"N-n-no, for the love of god, p-p-lease, d-don-don't!" Peter pleaded as he scrambled backwards on his rear, propelling himself frantically with both hands and his one good leg. The other was a revolting, twisted mess, with a broken bone causing his pants to tent halfway between his knee and ankle.

The rain fell harder now, but it made no difference to Peter as he continued his warped crab crawl away from his assailant, unknowingly cornering himself in the dark, dank alley. Heavy drops echoed on the cheap metal fire escapes that lined both buildings comprising the alley; the uneven ground allowed puddles of varying depth to form. Peter's hand slipped and he fell back, scraping his already bloodied forearm against the pavement.

"W-what do y-you want? M-m-money? I c-c-can g-g-get you m-mon-money!" Peter hated himself for stuttering right then – the five years of speech therapy, the thousands of dollars spent creating the confident, composed facade that allowed him to run the Williams & Wright head office – all of it for nothing. He couldn't even beg for his life.

"P-please, please - "

"Shut up, you stuttering piece of shit. This isn't about you."

"Then wh-why…why…"

"I said shut up."

A brutal blow to the side of the head, and Peter's vision was now washed in crimson. He continued his escape attempt, but felt that any movement he was making now was barely more than a tremble.

Another blow – with a lead pipe, it felt like – and Peter's elbow buckled out from under him. He was helpless now.

Against the light of the moon his attacker was just a silhouette, raining down killing blows without so much as a sound. Using the last of his strength, Peter turned his head in the direction from which the violence came. When he spoke, it was hardly more than a whisper.

"Why…"

"It's not personal, mate. It's business."

And with a final blow, Peter Dossier would never make it home that night, or ever again.