As always huge thanks to betas Jay and Mirth
Jason Peterson was a hitter and a good one, able to pick and choose his own jobs, in most cases, name his own price. Based in London, his jobs usually took him to Europe and Asia and if the pay-out was seven figures, then Russia. He rarely ventured to the Americas and it had been years since he had last set foot in the United States. But a repeat client had a minor job they wanted dealt with quickly and the money had been too good to turn down, considering there was hardly any risk associated with the job.
He had dealt with the matter within hours of landing at Dulles Airport and then curiosity had got the better of him and he had hopped onto a flight to Boston.
There had been many legends within his chosen profession, Mark Du Pont, Jacques Rousseau and Abassi Sylla to name but three he most revered, all long dead and gone. Du Pont tortured to death by the Nigerians, Sylla shot by Columbian drug lords in a double cross, and Rousseau having the most inglorious death of all, dying of cancer, thirty-two years into a fifty year prison sentence. All of them had pulled off the dangerous jobs no one else had the balls to take, who wouldn't have gotten out of bed for less than five hundred thousand dollars a job and may have just shot you for insulting them if you offered less.
But there was one legendary hitter still alive and kicking.
Eliot Spencer.
He was the hitter everyone wanted, the one that pulled off the seemingly impossible jobs, the one who never failed. Well, except for one, but Peterson wasn't marking him down for that, the North Koreans were very temperamental and everyone else who had attempted to steal the sapphire monkey was dead.
He was the hitter that had worked for Damien Moreau, whose very name would guarantee compliance with Moreau's wishes and he was the hitter that had walked away from Moreau, with Moreau's blessing.
He was the hitter that stopped using guns, who stopped killing, but still got the job done.
He was the man Peterson tried to model himself against. Although he used guns, because he just couldn't figure out how Spencer managed to get jobs done without one, he never took an assassination contract and he tried very hard to never kill an innocent or officer of the law. He had a code of conduct and he never deviated from it.
Then five years ago, Spencer dropped off the grid. The general agreement was that he had finally been killed, but he surfaced a couple of times in those years, the last time being in Pakistan.
It had intrigued Peterson, wondering what Spencer was doing now. There had been rumours that he had gone soft. That he couldn't compete any more. Had he gone legit? Peterson had imagined many different scenarios over the years, but not a single one of them came close to the truth.
It had been a chance sighting in Dubai that put him on Spencer's trail, and a quarter of a million pounds to find a hacker able to hack into Interpol's computer system. Peterson had the hacker download several of Interpol's files, leaving no obvious sign to what he was really after.
And that was why he was now sat in his rental car on the other side of the road to McRoy's pub in downtown Boston and had been for the last three hours. Peterson was just about to start the car engine, putting the whole trip down to a fool's errand, when Spencer came stomping up the steps outside of the pub onto the sidewalk. He was obviously furious about something, the source of his anger coming into view just a second later, a young black man, closely followed by a similarly aged blonde. Peterson recognised them from the Interpol files, Alec Hardison, a hacker and Parker, the insane thief.
Hardison was smiling, his posture relaxed even though Spencer looked to be in a murderous rage, emphasising whatever point he was making by pointing his finger at the younger man, with what could only be viewed as a threatening manner. Parker, meanwhile had moved to Spencer's other side wrapping an arm around his bicep, before letting her hand slide down his arm and wrapping her hand around Spencer's, never once taking her eyes off the one-sided argument, a small smile gracing her face.
Peterson looked on in shock as Spencer's hand automatically closed round Parker's, just as Hardison raised his fist to Spencer, holding it suspended between them. Spencer dropped his finger pointing hand and obviously sighed, he then tapped his own fist against the other man's twice, before both of them slapped palms together.
Peterson blinked as Spencer smiled at Hardison, all aggression gone. The three of them started to walk along the sidewalk side by side, the blonde's hand still wrapped in Spencer's as she skipped along beside him.
Peterson got out of the car and followed them, making sure he kept plenty of space between himself and Spencer. After a few minutes' walk, the three entered a large park, being met by a slightly older couple, the man loaded down with a picnic basket, blanket and a football. Nathan Ford and Sophie Devereaux, more names from the files. Ford offered the basket to Spencer who raised the hand that Parker held and walked on past. Ford passed the basket to Hardison instead, who appeared to have much to say about the matter, all of it aimed at Spencer's back.
Peterson spent the rest of the afternoon watching the group, being careful to ensure he wasn't obvious or seemed out of place in the park environment.
He watched as they played football, and relaxed over the picnic, talking and laughing together, although Spencer seemed to shift between murderous intent and happy and relaxed with alarmingly regularity, most of the rage aimed at Hardison, who responded to it with smiles and high fives. None of the others paid any attention to the interaction, as if it was something that happened every day. He watched at Eliot Spencer, a man who could and had killed with his bare hands, allowed others to touch him with a familiarity that spoke of bounds forged deeper than friendship.
Peterson stood up and threw the newspaper he had been pretending to read into the trash and turned to walk away and walked straight into Spencer. Peterson took a step back, instinctively putting more space between them. The glares Hardison had received for a good part of the afternoon were absolutely nothing compared to the glare he was getting from Spencer now. Peterson had a front row seat in why Spencer's name alone could strike fear into the most hardened of hearts.
"You here on a job?" Spencer growled at him.
Peterson shook his head. "Just passing through," he managed to get out through the inexplicable lump in his throat.
"Problem, Eliot?" Someone queried from behind him, Ford, he guessed. There was no way in hell Peterson was going to take his eyes of Spencer to check.
"Could be," Spencer answered back.
Hardison came into view, a notepad in his hand, he circled slow and wide to stand next to Spencer. "Jason Peterson," he told Spencer, "hitter, based in London. Oh, mama. Will you look at that, a cool four million euros in a Swiss bank account," Hardison looked up from the screen to smile at Peterson, it was neither friendly nor sincere.
"I had a job in Dubai and saw you there," Peterson rushed to explain. "Saw you with Sterling, so got hold of the Interpol files to track you down. I was just curious, man," Peterson blurted out as Spencer took a step forward. "You're a legend and you just disappeared….." He stopped talking as Hardison let out an unbelieving snort.
"Sorry, man," Hardison apologised to Spencer, totally unfazed by the glare he was receiving. "Allergies."
Spencer turned back to Peterson. "Destroy those files and stay out of the States," he warned as he closed the space between them and leaned in, whispering in his ear, "otherwise I'll be the last thing you see." Spencer stepped back. Peterson gave a short nod and started to walk away, but stopped and turned around, he walked back to Spencer. Hardison and Ford moving closer, but giving Spencer room.
Peterson very slow pulled a bunch of folder papers out of his rear jeans pocket and held it out to Spencer, pulling a pen, equally slowly from his jackets inside pocket, offering it to Spencer as well.
"Can I...erm...can I get your autograph?" he asked.
Hardison gave him an incredulous look. "Seriously?" he asked in a tone of disbelief, Ford chuckled.
Yes, Spencer was a living legend and just as dangerous as he ever was.
And Jason Peterson had his autograph.