11-19-2014, 08:54 PM
The chill Moscow winter air was refreshing, although he doubted few who weren't born there thought the same. There weren't many who were willing to brave the early morning chill. Hell, most would have considered the hour to still be night time, and call declarations of it being any part of the morning to be heresy. But Hood had never been much of a late sleeper.
At 0300hrs, the pedestrian trails along the River Moskva were all but empty. The few people he passed as he sprinted the trail were the homeless, getting an early start on checking garbage cans for recyclable bottles or whatever odd patterns that made up their failed lives. He didn't hate the homeless or poor of course, he just didn't see them with much respect. They had tried at life, and for one reason or another, had failed. He might do something to help them from time to time, but he never expected much of them in return. A cheap pair of eyes to be paid off to watch something, but even then, unreliable at best.
He wore an elevation training mask, a somewhat sinister looking black thing that covered his mouth and nose. It restricted how much air he could draw with each breath, and included a hard-mount for his Landwarriors, which he wore to be able to see clearly on the less illuminated stretches of the run down trails.
While the ashphalt was cracked and broken in places, the snow had at least been cleared. Hood lived on the side of Moscow not seen in the tourism brochures, the part that the glory and splendor of the CCD hadn't quite reached yet, although even there it was obvious that change was coming. Old Soviet-era buildings were gone in places, ready to be replaced by modern architecture. In some empty lots sat loads of pipes and wire, guarded by fences and cameras, awaiting the spring thaw for work crews to resume their efforts to modernize the region's infrastructure.
Mr Volodya Fyodorov, of Krasnyy Medved Security Solutions, had finally gotten the information Hood had wanted. They had met a half hour ago, all cliche clandestine cover-of-darkness stuff, and the file now sat in the squat backpack Hood wore strapped to his back, which also housed a Camelbak hydration pack. He'd perused it briefly, then sent Volodya off with honest assurance that the man's family was safe from Hood's hand. He had no interest in the man once the information had been handed over; he had bigger fish to fry, after all.
The contract for the failed hit on Mr Talanov (or himself, or Spectra Lynn) had come from a small tech company. One for which a quick search through his Landwarriors had turned up little of interest. It wasn't a shell company, no false front or means to hide the movement of cash. It was a real company, but he had little doubt that the one who had ordered the attack was the one who signed the paychecks of the tech company's board of directors.
Someone a step or three above Mr Talanov. And there weren't many steps up from him. With the information Volodya had provided Hood, he was one step closer to figuring out who the idiot was that had ordered that ridiculous attack. It was down right insulting that they would think four KMSS 'specialists' were going to be a match for him. Whoever had been that stupid needed to be reminded how to play the game.
An alert flashed in one corner of his glasses, and a deft flick of the eye opened the message. A brief police incident report; a hit-and-run between two vehicles. A one Mr Volodya Fyodorov's car had been struck on the drivers side by a large vehicle that had fled the scene. Mr Fyodorov had been killed on impact. Initial reports indicated that there had been no witnesses or cameras near the scene.
Hopefully for Volodya's family, he had a good life insurance policy. Of course, KMSS was having trouble with their insurance provider after the deaths of four of their employees. Or ex-employees, so it would probably take a while for the man's widow and family to see their money. Insurance companies were such snakes.
Hood's run eventually brought him back to his place of residence, closer to 0500hrs. The fresh, thin layer of snow was undisturbed, and he slowed to a walk and finally pulled the mask from his face. A few long, slow breaths to help steady his breathing (and to adjust to the unfiltered chill morning air), and he went straight to the garage and pulled a stiff bristled broom, which was put to use to brush away the fresh snow.
By the time he finished, the thin layer of sweat he had built up was already freezing, and he finally made his way inside. There was more work to be done. He had to find out who owned METZAVED Solutions. And who owned whoever the hell owned that guy. He really did hate the civilian sector sometimes.
At 0300hrs, the pedestrian trails along the River Moskva were all but empty. The few people he passed as he sprinted the trail were the homeless, getting an early start on checking garbage cans for recyclable bottles or whatever odd patterns that made up their failed lives. He didn't hate the homeless or poor of course, he just didn't see them with much respect. They had tried at life, and for one reason or another, had failed. He might do something to help them from time to time, but he never expected much of them in return. A cheap pair of eyes to be paid off to watch something, but even then, unreliable at best.
He wore an elevation training mask, a somewhat sinister looking black thing that covered his mouth and nose. It restricted how much air he could draw with each breath, and included a hard-mount for his Landwarriors, which he wore to be able to see clearly on the less illuminated stretches of the run down trails.
While the ashphalt was cracked and broken in places, the snow had at least been cleared. Hood lived on the side of Moscow not seen in the tourism brochures, the part that the glory and splendor of the CCD hadn't quite reached yet, although even there it was obvious that change was coming. Old Soviet-era buildings were gone in places, ready to be replaced by modern architecture. In some empty lots sat loads of pipes and wire, guarded by fences and cameras, awaiting the spring thaw for work crews to resume their efforts to modernize the region's infrastructure.
Mr Volodya Fyodorov, of Krasnyy Medved Security Solutions, had finally gotten the information Hood had wanted. They had met a half hour ago, all cliche clandestine cover-of-darkness stuff, and the file now sat in the squat backpack Hood wore strapped to his back, which also housed a Camelbak hydration pack. He'd perused it briefly, then sent Volodya off with honest assurance that the man's family was safe from Hood's hand. He had no interest in the man once the information had been handed over; he had bigger fish to fry, after all.
The contract for the failed hit on Mr Talanov (or himself, or Spectra Lynn) had come from a small tech company. One for which a quick search through his Landwarriors had turned up little of interest. It wasn't a shell company, no false front or means to hide the movement of cash. It was a real company, but he had little doubt that the one who had ordered the attack was the one who signed the paychecks of the tech company's board of directors.
Someone a step or three above Mr Talanov. And there weren't many steps up from him. With the information Volodya had provided Hood, he was one step closer to figuring out who the idiot was that had ordered that ridiculous attack. It was down right insulting that they would think four KMSS 'specialists' were going to be a match for him. Whoever had been that stupid needed to be reminded how to play the game.
An alert flashed in one corner of his glasses, and a deft flick of the eye opened the message. A brief police incident report; a hit-and-run between two vehicles. A one Mr Volodya Fyodorov's car had been struck on the drivers side by a large vehicle that had fled the scene. Mr Fyodorov had been killed on impact. Initial reports indicated that there had been no witnesses or cameras near the scene.
Hopefully for Volodya's family, he had a good life insurance policy. Of course, KMSS was having trouble with their insurance provider after the deaths of four of their employees. Or ex-employees, so it would probably take a while for the man's widow and family to see their money. Insurance companies were such snakes.
Hood's run eventually brought him back to his place of residence, closer to 0500hrs. The fresh, thin layer of snow was undisturbed, and he slowed to a walk and finally pulled the mask from his face. A few long, slow breaths to help steady his breathing (and to adjust to the unfiltered chill morning air), and he went straight to the garage and pulled a stiff bristled broom, which was put to use to brush away the fresh snow.
By the time he finished, the thin layer of sweat he had built up was already freezing, and he finally made his way inside. There was more work to be done. He had to find out who owned METZAVED Solutions. And who owned whoever the hell owned that guy. He really did hate the civilian sector sometimes.