Targets - A Roman Reigns AU Story

9. Leona

Lower Manhattan, NY, 0823 hrs

One of the downsides to this profession was that you were not the only one watching people, waiting to strike. Someone else was watching you from the shadows somewhere, waiting to do the same to you. Hitmen were not as incognito as they desired to be, and that was a bleak fact that Roman had to live with. Like, literally have to live with. Otherwise he would be dead by now. It was not uncommon to have a bounty on your head. Every contract killer lived with a nice little bullseye on their backs. Roman had fended off attacks once or twice before, by amateurs, and by some of the best. It was quite the occupational hazard, and Reigns was only glad that he was alive to tell the tale.

The little laundromat in his apartment building was undergoing construction for the next couple of days. Wanting to get his laundry done as soon as possible, he headed to the nearby Laundromat a couple of blocks down the road. It was a small-sized establishment; breezy, very white, with European-style washing machines as opposed to the top-loading ones used in the States. He was glad to know that he was alone. He preferred days like these, when it was nice and quiet. He put his clothes in and took a seat on the bench connected to the wall, resting his back against the wall. He shut his eyes, allowing the sour, abrasive scent of laundry detergent waft through his nostrils as a rare rock ballad from Metallica played somewhere in the background.

"Excuse me?"

Great, there went his alone time. Roman forced himself to open his eyes and found a young woman invading his space, a basket full of clothes perched on her right hip. She was small, dressed casual in a cream-colored Tupac t-shirt she wore complimented her dark skin, and the jeans she wore looked like they needed a wash of their own.

"I'm so sorry to bother you," she said in a small voice, her free hand toying with one of the Bantu knots on the top of her head, "but have you got change for ten dollars? I'd have gone out to get some but I'm in a big hurry."

She looked imploringly at him, almost as though her life depended on getting these clothes cleaned. Hoping she would leave him alone after this, Roman smiled politely. "Sure." He stood up from the bench and jammed his hands into his pockets. "I'll see what I got."

"Thank you so much, you are a lifesaver," she said, dropping her basket on the floor.

He should have known something was up when the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly rose as he searched for coins. From the corner of his eye he saw the subtle glint of the blade, heard the whoosh of her arm. He whirled out of the way just in time to see the knife slash the wall he'd been leaning against seconds ago. The fact that that strike had meant for his throat was not lost on Roman. Steadying himself, he turned to the woman, who, so innocent-looking moments ago, now had this demonic expression on her pretty face. Obviously she wasn't here to wash clothes.

She charged again, swiping wildly at him. Her blade ripped the front of his black T-shirt, missing his skin by millimeters. She lunged again, attempting to strike a blow to his head but he dodged it easily. The woman snatched a box of washing powder and threw the contents into his face. Roman hissed as the detergent stung his eyes, blinding him for a moment. Capitalizing on the distraction, the woman drove her open palm into his gut, knocking the wind out of him, and then roundhouse-kicked him in the face as he bent over. Roman dropped to the ground, back first. The woman brought her arm down hard, aiming for his chest. He rolled out of the way, hearing the knife connect the tiled floor with a loud chink. He leapt to his feet and staggered into a corner, slumping against the wall. She burst forwards with the knife in the air, but Roman sidestepped her at the last second, and the knife lodged itself into the thick cork bulletin board behind him. He briefly watched her struggle to pull out the blade before delivering a vicious uppercut to her face. Her head snapped back, and grunting with pain, she released her grip on the blade. As she clutched her jaw, Roman seized her by her Bantu knots and used them to steer, throwing her hard against a tumble dryer. She crashed unceremoniously to the ground, but like a fucking cockroach she was back on her feet. Fixing bloodthirsty eyes at the big man, she growled, impatiently brushing away the blood on her mouth with the back of her hand. For a tiny little thing, she was quite impressive. She obviously had no idea who she was dealing with. No matter, she would find out soon enough.