that the money mattered.
Some CCD agent was about to get sent to kill an old man because of some stupid insult. One of a laundry list of reasons he hated politicians. Too fucking pitiful to deal with things themselves. Too self-important to be able to brush aside shit that didn't matter.
The train neared the next metro station, and Hood stood and grabbed an overhead rail. The hint of a smile on his face didn't touch his eyes. Not exactly. They were coldly amused. The promise of a far more interesting challenge then that shithead Bolevsky idiot's goons had posed.
Once upon a time, Hood had been a good little soldier. In it for the flag, for freedom, for AMERICA damn it. A few dead African dictators. A couple not dictators that hadn't towed the American political agenda. A few of their families. At least in South America he'd mostly been offing secessionist 'freedom fighters' that got their funding from the cartels. Mostly scum bags, the lot of them.
Did what he was told, went where he was needed, killed who needed killing. Whether they deserved it or not. He didn't loose any sleep over it. Men, women, children. Whatever. But he'd woken up eventually. Found that there was a far more interesting challenge out there. Killing humans was easy.
Monsters? That was far more interesting. Anyone could point a gun and kill a man. A monster though...that was where the real thrill was.
But an agent? Someone that was still walking the path he had once shared? He'd be pissed if whoever the fuck the CCD was sending to kill an old man wasn't worth his time. Especially pissed with Jaxen for wasting his time. Of course, it was equally possible they would act like fucking adults and let the insult slide.
He snorted at the thought. God damned easily triggered thin-skinned pansies.
-----
The trip from the metro to the client's house was short. He didn't much enjoy using taxis, but they served their purpose. Moscow was a city of pansy-assed rich kids, sure, but the public transit was better then anything he'd seen State side. And if the public transit couldn't get him there, he had two perfectly good feed.
But when in a hurry, one had to stoop to the level of the lazy.
He was dropped off a block out and paid cash before sliding out of the back seat of the taxi, sliding his LandWarrior glasses on, lenses auto-tinted to a light-enhancing yellow. The black and grey shemagh he wore around his neck much like a casual scarf, was treated with photo-reflective threads and thermal neutral chemicals. To the naked eye, it was maybe a bit flashy in a few of the odd threads. On a camera, it was a chaotic glare that fouled digital imagery enough to obscure his face. And in flash photography, it was a veritable explosion of light. On a thermal imaging system, it was a cold band separating the top of his head from the rest of his body.
He was in business casual; his business with the would-be kingpin kid hadn't warranted any real effort in the wardrobe department. Of course, the jacket and pants had stab-proof weaves, and he wore a very expensive pullet-proof vest under it all. It too sported the same sort of thermal neutral chemical treatment, although not so much as to draw unwanted attention from the casual security guard; it simply fouled his thermal image enough to make it impossible to tell his identity off his thermal pattern...if one were well equipped enough to do so. He wasn't packed for bear. Again, the boy and his cronies hadn't been worth the effort. Revolver and pistol. A knife.
A short walk from where he'd been dropped by the taxi gave him a chance to study the neighborhood. Spot some cameras, assess the mark's home. And then he made his way up to the front door.
Hood was still on the subway when the message came in. Anonymously, of course. Pervaya liniya didn't want any direct connection after all, although there was some doubt that the CCD government would make any direct moves against them anyway. Shadow wars were meant to be exactly that. Personal grudges had no place there. Usually. But while they did hold some concern of possible repercussions from the government, they were equally sure there would be ones from Mr White if he learned they had held back the information of the job from him.
A few moments of thought, considering the next stop of the metro system line, the location of the client's address, his nearest safe-house, which was too far away to be of any use on such short notice. The CCD wouldn't send a full team. It would be both a waste of effort for one old man, and they wouldn't make the message as clear. So he'd probably be able to make due with what he had on hand.
Hood did not like Jaxen. The man was a self-obsessed playboy thief. A rich kid that hadn't known a real day of strife or challenge in his life. Oh, he'd been through some hard times, sure, but nothing real. He seemed to figure himself some big thing. Probably prided himself on giving the Atharim the slip. Probably didn't know how close they had been to him on more then one occasion, thanks to Hood.
But the kid wasn't a total shit-stain, unlike his idiot of a father. And he had the money to foot the bill, probably. And probably wasn't stupid enough to try and slight Hood for it, either. Again, unlike his father. Not that the money mattered.
Some CCD agent was about to get sent to kill an old man because of some stupid insult. One of a laundry list of reasons he hated politicians. Too fucking pitiful to deal with things themselves. Too self-important to be able to brush aside shit that didn't matter.
The train neared the next metro station, and Hood stood and grabbed an overhead rail. The hint of a smile on his face didn't touch his eyes. Not exactly. They were coldly amused. The promise of a far more interesting challenge then that shithead Bolevsky idiot's goons had posed.
Once upon a time, Hood had been a good little soldier. In it for the flag, for freedom, for AMERICA damn it. A few dead African dictators. A couple not dictators that hadn't towed the American political agenda. A few of their families. At least in South America he'd mostly been offing secessionist 'freedom fighters' that got their funding from the cartels. Mostly scum bags, the lot of them.
Did what he was told, went where he was needed, killed who needed killing. Whether they deserved it or not. He didn't loose any sleep over it. Men, women, children. Whatever. But he'd woken up eventually. Found that there was a far more interesting challenge out there. Killing humans was easy.
Monsters? That was far more interesting. Anyone could point a gun and kill a man. A monster though...that was where the real thrill was.
But an agent? Someone that was still walking the path he had once shared? He'd be pissed if whoever the fuck the CCD was sending to kill an old man wasn't worth his time. Especially pissed with Jaxen for wasting his time. Of course, it was equally possible they would act like fucking adults and let the insult slide.
He snorted at the thought. God damned easily triggered thin-skinned pansies.
-----
The trip from the metro to the client's house was short. He didn't much enjoy using taxis, but they served their purpose. Moscow was a city of pansy-assed rich kids, sure, but the public transit was better then anything he'd seen State side. And if the public transit couldn't get him there, he had two perfectly good feed.
But when in a hurry, one had to stoop to the level of the lazy.
He was dropped off a block out and paid cash before sliding out of the back seat of the taxi, sliding his LandWarrior glasses on, lenses auto-tinted to a light-enhancing yellow. The black and grey shemagh he wore around his neck much like a casual scarf, was treated with photo-reflective threads and thermal neutral chemicals. To the naked eye, it was maybe a bit flashy in a few of the odd threads. On a camera, it was a chaotic glare that fouled digital imagery enough to obscure his face. And in flash photography, it was a veritable explosion of light. On a thermal imaging system, it was a cold band separating the top of his head from the rest of his body.
He was in business casual; his business with the would-be kingpin kid hadn't warranted any real effort in the wardrobe department. Of course, the jacket and pants had stab-proof weaves, and he wore a very expensive pullet-proof vest under it all. It too sported the same sort of thermal neutral chemical treatment, although not so much as to draw unwanted attention from the casual security guard; it simply fouled his thermal image enough to make it impossible to tell his identity off his thermal pattern...if one were well equipped enough to do so. He wasn't packed for bear. Again, the boy and his cronies hadn't been worth the effort. Revolver and pistol. A knife.
A short walk from where he'd been dropped by the taxi gave him a chance to study the neighborhood. Spot some cameras, assess the mark's home. And then he made his way up to the front door.