Portobello Road, London; England. Innominate Safe House.
51° 31' 1"N 0° 12' 21"W
Mission Consultation / Asset Assessment; IEFR Agent R. Burnet
Directive; Assassination of Enhanced Mark, Zero Collateral. **(Any and All Associates of the Mark to also be Taken Out as to Prevent the Mark's Business' Survival and to Deter Others.)**
Mission Status: Incomplete; Ongoing.
Notes:
Identified Enhanced, known in the black-market for upmarket gun trade. Target to be taken out during society gala, clean shot; clear message. Agent to make no direct contact. **HW Unit 818 31B to oversee and assess**
Additional Notes:
HW Unit 818 31B to approach and brief IEFR Agent R. Burnet, and to arrange preceding missions to ensure the success of the directive.
The streets outside were drenched in the darkness of the small hours, street lamps doing little to illuminate the shadowy corners and dingy alleyways. The occasional car - or drunken pedestrian - skimmed past the shop fronts, their headlights piercing through the cracks in the blinds that shaded the second floor apartment that sat above a particularly quiet Vintage Clothes shop. Servus had been friends with the owners for a few years now, a husband and wife with an unusual dress sense and touchy social views. When he had landed in GB they had offered him a place to lay his head, and he had gladly accepted. Unplanned accommodation was the best accommodation; it was harder to locate someplace that hadn't been electronically booked, or prearranged. It would buy him a day or two, at the least, he reasoned as he unpacked the only one of his bags that didn't contain ballistic equipment or fake passports and emergency money.
The beams of light painted the back wall with abstract patterns, the agent lazily casting his eyes across them as they appeared and disappeared quickly, the zoom of the vehicles casting them echoing in his ear. The musty sofa he sat on was comfortable, if a little tattered, callused fingers tracing the intricate lines of his favourite piece; a deep midnight black and shining silver revolver sat in his lap.
The grey wall was alight with white, dull yet bright, whilst the rest of the room sat in darkness. It was as though his world was in black and white... Until suddenly, a glint of blue reflected back at him. It was quick, the light from a passing Audi not lasting long enough to reveal the cause, but the agent did not shift his gaze; just waited for the next car to paint him an image.
What faced him when the next beam of light struck the wall was something from a horror film. Much like the demonic eyes of a monster in a children's book shining through the dark, a set stared at him, reflecting the light like blue tinted mirrors, pupils shrinking and enlarging again as the light traveled past. 'A few days' he mentally remarked, laughing at his own foolishness. It had been eight hours, eight bloody hours. His flight had been six... If only passenger airlines, or anything else for that matter, were as quick and efficient as Dejáh Arawn; what a world that would be.
"Trying to scare me?" Servus dared in their mother tongue, sitting up straighter in his seat, pulling the hammer back on his gun. It was a habit, an instinctive reaction to the spike in his adrenaline levels and she knew that just as well as he did, thank gods. He knew exactly what happened to anyone who turned a gun on 818. It wasn't pretty, and he'd pay to never see it again.
The next skim of light revealed a viciously white, cheshire grin set across porcelain skin. The ghostlike baring of teeth did little to assure him of her mood, but he took it anyway as a sign of lacking hostility.
Seconds ticked by as the eery silence sunk into his bones, footsteps going completely unheard by the highly trained agent. "No," the voice came from beside him, perched on his left, and as silky smooth as always, "Trying to read you." The light suddenly sparked on, revealing his late night visitor leisurely sat on the sofa next to him.
She was dressed in nothing extravagant, nothing official or anything like her normal. Instead, Dejáh slouched comfortably in a simple pair of jeans and a black hoodie - though it did sport the subtle little logo of two triangles over her left pec. "Read me?" The sight shocked Servus least of all, his eyes now off her unrelenting set and scanning over the file that had been magically placed on the coffee table before him without him previously noticing.
"Mm... and I need to learn your resting beat." She was having trouble doing that actually. Every time she thought she had it, she picked up another little tapping. It was strange, and she'd have to get hold of his Innominate File someday. Perhaps he'd been part of the chemically enhanced era of agents. That would explain it, partly.
The cardboard folder that lay before him was flimsy, and extremely thin. It held nothing but a sheet of basic instructions and a few pages on whatever mark it discussed. Much of it was blacktaped, however, but it was nothing, he knew, they couldn't get around. 'Confidential' wasn't something that exactly stopped 818 from asking more questions, and getting the answers. "When do we get this going? When's the first hit?" Servus rushed out, keen to start things as soon as possible, take his place beside his superior as soon as he was able. It was a place every agent secretly fought for, and he'd be damned if he'd miss his opportunity to take it for himself. "The mark's brother-in-law is hosting a charity ball two days from now in The Dorchester, in the centre of London." The older agent turned to face his weaponry, brown eyes glaring into blue ones no less intently than they glared back. The glint he saw in the blue pools that so viciously sucked him in troubled him, her tone of voice far too light and happy. She was only like that, only so content, when she's got another gallon of blood on her hands, and he suspected she'd done just that. "Getting to him will be easy, we'll use him to get to the Mark. I'm sure we can get him to talk pretty quickly; have the Intel and the shot taken within an hour slot."
Dejáh smiled lightly at him, slipping a envelope from her pocket and handing it to the newest asset. His ticket to the gathering was disclosed inside the tattered thing, inscribed with his identity for the evening. Stolen, he'd guess due to its slightly damaged condition, and the small, near missable spec of red on the cream envelope. With a lilting voice, his suspicions were proved correct: "That will be /your/ first hit; I took out his right hand man twenty minutes ago."
