"Do you think that he's going to show, Alejandro?" Patrick Miller asked. He put down his cup of coffee on a saucer and took another look around.
Alejandro Flores picked at the croissant sitting on the plate in front of him; he was on edge. They were sitting in a Parisian café, waiting for their target to show. S.H.E.I.L.D's deep cover contact in the contractor world was found floating in the Seine, after reporting that a contract killer known as the Huntress had killed a Russian government official. So, S.H.E.I.L.D had sent them to find and track down the killer, but they hadn't had much luck finding him.
"I don't think that he's a he." Flores replied around a mouthful of croissant.
"Why not?" Miller asked, "Because he is known as the Huntress, which automatically makes him a female?"
"That's one of the reasons, but only a woman would go after powerful men and get away with it." Flores answered
"Oh-oh. You are impressed with this contract killer, Alejandro." Miller laughed. "What are you hoping for, a middle-aged assassin willing to do you?"
Flores stood up angrily. "Miller, you shut up. You shut up, right now."
"Excuse me gentlemen." A waiter in a red uniform of the café was standing respectively off to the side. He was holding a serving platter with a folded piece of card-stock on it. "Someone left this at the front for you two."
Miller smiled and took the folded note from the platter. The waiter bowed slightly and left. Miller flipped the top up and read the black typed text on the card.
I know who you work for and I know that you will never find me. You two are the warning for everybody else who tries to follow me. досвиданияихорошокопать.
He dropped the note onto the table and stood up, his hand sliding to the gun at his hip. He heard a gunshot, and watched Alejandro fall into his food with a dark red liquid staining his hair. He started to turn and raised his gun, but he was too late. He felt the bullet fly into his back, just above his waist. His legs instantly gave out and he toppled to the ground, his head hitting the ground with a crack. Miller braced for the kill shot, but it never came. A crowd started to gather around the café, people screaming and shouting things in different languages.
He watched the feet of the crowd, noticing the five pairs of black shoes sticking out from the pedestrians. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. The man was dressed in a paramedic's uniform, but he recognized him to be another S.H.E.I.L.D agent.
The 'paramedics' moved Miller onto a stretcher and put Flores into a body bag. He felt himself being lifted into the air and moaned.
"The note, get the note." He whispered, knowing that Director Fury would need it. One of the S.H.E.I.L.D agents nodded and walked back to the table. The remaining agents moved Miller to an ambulance. They bay doors were slammed shut and the ambulance pulled away.
A couple hours later, Patrick Miller, still strapped into the stretcher, was in a S.H.E.I.L.D jet headed for America. He had attempted to get some rest, but the shock of losing the use of his legs prevented him from falling asleep. He could still feel the ghost of the bullet striking his spine, sending a shudder through his body that ended at his waist.
"Patrick, what happened?" Miller looked up to see Agent Hill.
"We underestimated our target, and paid the price." He said, curt and bitter.
"Patrick…" Agent Hill said, trying to find the words to comfort him. Then she saw the look on his face.
"I should be in a body bag." Patrick whispered. "She didn't miss. She hit what she was aiming for. And I hate her for that. Now I'm crippled, unable to correct my mistake and she's still anonymous."
Agent Hill said nothing. There was nothing she could say to reassure him. What happened down there was his fault, and Patrick knew it. "You can help us find her." She said after a moment of silence.
Patrick looked up, his face relaxed, but a cold and hard glint in his eyes. "I'd like that very much."