05-04-2016, 01:04 PM
It was a rare thing that saw Hood so deep into the heart of Moscow, outside of the necessities of his day job, of course. Pervaya liniya Security had quite the laundry list of clients, mostly in civilian sectors, but there were still a few who frequented the offices and departments around the Kremlin.
He was dressed well enough to not quite stand out, save for the black-and-grey shemagh he wore around his neck like a scarf; no high-end designer neck rag for him. Near-mirror polished black boots; not dress shoes, rather serviceable duty boots. Black suit and grey dress shirt, all made of camera-and-thermal baffling fabrics, a common-place material among socialites and movie-stars. Of course under that was his usual accessories; bullet-proof soft-weave body armour, revolver, inconspicuous belt pouch with spare loaded cylinders. Even a pair of leather gloves, which sat neatly folded over one knee as he sat with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, arms spread wide over the back of the bench. And of course a good great coat to help keep the wind at bay.
It wouldn't be quite accurate to say that the cold breeze didn't bother him, but he was an outdoors kind of man to begin with, and made a point of acclimatizing to the worst the weather of the season had to offer. Hence why the furnace in his abode was only run to keep the water pipes from freezing.
He hadn't come to the park for work, however. Day or night job, truth be told. Personal business, but business still. He had finally bridged the gap between the hit squad that had come after him all those months ago and so rudely interrupted his reunion with Spectra, the satellite corporations and fronts, the scapegoats and fall-men, to the originator of the order to have him killed.
There were rules to the shadowy games that the rich and powerful played, rules that were in place to avoid the embarrassment of police investigations and that frowned heavily upon personal vendettas. Especially when those vendettas failed so extravagantly. Of course, as muddy as the incident had been on the reputations of those involved, Pervaya had come out of it without a speck.
Hood sat at a park bench, perusing the rather interesting data-packet that had been 'anonymously' delivered to his Landwarriors by some passer-by. Using the short range wireless ghost router in his pocket, the transmission from the Kremlin clerk to Hood's device would be relatively untraceable. The information was interesting; what the clerk had provided him with was probably enough to rather significantly sully Mr Marveet's reputation. A familiar name, considering Hood's past encounters with the man's estranged son.
Well connected, rich, arrogant, and by all signs a royal douche-canoe. Bringing the man down a few pegs, all on the down-low of course, would be quite the pleasing endeavor. The man had broken some very important unwritten rules, and had to be reminded there were consequences when throwing lives away over something as petty as being one-upped in the game. It wasn't his fault that Mr Marveet had chosen second-rate pawns rather then reaching for the top shelf, which was exactly what Marveet's opponent had done when hiring Pervaya Iiniya Security to retrieve a stolen daughter.
Only part of Hood's attention was devoted to the info packet displayed inside his Landwarriors; the rest was given to surveying his surroundings. The passers by were, rarely, tourists, and more commonly employees of the surrounding government offices out for some air between whatever mind-numbing mounds of BS paperwork they were slogging through.
Few really paid him any attention, a fact that he was entirely comfortable with as he absently pondered his next move. Surely Mr Marveet had finally become aware of the fact that someone was looking for him. Whether the man had learned it was Hood or not was another matter, but it only promised to make his next play all the more entertaining. Few were really worthy of note; an attractive woman from time to time, but otherwise just the faceless masses that kept the bureaucracy running. Surely important in their own little worlds, but not so much so as far as the public interest was concerned.
Some he recognized; info dossiers of potential or past clients of Pervaya, others as faces on the news. Those that recognized him in return offered, at most, polite nods of acknowledgement in passing, quite the consideration towards one so far below their station in society.
He was dressed well enough to not quite stand out, save for the black-and-grey shemagh he wore around his neck like a scarf; no high-end designer neck rag for him. Near-mirror polished black boots; not dress shoes, rather serviceable duty boots. Black suit and grey dress shirt, all made of camera-and-thermal baffling fabrics, a common-place material among socialites and movie-stars. Of course under that was his usual accessories; bullet-proof soft-weave body armour, revolver, inconspicuous belt pouch with spare loaded cylinders. Even a pair of leather gloves, which sat neatly folded over one knee as he sat with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, arms spread wide over the back of the bench. And of course a good great coat to help keep the wind at bay.
It wouldn't be quite accurate to say that the cold breeze didn't bother him, but he was an outdoors kind of man to begin with, and made a point of acclimatizing to the worst the weather of the season had to offer. Hence why the furnace in his abode was only run to keep the water pipes from freezing.
He hadn't come to the park for work, however. Day or night job, truth be told. Personal business, but business still. He had finally bridged the gap between the hit squad that had come after him all those months ago and so rudely interrupted his reunion with Spectra, the satellite corporations and fronts, the scapegoats and fall-men, to the originator of the order to have him killed.
There were rules to the shadowy games that the rich and powerful played, rules that were in place to avoid the embarrassment of police investigations and that frowned heavily upon personal vendettas. Especially when those vendettas failed so extravagantly. Of course, as muddy as the incident had been on the reputations of those involved, Pervaya had come out of it without a speck.
Hood sat at a park bench, perusing the rather interesting data-packet that had been 'anonymously' delivered to his Landwarriors by some passer-by. Using the short range wireless ghost router in his pocket, the transmission from the Kremlin clerk to Hood's device would be relatively untraceable. The information was interesting; what the clerk had provided him with was probably enough to rather significantly sully Mr Marveet's reputation. A familiar name, considering Hood's past encounters with the man's estranged son.
Well connected, rich, arrogant, and by all signs a royal douche-canoe. Bringing the man down a few pegs, all on the down-low of course, would be quite the pleasing endeavor. The man had broken some very important unwritten rules, and had to be reminded there were consequences when throwing lives away over something as petty as being one-upped in the game. It wasn't his fault that Mr Marveet had chosen second-rate pawns rather then reaching for the top shelf, which was exactly what Marveet's opponent had done when hiring Pervaya Iiniya Security to retrieve a stolen daughter.
Only part of Hood's attention was devoted to the info packet displayed inside his Landwarriors; the rest was given to surveying his surroundings. The passers by were, rarely, tourists, and more commonly employees of the surrounding government offices out for some air between whatever mind-numbing mounds of BS paperwork they were slogging through.
Few really paid him any attention, a fact that he was entirely comfortable with as he absently pondered his next move. Surely Mr Marveet had finally become aware of the fact that someone was looking for him. Whether the man had learned it was Hood or not was another matter, but it only promised to make his next play all the more entertaining. Few were really worthy of note; an attractive woman from time to time, but otherwise just the faceless masses that kept the bureaucracy running. Surely important in their own little worlds, but not so much so as far as the public interest was concerned.
Some he recognized; info dossiers of potential or past clients of Pervaya, others as faces on the news. Those that recognized him in return offered, at most, polite nods of acknowledgement in passing, quite the consideration towards one so far below their station in society.